16
Perhaps the most extraordinary of the myriad legends and myths of Ebora are the war-beasts. It has been so long now since the Eighth Rain that the only living eyes to have seen them are Eboran, but to us they exist in art and sculpture, story and song. Perhaps this is why they seem so impossible to recent generations of humans – they are more story than truth now. Yet we know they did live and breathe, and indeed, without them, Sarn itself would have fallen to the Jure’lia centuries back. Given that it appears we will never see their like again, this isn’t the comforting thought it once was.
The war-beasts are inextricably linked to Ygseril, the Eborans’ tree-god. At times of great peril to the Eboran empire, Ygseril would grow great silvery fruit, high up in its labyrinthine branches (the length of this process has never been agreed on – I have found writings that insist they sprouted from the buds of previous fruits, and spent centuries maturing, others say that the process was nearly instantaneous. Ebora, as ever, remains tight-lipped). When it was ripe, the fruit would fall, a miraculous ‘rain’, and the broken fruit revealed the most extraordinary menagerie of creatures, each ready to fight and die in defence of Ebora.
The date of the First Rain is not recorded, but the second we know took place at the time of the reign of Queen Erin of Triskenteth, when the city state of Reidn was in the grip of the Third Great Republic. There is a mural carved into the remains of the Triskenteth wall which dates from the period – it shows Ygseril, branches spread wide, and the silver fruit falling, the Eboran war-beasts leaping, fully formed, into the air. Further along, we see the war-beasts joining the Eboran knights and riding into battle together, while the Jure’lia are represented as great looming clouds, a host of the dead following on behind. See enclosed: rubbings taken directly from the remains of this incredible mural, which clearly show, I believe, that there was a significant connection between the war-beasts and their Eboran knight masters – each beast and knight wear similar insignia, and in some cases have been carved to resemble each other. The mural at Triskenteth was maintained beautifully for many, many centuries, but, sadly, the recent war with their Orleian neighbours has meant that it has disintegrated terribly, entirely blasted away in places by fell-mercenaries. I took what rubbings I could, and received many a dark look for my efforts. Triskenteth sees war everywhere these days.
And of the beasts themselves – they truly appear to have been creatures straight out of myth. The fruit of Ygseril produced not a single creature, like brown kittens born to a brown cat, but a wild collection of what, for want of a better word, I will call monsters. It’s certain that some of those depicted in the paintings, sculptures and songs are fanciful creations, but I have seen repeated images of several types, and these I think we can safely say were true forms of the Eboran war-beasts: dragons of all shapes and varieties, griffins with their snowy feathers flecked with black, giant birds and bat-like creatures with four legs, enormous armoured foxes, giant winged-wolves and cats.
Of course, the other thing that we know for certain about the Eboran war-beasts is also, in its way, the most significant: the Jure’lia always fell before them, eventually.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Vintage pushed the heavy books as close to the edge of the table as she could without their falling off, and wiped down the section of table she’d been able to clear with a damp cloth. It was hardly the strictest of scientific methods, but needs must. On the far end of the table the breakfast the staff had brought up for them steamed away, untouched. Let the others have it. She couldn’t wait any longer.
In the space she’d cleared she set up her vials and glasswear, her notebooks and inks, and then, finally, she unpacked the samples they’d taken from the forest. In one narrow glass tube she had the remains of the strange fluid that had seeped from the broken artefact she had found in the Shroom Flats – the fluid that had apparently grown a tiny garden overnight. She held it up to the light, turning it back and forth in front of her eyes; it had settled somewhat, leaving a yellowish liquid with a small storm of golden flecks. The Jure’lia had left many strange things behind them, all wondrous and strange, but few of them could be said to be beautiful. The liquid in this little vial appeared to be the exception.
She paused to make further notes – on the colour and viscosity, and, after uncorking it, on the smell. Using a pipette, she deposited the smallest amount on a glass slide, and slid this into the lens contraption her nephew Marin had sent her last year. The extraordinary thing magnified objects through a series of lenses, and must have cost the boy a fortune, but then he had always had good taste. Unfortunately, the lenses revealed very little, save for the oddly uniform shape of the golden flecks. Even so, Vintage paused to make a number of sketches, using a small box of watery paints to capture the colour as best she could.
‘Hundreds of years old, and it hasn’t dried up or turned to muck. Extraordinary.’
