3
Now
The drug akaris is produced by heating a certain combination of substances to extreme temperatures before being cooled, raked and sieved. Only winnowfire is capable of producing the temperatures required, and, indeed, seems to affect the substances in other, less obvious, ways. Akaris is produced in one place only: the Winnowry, on the island of Corineth, just off the coast of Mushenska. Other places have attempted to manufacture the drug, with their own, illegal fell-witches, but these operations have all, without fail, come to a somewhat abrupt and rather unpleasant end. The Winnowry, they say, are ruthless in protecting their own interests.
As for the drug itself: used in its pure state, it simply gives the user a deep and dreamless sleep (more valuable than you might think), but cut with various stimulants, of which Sarn has a vast variety, it brings on a waking-dream state. By all reports, the dreams experienced under the influence of adulterated akaris are vivid, wild and often unnerving.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Noon awoke to the sound of an argument echoing up from below. She slid out of her narrow bed, snatching a glance out the tiny smeared window – overcast again, a blanket of grey from top to bottom – and walked over to the bars of her cell. There was little to see. The vast emptiness that was the heart of the Winnowry hung just below, and on the far side, there was the northern wall of cells, all identical to hers; carved from dead black rock, the floors and the ceilings a grid of solid iron. It was always gloomy inside the Winnowry; the tiny windows were all thickly sealed with lead and wax, and the oil lamps wired to the walkways gave only a smoky, yellow light.
Noon leaned against the bars and listened. It was normally so quiet in the Winnowry, filled with the hush of a hundred women living in fear: of themselves, and each other.
‘Lower your voice, Fell-Anya,’ came the flat, oddly metallic voice of one of the sisters, edged with tension.
‘I will not!’ Anya was one of the older fell-witches, but her voice was cracked from more than age this morning. The woman had been here for nearly twenty years, twice as long as Noon. Noon could barely imagine what that was like, but she was afraid she would find out.
‘What can you do? What can you do to me? I’d be better off dead – we all would.’ The woman’s voice echoed up and around the vast space, echoing like something trapped. Anya was from Reidn, a vast city state far to the east that Noon had never seen, and she spoke their oddly soothing, lilting language. Because fell-witches could be born anywhere, to anyone, the Winnowry was full of women from all over Sarn, and over the last decade Noon had come to know something of all their languages. It was, she sourly noted, the only positive thing the place had given her.
‘No one is going to kill you, Fell-Anya.’ The sister who spoke to her used the plains-speak that was common to most of Sarn. She was forming her words slowly, calmly, perhaps hoping to convey the sense that everything was fine, that nothing could possibly be out of control here – and her use of plains-speak suggested she wanted everyone to know it.
‘Oh no, I’m too useful! Kill me and you’ve one less slave to make your drug for you.’ There was a crash and a rattle of iron. Fell-Anya was throwing herself against the bars. Noon glanced directly down, through the iron grid, and saw Fell-Marian’s pale face looking up at her from the cell below. The bat-wing tattoo on her forehead looked stark, like something separate from her. Noon touched her own forehead unconsciously, knowing she carried the same mark branded onto her skin.
‘What is she doing?’ whispered Marian. Noon just shook her head.
‘You will calm yourself, Fell-Anya. Calm yourself now, or I will take action.’ From the other side of the Winnowry came a muttering of dismay. The whole place was awake now, and every fell-witch was listening to see what would happen.
Noon pushed herself against the bars. ‘Oi! Leave her be!’ Her voice, more used to whispers and low words, cracked as she shouted. ‘Just leave her alone!’
‘Calm myself? Calm myself!’ Fell-Anya was shrieking, the rhythmic slamming of her body against the bars terribly loud in the vast space. Noon pressed her lips together, feeling her own heart beat faster. Such uncontrolled anger was not permitted in the Winnowry. It was one of the worst things they could do. And then, unbelievably, there was a blossom of greenish-blue light, impossibly bright in the gloom of their prison. Noon staggered back from the bars even as she heard Marian gasp below her.
‘Fire and blood! Oh, she’s done it now,’ murmured Noon. ‘She’s fucking well done it.’
