The Glittering Cage

By Richard Ireland

Rift’s short life should have ended at the bottom of a cold Cumbrian lake. Trapped in the glittering cage of autism without the wit or will to save himself as he drowns, he is swept up in the jaws of a mighty maaladon and carried down the Longways to the pure world of Edria.

The traumatic journey splits his already fragile mind. The only cure is brutal: all memories of his isolated childhood are cut out and discarded, and with them, the last desperate hope of Edria’s dying god Setti.

Ten years on, Rift is released into the world by his healers, their sad litany that god is dead ringing in his ears. He does not believe it. Edria is vibrant with the wonders of Setti’s touch: the immense maaladons who weave the Longways between worlds, the savage parators and impossibly swift hiydn of the vast heartlands, the elegant sword dances of the Elenan, and the almost magical stone works of the Lapilli.

A Pale Child is intent on destroying it all, and the world is powerless in the face of its manipulated hate. Only Rift, not constrained by purity can resist, for the Pale Child has grown from his own discarded memories, made corporeal by Edria’s innate lust for life.

Edria and its god are trying to make Rift something he refuses to be, but the only alternative is to sacrifice himself, and step into a glittering cage once again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Ireland
• Release date: Jan 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301486670

Book preview

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RICHARD IRELAND

BOOK ONE OF THE PURITY CHAIN

For Diana, Rebecca and Mia:

Angels all, blonde and beautiful.

richardireland.com

Headshotwords Blog

The Glittering Cage

By Richard Ireland

Copyright 2013 Richard Ireland

Lapilli Publishing

Smashwords Edition

~

Other Titles by Richard Ireland:

PERPETUAL LIGHT

Contents:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

End

~ Chapter 1 ~

God is dead: she gave too much.

Rift did not believe it. Blinded by twilight and shivering in the humidity, he sensed Setti’s grace in every grain of soil beneath his trembling fingers. Every breath of hot, damp air wheezing through his dry throat brought a taste of her purity. Beneath a storm-cracked sky, the tall reeds of the Dela Plain whispered god’s name, dancing in praise. Rift crouched amongst them, straining to hear beyond the eulogy, alone and beggared by her cruel demanding beauty.

The villagers had said it; god is dead. Rift had no head for memories, but the shock of that melancholy mantra lingered when all else, as always, faded away. Only the words remained. Faces and the mouths that formed them gone in a grey mist.

He eased his tense muscles. Cramp gripped his legs and he couldn’t stop a groan escaping through parched lips. The scudding wind dropped as if to let others out there in the darkening plain hear his pain. To his right, the reeds thrashed against the flow of the dance.

He was being hunted.

Thunder rolled in the west; the whip tail of the departing storm. A deep stuttering boom, a grunted animal warning chased it from the north. Rift jumped up, heart pumping. The wind swelled again, the grasses lashed into a more frantic rhythm. A dark shape flashed past, the merest flick of movement in the corner of his eye. He caught the scent of the predator; a sweet intoxicating perfume snatched away by the swirling gusts. It was trying to flush him out of hiding. Rift gritted his teeth and forced himself to crouch again.

If the villagers two days before had warned him of vicious storms and predators on his route north, he did not remember. They had given him food for his journey; at least he assumed so. It was dwindling in his pack. That they had given him bed and welcome he knew, but recall was a disconnected fact, not a memory. He did not know the name of the village or his hosts. Nothing before there existed at all.

But today… today was the first day he would remember tomorrow. He had dreamed last night. The long healing was over.

Rift laughed suddenly, giddy with the certainty of that. He surged to his feet and sprinted to a small hummock that dared raise its rounded bulk above the reed heads. Scrambling up, he hooked an arm around the twisted trunk of a gnarly tree at its summit and leaned into the wind.

No, he hollered at the restless gloom. Not today. Hear me? A day to live, not die.

No response but a watchful patience. He waited, trembling with tension, fear and exhaustion, possessed by the manic mood. Silent lightning split the western sky and seconds later thunder rumbled. His skin prickled. He could feel the silent predator only a dozen dark yards away to his right. But north drew his eyes.

In the distance, the long grass thrashed with a force even the rising winds could not match. The hummock began vibrating beneath his boots, and within moments he could hear and feel the rumble of a thousand hoofs. The storm, or perhaps the lurking predator, had spooked the massive beasts that grazed these vast grasslands. The ground brought rumour of them, but the wind carried their acrid scent; sweat and fear, urine and dung.

Another flash of movement to his left. The hunter broke cover, a blurred terror, seven shades of black in the corner of his eye. It was coming at him, about to leap before he could even turn to look into the jaws of his death, snatching its meal in the last moment before the stampede engulfed them both.

Rift dropped, throwing himself to the ground against all instinct to flee. And then, a bizarre sound, a horse’s whinny and the rapid tattoo of shod hooves. He cast his eyes to the left as he hit the damp apex of the hummock with a breathless grunt.