She looked back at the breakfast things. There was a bowl of fruit, with a bunch of tiny grapes. Vintage reached over and plucked them from the bowl; she was always faintly amused by the regular variety of grapes, so small and perfect. She set the bunch down on a porcelain plate, and then took from her own pocket a crumpled, dead leaf, picked up from the street that morning. She placed it next to the grapes and, using the pipette, placed the tiniest sample of the golden liquid on the cluster of tiny branches that the grapes sprouted from, as well as a single drop on the leaf. She was holding her breath and waiting for something to happen when Noon walked through the dining-room door.
‘Oh, Noon, my dear, there you are.’ Vintage didn’t take her eyes from the grapes. ‘There’s breakfast, if you’d like it. Eat as much as you like. I’m not hungry and it seems Tor has yet to return from last night’s escapades.’
Noon nodded and skirted the edge of the room like a wary cat, putting the table between them. The young witch stood for a moment, staring at the various foods, before cautiously taking a seat.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Having a proper look at what we’ve gathered. I’ve never seen anything like it, and certainly seen nothing that references it in all the studies I’ve read. Extraordinary.’ She stared at it a little harder, willing something to happen. ‘Extraordinary.’
‘Why are you doing this? Really? There’s a bigger reason.’
Vintage looked up. She blinked rapidly. ‘I’m sorry, my dear?’
‘A bigger reason for your interest in all this stuff.’ The fell-witch tipped her head to one side. She had washed her hair and let it dry as it would, sticking up in black spikes, and she carried her new hat in her hands. ‘You’re not just curious. You’re angry about it. All under the surface.’
Vintage straightened up. The girl was perceptive. She would do well to remember that. ‘There are the remains of a Behemoth on land I own,’ she said carefully. ‘Land that has been in my family for generations. The vine forest there is the source of my family’s wealth, but it is also incredibly dangerous, thanks to the presence of parasite spirits and the taint of the Wild. We monitor it, and we cordon off that section of the forest as best we can, but it is . . . a strain. I wish to know more about it, so we may neutralise it somehow.’
Noon was watching her closely even as she buttered her toast. ‘And?’
Vintage felt her mouth twitch into a brief smile. Truly, this girl was worth watching.
‘You said we should trust each other,’ said Noon. She took a bite of toast, and her next words were muffled. ‘If I’m helping you, I want to know why.’
‘Pour me a cup of that tea.’
Noon did so, and Vintage took a sip, marshalling her thoughts.
‘Do you find Tor charming?’ she asked, and was amused to see the girl frown with annoyance. ‘In his own strange way?’
‘I find him . . . annoying. His people murdered my people. It’s not easy to brush that aside because he . . .’ the girl scowled at her toast – ‘looks more like a sculpture than a real person.’
Vintage nodded. ‘I was once charmed by an Eboran, long before I met Tormalin the Oathless. I couldn’t have been much younger than you, I suppose, and she was beautiful and clever. She came to my home to negotiate a trade agreement with a group of merchants, but really she was there to study the Behemoth remains on our land. A very dangerous pursuit, but she was full of curiosity and nothing would hold her back, certainly not the direst warnings of my father. She was full of fire, a need to know everything. I looked at her and an entire landscape opened up for me.’
Vintage shrugged.
‘I went with her into the forest, against my father’s wishes. When she talked about the Jure’lia and the parasite spirits, I realised how little we knew about them, and they became a source of wonder instead of terror. Through her eyes, I saw how much I had to learn and it was wonderful. She was generous, and kind, and— by all the bloody buggerations, would you look at that?’
Vintage put her teacup down on the table with a clatter and moved back to the grapes. The bunch was three times as big as it had been, and the new grapes were full and ripe to bursting. The leaf, previously brown and black and half crumbled to pieces, was now green and shining with health.
‘Oh damn it all, I missed it!’
Noon appeared at her shoulder. ‘What happened?’
‘The substance we collected from the artefact, it has made the grapes grow in a matter of minutes and I’ve never seen anything like it. Damn and buggeration. Pass me that pencil, will you? I will need to get drawings of this. How do you feel about eating these grapes? I will need to know if they taste unusual.’
Tor chose this moment to arrive home. The tall Eboran looked strangely bedraggled, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair lying limp across his shoulders. It was a sight unusual enough to distract Vintage from the grapes; she had never seen him looking so unwell, even after a night consuming several bottles of her cheapest wine.
‘Tor! What has happened to you?’
He went to the far end of the table and sat heavily in the chair nearest the food. ‘Is there tea in this pot?’