There were cries from the other cells, a bellowed shout from below, and someone somewhere must have pulled the lever, because one of the huge water tanks clustered above them tipped to one side. A great sheet of water, black and silver in the poor light, crashed down through the cells on the opposite side, churning and rushing through the iron grids so that every fell-witch on that side of the Winnowry was abruptly dripping wet. The women screamed – the water was icy cold – and the winnowfire that was just out of sight blinked out of existence. Noon shivered as a fine mist of water droplets gusted towards them, and took a few steps back. In the outraged cacophony of fifty suddenly soaked women, she didn’t hear what happened to Fell-Anya, but she heard the clanging of a cell door from somewhere down below.
‘It’ll be a week before they get that tank filled up again,’ said Marian, her voice low. ‘It’s so difficult to refill, they hate to use it. But it seems they’re getting more difficult to please lately.’
‘Touchy bastards,’ agreed Noon. She stepped back up to the bars again. ‘Bastards!’ But her lone shout was lost in the echoes of dripping water. Noon stared out at the cells opposite, and the soaking, miserable women. She pressed her hand to her mouth, biting at a loose shred of skin on her thumb. It would likely take as long for the women on the far side to dry off as it would for them to refill the tank. They would be given no dry clothes, and the Winnowry was ever damp and cold, the tall black stones of its towers facing out to a cold and violent sea. The island it had been built on had been cleared of all trees, all grass – even the top layer of soil had been scraped away. Say anything about the sisters, say they were careful.
‘How did she do it?’ whispered Marian. Her voice was safely hidden under the moans of the other fell-witches, the constant dripping a quiet rain as the water worked its way through their cells.
‘The sister must have been stupid enough to get within reach of the bars.’
They both knew that was unlikely. The wardens of the Winnowry wore long gloves and sleeves, with thick hoods holding their hair back. Over their faces they wore smooth silver masks, with narrow holes for their eyes and mouths. To let a fell-witch touch their bare skin would be a disaster, although Noon often wondered what good it would do the witch who took their life energy. You could take enough to drag them down into unconsciousness – kill them, a voice inside her whispered – but then what? Unless you were outside of your cell already, unless you were close to the way out . . .
Noon sat down on the grill floor, pushing her fingers between the gaps. Marian reached up to her, but as ever the grid was too deep for them to reach each other. It was simply a way of acknowledging that they weren’t alone.
‘She did it somehow,’ Noon said quietly. ‘Got close enough to take what she needed.’ Her heart was still hammering in her chest. ‘What do you think happened to her? Do you think she got out?’
Marian didn’t answer immediately. When she did, she sounded worried. ‘Of course not. You know that, Noon. They doused her and then they took her away. There’s no way out of here. You know that.’
‘I know that,’ agreed Noon. She gnawed at her thumb again. ‘I know that.’
‘Fell-Noon. Off the floor, please.’
Noon scrambled to her feet. She recognised the voice of Sister Owain and looked up to see a tall figure at her cell door. The woman’s mask caught the subdued light of the cell, and not for the first time Noon half wondered if the sisters were real people at all, or just ghosts of metal and wool. Sister Owain’s robes were the traditional dark blue of the Winnowry Sisters, and a heavy wooden cudgel hung at her belt, capped with dull metal.
‘What?’
Sister Owain tipped her head, and all at once it was quite possible to see her eyes behind the metal mask. Not a ghost after all. ‘It’s time for your purging, Fell-Noon, as well you know. I hope you are not going to give us any trouble this morning, or perhaps you would like south block to have an early shower too?’
When Noon didn’t reply, Sister Owain bent and pushed a tray through the slot near the bottom of the bars.
‘Prepare yourself, witch.’
On the tray was a shallow bowl filled with pale grey ash, and next to it a length of sea-green silk and a pair of long grey gloves. Noon curled her hands into fists as her face flushed hot. Always this: a mixture of anticipation, and shame. Sister Owain tapped on the bars.
‘Hurry up, witch. We do not delay purging, you know that.’
Noon knelt and picked up the silk scarf. She ran it through her fingers briefly, as she always did – there was nothing else this soft within the Winnowry – and then swept back her short black hair and covered it over with the scarf, winding it around her bare neck and tying a simple knot at the back. Then she pushed her hands into the powdery ash, getting a good coating on her palms and fingers; it looked almost white against her olive skin. Carefully, so that she wouldn’t breathe it in and make herself cough, she patted the ash onto her face. Three times she repeated the process, until the fine grey powder covered her cheeks, her nose and lips. There was even a fine layer on her eyelids, and the mark of the Winnowry that was seared onto her forehead – the single bat’s wing – was almost obliterated.
