Then his brow knitted in a frown.
“How inconvenient,” he muttered.
(#ulink_2db26f32-47dd-5387-acfe-d4d5cb457159)
“… there, above her beloved valley, she surveyed all thehope and despairof the world.”
SYLAS WAS UNSURE HOW long he had been walking. For some time he had trailed along the shoreline, following in the footsteps of Triste and Simia. Occasionally he saw them climbing a headland or tracing the edge of the woods, but he made no attempt to catch up. Eventually he left their path altogether, walking into the shade of the forest. He meandered between the trees in the general direction of Sylva, but he was in no rush to get there. He needed to think.
Sure, Simia’s idea made some sense: it would be the opposite of what anyone would expect and the Scryers were much less likely to see any connection – whatever that really meant. But what did all that matter, compared to finding his mother? Being with her, after all this time? Yes, Naeo might go in his place, but that wasn’t the same as finding her himself. In fact if it wasn’t him, would she really be found at all?
No, this wasn’t even a good second best. They didn’t understand.
He sighed. In truth, neither did he.
And these were the thoughts that dogged him as he ambled across the dried leaves on the forest floor and wound between the ancient trunks of the forest: his life … his mother … himself … what did those things even mean when he knew that Naeo was there, just through the forest. Another part of himself? How crazy did that sound!
He was still very far from understanding Naeo. His experience of her was sensation and emotion rather than anything real or tangible. He didn’t even feel like he’d met her, not really. He remembered the feeling of warmth and joy when he had first seen her – of comfort and completeness when he had held her hand. Then the surge of energy – raw power, even – when she had stood at his side, when they had fought their way out of the Dirgheon. But since then, when she drew too near – as she had in the Garden of Havens – there was that awful pain, beginning in his wrist and becoming unbearable. Not like a wound, but more like an ache and the oddest sense that everything inside him was shifting out of place.
And although he had felt these things, these immense forces and feelings, for some reason he had thought very little of her. It was almost as if he didn’t need to think of her, or perhaps his thoughts couldn’t quite grasp her. She was still very much a separate person, and now it was that person, not him, who was going back to the Other.
He picked up a stick and swiped it against a tree trunk. It snapped in half and the crack echoed through the forest.
“What did that tree ever do to you?” asked a voice.
Sylas whirled about, his eyes searching the forest. But he already knew who it was.
The Magruman stepped out from behind a line of bushes. His eyebrows appeared above his spectacles.
“Sorry,” said Sylas.
“Well, don’t apologise to me! You didn’t hit me!”
“Oh … no …” said Sylas. He turned back towards the tree, wondering if he was really supposed to say sorry to the trunk.
Paiscion let out a peel of laughter. “I’m only joking, Sylas!” he said, walking up and holding his hand out in greeting. “I’m sure that old giant can handle a tap on the backside!”
Sylas grinned. “Right,” he said, taking the Magruman’s hand.
Paiscion grasped his shoulder warmly with the other hand. He drew a breath and then looked about him. “Now, how did you find this place? Did someone tell you about it?”
Sylas shrugged. “No, I was just walking.”
“Ha!” cried Paiscion. “Then we shall call it good luck, because you have stumbled on the very corner of the Valley of Outs that I wanted to show you!”
“I have?” asked Sylas, glancing around in surprise. This part looked just like any other.
A mysterious smile spread across Paiscion’s face. “Step this way.”
He led Sylas down a small bank towards the lake, then turned to one side. Ahead was a tree of even greater proportions than those around it, with a vast trunk that soared to an astonishing height above their heads. But it was not just its size that caught Sylas’s eye.
He blinked and squinted. Its aged bark was deeply faulted and gnarled, such that the many ruts in its greyish brown surface coiled and twisted into countless patterns and shapes. But there, a little above head height, were some lines that appeared far from random. There were two gentle arcs, each side of a long, almost-straight furrow. The effect was simple, but unmistakable.
It was a giant feather.
“Do you like to climb trees?”
Sylas drew his eyes away from the symbol and looked up at Paiscion. He frowned. “It’s been a while,” he said, “but I suppose so … why?”
Paiscion lifted his glasses off his nose and winked. “Well, imagine what fun it is when the tree is on your side.”
“What do you mean?”
The Magruman shrugged. “Ask the tree to help you up. Someone with your gift should have no trouble at all.” Then he raised his hands and gestured for Sylas to do the same.
“Now, just ask!” said the Magruman.
Sylas looked up into the great boughs of the tree, his eyes travelling up above the feather, up beyond the mighty trunk and into the heart of the canopy. And then he asked. It was only a thought – a fleeting flurry of words – but instantly the patchwork of orange and brown swayed a little and there was a hiss and swish as though the wind were racing through the leaves.
But there was no wind.
Suddenly, in a motion that was at once natural and utterly peculiar, the drooping branches of the tree swept down to the forest floor. Their powerful joints creaked under the strain, but the lowermost limbs fell with ease, then turned, brushing up their own fallen leaves, sweeping them towards Sylas and Paiscion. They flew up in a rush of yellows and browns, dancing about them in a great muddle of colour, and instinctively Sylas raised his hands to shield his eyes.
He felt something move beneath his arms.
He threw them down, but to his surprise, he felt the woody limbs sliding up into his armpits. Before he knew what was happening, they had taken the weight off his feet.
And then the grand old tree hoisted him into the air.
“Take whichever you want,” echoed the voice of many.
Scarpia lowered her head and prowled across the passage to the nearest doorway. She snarled, dropping a little on her haunches and pressing her ears back against her head. Her sensitive nose had scented the Black and its stench was still strong in her memory. She peered into the chamber, her cat’s eye adjusting quickly to the darkness.
There, in the centre of the stone floor, was a pulsating sack of slime. Protruding from its top was a massive head, half covered with dark fur, half with pale, human skin. Its ears turned at her approach and a low, gurgling growl rumbled in its throat, but its narrow eyes remained closed. It was a mongrel, but its angular, predatory features were clearly feline.
“Made in your own image, my dear,” echoed the voices from somewhere further down the corridor. “For your own little army. You will need more than your mastery of Urgolvane in the Other. It will not be so powerful there.”
Scarpia bowed, then turned and padded down the passageway after her master, zigzagging left and right as she glanced into chamber after chamber, each containing the same half-born forms.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said. “You are truly the master of Kimiyya.”
“Of course I am!” was the abrupt reply. Then more softly: “Take whatever you need. Take the Scryers, if you wish. Take a Ray Reaper.”
Scarpia’s head snapped around. “A … Ray Reaper? Will it go with me?”
“It will go where I tell it!”
Scarpia recoiled a little, but still seemed unsure. “I would like to take one, my Lord,” she said. “But I worry that … that it may not … obey me. After all, it was once a Priest of Souls, just like you.”