‘There is,’ said Noon. He poured himself a cup, daubed a liberal spoonful of honey into it, and drank it down in one go. He poured himself another cup.
‘Really, Tor.’ Vintage placed her hands on her hips and gave him the look she normally reserved for her nieces and nephews.
‘I’ve had a rough night,’ he said. He was trying to summon his usual aloofness, but his eyes were moving restlessly around the room, lingering here and there on the books and maps, and the sketches of the Jure’lia fleet that adorned the walls. His fingers found a piece of bread, and he began to tear it into pieces.
‘I was with Ainsel—’
‘Who is Ainsel?’ asked Noon.
‘My lover.’ Tor frowned at Noon as if he wasn’t sure why she was still here. ‘We have a pact under the Auspices of the House of the Long Night, and I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Afterwards, she slept and it became obvious that she was having a nightmare. A particularly bad one, judging by the look on her face. So I dream-walked into it, thinking to bring her out.’
The witch raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s true, then? Eborans can see into your head?’
‘Only sleeping minds, only when they’re dreaming, and only those of us who are skilled at it.’ He shook his head and grimaced slightly. ‘I am mildly skilled at it, but not enough, it seems.’
‘What was Ainsel dreaming of?’ asked Vintage. There was a worm of worry in her gut now. She had never seen Tormalin so unnerved, even when facing down parasite spirits.
‘She dreamed of the Jure’lia, Vintage.’ His voice was almost plaintive now. ‘A woman who could never have seen them, dreamed of the Jure’lia in such detail, that I . . . The colour and the noise, the smell of them. How could Ainsel, Lucky Ainsel from Reidn, whose grandfather wouldn’t even have been born when the Eighth Rain fell, dream about the Jure’lia as if she had lived through every battle?’
‘Well, you know, Tormalin, my dear, that dreams can seem very real, and perhaps you were caught up—’
‘What happened? In the dream.’ Leaning against the table with her arms crossed over her chest, Noon had gone very still. She was looking at Tor through the messy curtain of her hair, almost as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to face him. ‘What did you see?’
Tor took a breath. ‘I saw her comrades consumed by the feeders, crawling like black beetles out of their mouths and eyes. I saw a Behemoth hanging in the sky above a beach, and then I saw one of their giant maggot creatures covering a city street in varnish. It ate people, and excreted this mess.’ His mouth screwed up in disgust. ‘And then we were somewhere else, and there was a figure behind us. It had a woman’s voice, and it said, into my ear, “We’re coming back”.’
‘And where is Ebora now?’ Noon’s voice was a dry husk. ‘I’ve had this dream. I saw it too.’
There were a few long moments of silence. The sounds of the inn waking up for the day drifted up from below; the clattering of pans in the kitchen, someone emptying a bucket in the courtyard.
‘How?’ said Tor. ‘How could you have the same dream?’
‘I saw people I knew eaten all away inside by those black bugs, and I saw the corpse moon hanging over the Winnowry. And then the woman. It ends with the woman.’ Noon reached over and picked up the cup of tea Vintage had discarded and curled her fingers around it, as though to warm them. ‘It’s why I ran away from the Winnowry. I couldn’t just stay there. Not when I knew they were coming.’
‘What do you mean, you knew they were coming?’ Tor was glaring at the girl as if the whole incident was her fault.
‘Didn’t you believe her?’ asked Noon. Her voice was soft and faraway, as though she were talking to someone she’d known years ago, a memory. ‘You listen to those words, in that voice, and you know. It’s true.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting . . .?’
Vintage held up her hand. ‘Ainsel. Lucky Ainsel? Lucky because she sometimes has feelings about things. Isn’t that right, Tor? It is she I am thinking of, is it not?’
Tor nodded reluctantly. ‘She knew not to board the ship, and later it sank. If the company she’s with want to ambush someone, they listen closely to her advice, because she always seems to know which way it will go. And no one will play cards with her.’
Vintage lowered her hand. ‘A vision of the Jure’lia. What I wouldn’t give to see such a thing.’
‘But it doesn’t mean anything.’ The doubt in Tor’s voice was terrible to hear, and she watched as his hand drifted down to the sword at his waist. ‘It can’t mean anything. It’s just two people having very similar dreams. It happens.’
‘You couldn’t turn to look at her, could you?’ When Tor didn’t reply, Noon nodded. ‘You know what it means. I can see it on your face.’
‘The return of the worm people.’ Vintage pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. ‘Pray that it’s not, my dears. Pray that it’s not.’