‘Another layer, if you please, Fell-Noon. I am not in the mood for half-measures this morning.’
‘Why? What’s the point? What’s it for?’
Sister Owain shook her head slightly. It was clear she knew Noon was being deliberately difficult, but even so, she couldn’t quite resist trotting out the standard Winnowry tract.
‘Penance, witch. We daub you with ashes to mark you for what you are, we cover your skin so that you should not come into contact with the world.’
Noon sighed, and patted more of the ash onto her face, feeling clumps of it falling away where it was already too thick. The smell of it in her nostrils was dry and strange, tickling at her throat. Not waiting to see if that was good enough for Sister Owain, she slipped on the long grey gloves.
‘That’s good,’ said Sister Owain. ‘Very good. Now, when I open your door, step outside. I know you’re not foolish enough to try to ruin my day, Fell-Noon.’
Noon glanced down as the cell door was rattled to one side, and as she stepped outside the sister immediately slapped a pair of thick cuffs on her wrists – a steel loop tied with tough hessian straps. They were jumpier than usual.
Sister Owain urged her swiftly down the walkway, so quickly that Noon didn’t have time to exchange glances with any of the other women imprisoned in south block. They went down several sets of stairs, through three sets of tall, locked doors, all made of thick ebony wood riveted with steel, and then abruptly they were outside. As ever, Noon caught her breath as the icy sea wind cut across her, stealing what little warmth she had gathered to herself inside her cell. The taste of salt on her tongue was like a slap, and her eyes watered with the shock of it. They were leaving behind the main Winnowry building, with its four scalpel-like towers that tore at the sky, and heading towards the circle of white buildings that cupped the Winnowry like a pair of receiving hands. Tall alabaster chimneys sprouted from these buildings, their tops smeared with soot, and underfoot there was stony dirt, streaked here and there with bat guano.
Noon wrenched around to look behind her. It was possible, at just the right moment, to catch a glimpse of the far shore of the mainland, where the city of Mushenska festered and spread. Today, the sea was rough, throwing up mists and spray, but she did see it for a brief second; the harbour lamps had been lit, as had the big beacons over the market place. There was a smudge on the grey sky – the Tarah-hut Mountains – and somewhere below that, thankfully out of sight, the plains where she had been born. Much closer, on the Winnowry beach itself, was a small jetty with a narrow little merchant vessel tied up next to it. Noon caught a glimpse there of tightly caulked barrels being rolled on board, and a man with a salt-and-pepper beard talking to a tall woman wearing a sea-green travel shawl. There was enough time to catch the spiky shape of the bat tattoo on her forehead, and then Sister Owain yanked on Noon’s arm, almost causing her to lose her footing.
‘Was that an agent?’ she asked, nodded towards the figures on the jetty. ‘Selling your drugs on, is that it? A pet fell-witch to do your dirty business?’
‘Keep it up, Fell-Noon, and I will make a special appointment with the Drowned One for you. How about that?’
Noon pursed her lips, feeling the ash crack and flake. She wanted to bite at the skin on her thumb again. The agent and the boat were already out of sight, lost behind the furnace buildings.
‘What is the matter with you lot today?’ Noon muttered. ‘You’ve a face on you like a horse’s arsehole.’
To her surprise, Sister Owain didn’t even turn to glare at her. Instead, she shook her head slightly, as though trying to clear it.
‘Bad dreams,’ she said. ‘No one is sleeping properly.’
Noon found she had nothing to say to that. She didn’t know where the sisters slept, but she was willing to bet it was more comfortable than the bunk in her cell. And then they were there, and Sister Owain was reaching up and yanking the length of rope that hung above the priest door. Somewhere inside, a bell rang. On either side of the door, carved deeply into the white stone, were the two figures of the order’s founder, Tomas. In one depiction, he had his back to the viewer, walking away towards a stylised line that Noon knew was meant to be the sea. In the other, his face was turned outwards, wearing an expression that Noon supposed was meant to be a mixture of terror, awe and righteousness. To her, he mainly looked constipated. He wore garlands of seaweed about his shoulders, and in his hands were seashells.
‘Just do as you’re told,’ muttered Owain. ‘Everything will be fine. The evil in you must be purged. And all will be fine.’
Noon let her arm go slack. The woman was distracted, and they were outside. If she threw herself out of reach and ran, it was possible she could get down to the beach before the alarm was raised, and from there it was even possible that she might survive the swim to Mushenska. If she could get the cuffs off. Suddenly, the grip on her arm was like a vice.
