41
Noon sat with her hands pressed to the table top. It had been carved all over with a looping pattern of ivy and vines, with small creatures – bats, birds, mice – peeking from behind the leaves, and then it had been covered all over with a deep shining varnish. Looking at it, following the swirling shapes and imagining the skilled hand that made them, calmed her. It was difficult to stay afloat amid the thoughts and images streaming through her head.
‘I then agreed to work for a Lady de Grazon, a human woman who owns property in the vine forest . . .’
Tor, she dimly understood, was giving his sister a swift account of his movements since he’d left Ebora. Noon caught pieces of story, unable to make sense of much of it, while the cold voice inside was suddenly hot, demanding to be taken back to the Hall of Roots, demanding to see the giant dead tree again. She blinked, pressing her hands to the table until her fingertips turned white.
‘. . . She is an eccentric woman, with a frankly unreasonable obsession with the Jure’lia and their artefacts. Vintage employed me as her hired sword and we explored certain areas of interest . . .’
The other Eboran, the one with long auburn hair, was staring at her from across the table. Just like Tor and his sister, he had deep crimson eyes and features as though carved from marble, but there was an openness to his face that she had not seen in his cousins.
He has been long lost, that one, said the voice in her head. He feels the loss keenly, has been cut adrift. Is not capable of ignoring it, as your lover has, is not able to fathom taking action, like the sister.
‘. . . It was only when we explored the compound that we realised what had caused Godwort to lose his mind. Isn’t that right, Noon?’
Her head snapped up, and she tried to recall what words had been said, in what order. ‘Yes. That’s right. The grief of it, the grief of it must have—’
Grief? Your human souls know nothing of real grief, nothing of what I and my kind have suffered.
Just like when she had entered the Hall of Roots, a confusion of sensations swept over Noon. The taste of sap on her tongue, green and burning and alive. A sound that was both the whisper of a thousand voices and the rustle of leaves in all directions. New muscles used for the first time, the near-painful satisfaction of stretching wings, wet sap on pale feathers, drying from shining scales. An eagerness, knowing that your time was now, that you were a weapon, an instrument of a god – the presence that was always with you, that ran in your blood and was a warmth in the back of your mind. And then the terrible severing of that, like suddenly being blind, and having enough time to acknowledge that you would die and not return, that you would all die, now and forever. There would be no coming back. Feeling fear for the first time.
Slumped at the table, Noon choked back a sob only to see everyone looking at her. Tor had half risen to his feet, an expression of alarm on his face.
‘Noon . . .?’
‘I’m fine. I’m fine. Pass me the wine, please.’
Aldasair poured her a fresh glass, and she took several loud gulps, ignoring the pointed look the blonde woman gave her. ‘Thank you. That’s better. Stop bloody looking at me and carry on.’
Tor cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, I think it’s possible that something the Jure’lia left behind could help us revive Ygseril. It is a fluid that makes plant life grow very rapidly, even reviving dead plants, and reinvigorating seeds that are dormant in the ground. It is very powerful.’
‘Ygseril is no mere plant,’ said Hestillion. Her skin looked waxy, Noon thought, and she was holding herself very carefully. There was no doubt she was hiding something, but Noon was finding it very difficult to care. She drank some more of the wine, and filled the glass herself from the bottle.
‘I think it is worth a try,’ Tor was saying. ‘We’ve never tried anything like this before, have never had access to anything like this before. Here, let me demonstrate it, what a small sample can do.’ Tor began to rise from his chair again, turning towards where their bags had been placed by the wall, but Hestillion held up her hand.
‘No. Do not waste it.’
Tor froze. ‘You believe me, then?’
For the first time, a ghost of a smile touched Hestillion’s lips. ‘Why else would you return, dear brother? Only for something extraordinary, of course.’
Tor’s movements became very stiff then. ‘I had to leave. My reasons—’
‘Your reasons are your own, Tormalin the Oathless, and that time is very far behind us. Circumstances have changed, as I’m sure you can see. Ebora has friends now, allies. Trade routes have reopened, the old road to the eastern forest has been cleared, and we are no longer alone. Now, you must excuse me. I must rest.’ Hestillion rose from the table.
‘You’re going to bed?’ Tor was frowning. ‘But Hest, we may have the cure here! We could take the fluid there now, see what happens.’
The tall Eboran woman shook her head, her eyes downcast. ‘Soon, Tormalin, I promise, but it must be the correct time. Do you not see? I would like some time to prepare. Aldasair will show you to your rooms.’
With that she left, not looking at the perplexed expression on her brother’s face.
Hestillion hung suspended in the netherdark, waiting for Ygseril’s response. After she had explained her brother’s reappearance and what he had brought back with him, the ghostly roots around her had seemed to grow closer, as though they were contracting somehow, but there had been only silence since. The glow that was the god’s voice was a distant point of light. She knew that if she tried to move towards it, it would move away.
What day is it?
For a few moments, Hestillion couldn’t make sense of the words.
‘What day, my lord? I do not understand.’
Silence again. Hestillion thought she could sense a new tension around her though. What she had told the god had changed him, moved him somehow.
Where is the moon in the sky?
‘Oh. It is the eighth day of the Sorrowing Month, my lord. The true moon is waning.’
The next new moon?
‘In two days’ time, my lord.’
Knowing it was foolish and even an insult, Hestillion reached out to the god, trying to get a better understanding of what he was feeling, but it was like placing your hands on a statue in a pitch-black room. She could only get a vague impression; a sense of tightly held excitement, perhaps, of something being held back, but perhaps she was imagining it.
Do it then, said Ygseril. On the new moon.
‘I don’t understand, my lord. Do you believe it will work? Will you then come back to us? Why on this particular day?’ She stopped. ‘It is the Festival of New Lights on that day. An auspicious date, my lord?’
That is correct. The voice that wasn’t a voice pulsed on and off in her head. That day and no other. There was a pause, and then, You have done well, my remarkable child. Truly, an extraordinary mind you have.
Despite the words Hestillion felt a brief stab of annoyance. It was her brother who had brought this solution, not her, and finally Ygseril was willing to cooperate.
As if sensing what she was feeling, Ygseril continued: Do not worry, Hestillion the dream-walker. You will never be left behind again. We promise you that.
And then the presence was gone and Hestillion was left in the dark, alone.