‘Don’t think I can’t see it in your eyes, fell-witch.’ Owain no longer looked distracted. Through the narrow gaps in her mask her eyes were flinty.
‘What happened to Fell-Anya?’ The question was out before Noon knew she was going to ask it. ‘Where is she now?’
Owain was unfazed. ‘We give you a chance to live here, witch. A chance to burn away the evil that is in you.’ She paused, and behind her mask Noon heard her lick her lips. ‘You of all people should know where you belong. Murderer.’
Noon stood unmoving, the chill of her skin at odds with the visions of fire that filled her head. And then the priest door clattered open, and she was passed into the care of the men.
Inside the Furnace it was always hot, in such stark contrast to the damp Winnowry that it made Noon feel faintly dizzy. There was a scratchy, bitter scent, a mixture of smoke and the drug akaris, and a distant roaring as other fell-witches underwent their purging in other parts of the building. She was escorted by Father Wasten, a tall, thin man with a fringe of red hair about his ears and a carroty beard on the end of his chin. The men’s robes were a lighter shade of blue, and the hem was stitched with a series of curling lines meant to represent the sea that had kept Tomas to its bosom for so long. They did not wear masks, but instead carried short, lethal blades on their belts.
‘Why is it “sister” for the women, and “father” for the men?’ Noon asked. The bare white walls shaded into brown at the tops, the result of decades of insidious smoke, and the floor was grey slate, faintly warm through her slippers.
‘Fell-Noon, you ask the same question each time I see you.’
‘Because you’ve never given a good answer.’
Father Wasten cleared his throat. ‘The sisters are your keepers, brave women who dare to live close to the evil you carry. They dare to be close to you, like sisters.’
‘“Close” is a funny word for it.’
‘And Mother Cressin is the head of our family, as you know.’
‘The Drowned One?’
Father Wasten pursed his lips, causing his carroty beard to stick out ahead of him as though it were leading the way. ‘You should show more respect.’
‘I’m evil, remember? And everyone calls her that.’
They arrived at the furnace itself. Wasten took off her cuffs and led her through the great iron doors into a narrow circular room, the soot-blackened walls rising out of sight. Another fell-witch that Noon did not know the name of was just being led out, her skin beaded with sweat and a faraway look in her eyes. She didn’t look at Noon as she passed her, and she stumbled as though she had no bones in her legs.
‘You know what you must do, so prepare yourself, Fell-Noon,’ said Father Wasten, his voice solemn now. The other fell-witch left, and Noon walked into the centre of the circular room. She peeled off the gloves and threw them on the floor, and then pulled off the long-sleeved shirt and piled that on top, leaving her in her vest. Next, her soft slippers – she preferred to be barefoot. ‘You are the weak place between worlds, you are the fracture that permits evil to enter. This is your penance.’
Noon coughed into her hand. ‘Horseshit.’
Father Wasten left, clanging the iron door shut behind him. After a few seconds another door opened, and a slim young man stepped through. Noon looked away. It was Novice Lusk. She hated when it was Novice Lusk.
He was tall, with skin the colour of good cream, his shoulders and neck slightly pink from the outside work he was tasked with – clearing away any stray debris, scrubbing the bat guano from the stones – and his hair was like corn silk, so blond it shone. Noon remembered corn like that on the plains, whole sunny fields of it like a dream. His eyes were blue. He had already removed his shirt, and his chest was taut with muscles, the low band of his loose grey trousers riding on his hips.
Once, Noon had wondered why they didn’t just use plants for the purging, or even animals of some sort, and she had asked, not the sisters or the priests, but another fell-witch who had been there longer than she had. People get over it, the witch had told her. They have a rest, and come back. Have you ever taken life energy from grass? Dead straight away, isn’t it? You could use pigs, maybe, or goats, but then you need someone to look after them, and you’d need a lot of goats. Men though – stupid men with nothing better to do – can look after themselves.
Lusk came over to her and nodded, once.
‘Are you ready, Fell-Noon?’
There were tiny creases at the corners of his eyes as he frowned in concern. Noon sighed.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
He nodded again, and went to his knees in front of her. ‘As ever, it is my honour to assist you in your purging.’
She looked down at him and the top of his bowed head. Lusk’s shoulders shone in the lamplight, smooth and lightly freckled. When everyone she saw was covered up lest they come into accidental contact with her, it was shocking to see so much bared flesh, so much skin uncovered, and part of her never tired of seeing it.
Lusk cleared his throat.
‘Are you ready, Fell-Noon?’
She glanced up once, into the crowded darkness above them. There were more iron grids up there, and on top of them shallow pans full of the substances they used to make akaris. She walked behind him, and taking a small breath, placed her hands on his back, almost leaning on him. His skin was warm, and she could smell him now too – he smelled of soap and earnestness. A warm flush moved from the soles of her bare feet to the top of her head, and she sought a little deeper, seeking out his living energy. Lusk was murmuring a prayer of acceptance under his breath, and not for the first time she wondered what brought a man to a place like this, to take up this particular duty with all its risks, but the urgency of the winnowfire was growing and she pushed that thought to one side.
Her palms tingled, and with a shiver his energy flowed into her. She took it eagerly, filling her and crowding out the darkness within, letting it pool and grow and surge. Lusk was trained for this, and she knew, more or less, how much was safe to take, but the more she could absorb in this first contact, the purer her winnowfire would be. And the moment was coming.
Noon lifted one hand and pointed up into the dark above them. A crackle in the air, and a bloom of blue-green flame curled from the end of her arm and shot up into the echoing chimney. A bare second later and she was wreathed in it, a glowing column of ethereal fire that surged up, crashing and rolling against the steel sides of the chasm above them. The roar of it filled her ears and everything was light. She could feel from the muscles in her face that she was grinning, and she savoured every moment. The fire poured from her like water from a broken dam, and she revelled in the power of it. Here, at least, for this brief time, she was free and powerful.
Lusk shifted under her hand slightly and she remembered to keep part of her consciousness monitoring the life energy she was taking from him. Already he was tiring, and she was surprised by how much she had taken. Somewhere above them the flat pans of chemicals would be cooking nicely, and the priests of Tomas would be waiting to harvest their precious akaris. She wondered how much she made for them, and who used it outside of the Winnowry.
Noon stood on the tips of her toes, reaching as high as she could for one final blast, and then abruptly the flames winked out. She sagged, half stumbling, and Lusk made to help her before catching himself. Contact outside of the purging was strictly forbidden. Noon shivered, her grey vest sticking to her back with sweat. Lusk was a shade paler than he’d been, and his forehead and chest were also beaded with moisture.
The steel door clanged open, and Father Wasten appeared. He eyed them both warily, and nodded to her. ‘Get dressed, Fell-Noon.’
Novice Lusk turned and left without looking at her, going through the other door, and Noon hastily pulled on her long shirt and soft slippers. She hated wearing them again when she was so covered in sweat, but she would not be permitted to go anywhere until she did. Once her hands were covered in the long gloves again, Father Wasten came fully into the room.
‘Once again you are purged, Fell-Noon. You are, briefly, pure.’
Noon rubbed her hand over her face, grimacing as the ash there mixed with her sweat and turned into smears of dirt. She didn’t feel pure. She felt sticky and dirty, and oddly ashamed. There was such a sense of release with the purge, and then, afterwards, guilt. The rush of the flames and the eerie light made it too easy to remember things she’d rather forget. Things she had to forget.
When she didn’t say anything, Father Wasten held up a small fabric bag in his gloved hand, and placed it in her palm. Her small portion of the akaris, to give her a dreamless sleep. Not taken from what she had just made – it would be too hot, and would need raking and sifting – but an older supply. She pinched it between her fingers, feeling the grainy powder through her gloves. Under Wasten’s careful watch, she pulled the drawstring open with a gloved finger and tipped the contents into her mouth. There was the familiar suffocating tickle as the drug coated her mouth, and then, on contact with her saliva, it turned slippery, oily almost. It tasted of nothing, and she swallowed it with a grimace before handing the bag back to Wasten. Many of the women chose not to consume akaris. She supposed that for them, their dreams were an escape from the Winnowry, bringing them sweet memories of their old lives. Not so for Noon.
‘You know, Fell-Noon, why you are here, don’t you?’
Noon looked up at him. His eyes were brown and watery, and could not disguise his disgust for her.
‘Because I am too dangerous to be outside.’
He nodded. ‘Evil works through you, girl. All of your kind are tainted, but here you have a purpose at least. You should be grateful. How many more could you have killed, if you were still free?’
Noon looked at him flatly until he turned back to the door, and they began the slow process of returning her to her cell.