A small mare careered out of the long grass, eyes wild, mouth rimmed with foam. Headlong in panicked flight, it collided with the leaping hunter. The two dark shapes impacted with a roar and a scream. The horse bowled the creature over, and both tumbled out of sight into the thrashing grass.

Rift leapt up, panting, trembling, his skin a sheen of cold sweat. He threw out a hand to grasp the twisted tree trunk for support: the earth had stolen thunder from the sky and devoured it. For long seconds, distant lightning flashed in anger at the loss. The little hummock pitched like a coracle on stormy seas, and with a rumble like a physical thing, a tidal wave broke upon him.

The beasts of the stampede were immense. Stripped green and corn-yellow, they rose to eight feet at the shoulder with broad flat backs nearly as wide. They charged with a relentless swinging gait on short fat legs, yet their round heads on long powerful necks seemed to ride above smoothly. There was no intelligence in their huge brown eyes; the herd panic drove them south en masse in ranks one hundred yards across, the grass a pulp beneath their feet.

No time to turn, no time to run. Between one gasped breath and the next, the beasts were a raging flood bearing down on him, and only blind luck made them flow either side of Rift’s small island. But that luck would not last. Pressure from those each side crowded the creatures tighter. In the last light of the fading flash, Rift saw an undulating wall of them approaching that would sweep his tiny hummock away and trample his short life into the careless earth.

He leapt into darkness, right and forwards, arms flailing, legs kicking. He slammed into something hard and leathery, but his grasping hands could not get a grip on the quivering neck of the creature. He slid down onto its back. He managed to flip over onto his stomach. A groove ran the length of its neck to the trashing tail and he rammed a fist into it, hanging on.

Bounced and jarred, Rift still found a moment to breathe, a moment to marvel that he was still alive. He kicked a foot into the groove and rose to a crouch. The creature bucked, trying to dislodge its passenger. Rift held on, jaw clenched, lips twisted… just a few more seconds.

Lightning arced across the sky again, a shorter flash but enough to mark his path. He jumped, hit the back of the smaller female running alongside, scrambled up and leapt again.

High above, torn clouds parted and a timid moon peered through the rents. In its dim light Rift saw that he was close to the edge of the herd. He took his chance whilst illumination lasted, and jumped once more… and saw why this was the edge.

A black fissure split the plain to the west of the stampeding beasts, compressing them together as they plunged onward into the night. From the back of his new mount, he could see a ribbon of silver far down – a stream reflecting moonlight – but his tired eyes could not gauge the depth. Deep enough to kill him if he fell.

The beast beneath his clenched fists lurched. Rift watched in horror as the rain soaked edge of the crevice crumbled under its pounding hooves. It stumbled, caught itself, lurched into its neighbour, bounced back and stumbled again as more of the sodden earth gave way.

A scream rose in his throat, but he grinned, ground it with his teeth into pulp and spat it out as mad laughter.

Oh no, not today.

A lone tree sped towards him, a slender youth clinging to the edge of the crevice. The branches would sweep him into the dark, or down under the hooves of the stampede… He leapt for it rather than wait to be pounded, hit the branch with his stomach and let momentum swing him up and over.

Below him, his mount stumbled one last time, and slid with a trumpet of protest over the edge. Its lashing tail thumped the tree, pitching Rift headlong. But luck rode his own shoulder tonight and he slammed down onto the back of the one that followed.

Winded, gasping, caught half way between laughter and whimpering fear, Rift scrambled up the creature’s craggy back and flung his arms around its neck. It didn’t try to dislodge him, head down and charging forward, barging through the tight press of those lumbering ahead. The weight of the man clinging to its back disturbed it, and the ground beneath its pounding feet felt treacherous; it just wanted to escape, and knew only one response to that imperative.

For a moment, Rift closed his eyes. He could feel the start of the slip long before his mount could. He could sense the change in its bunching muscles, the subtle shift in weight as more and more of the soft ground gave way beneath each thrust of its trembling left legs. And finally, when its hindquarters veered around sharply, he looked again, knowing he had ridden his luck too long to find another escape. If he jumped, he would be crushed. If he clung to its neck, he was going over.

The decision was not his. A huge chunk of ground melted away and they were dropping into emptiness. But not far. The fissure had widened, the cliff edge becoming just a precipitous slope of scrub and scree. The creature landed on its stomach, legs splayed. Rift grunted, winded again, but held on as mud and loose gravel turned them, pointed them downwards, and sent them careering down the slope into midnight.

The ragged edges of the storm clouds whipped away and the moon shone out in all her glory at last. Light enough to see by. Light enough to know your doom approached.

The beast saw the huge boulder in their relentless path and knew it could do nothing to avoid a collision. It mewed, arched its long neck, and snapped its head forward with all of its remaining strength.

Strange to fly without wings, Rift observed distantly as the boulder passed by beneath his flailing legs and darkness rushed forward to embrace him.

~

Standing on the stairs beside Lake Deluvious, Rift stared into the pregnant night. He laughed quietly; a soft hysteria - the remnants of mania. The dark gods had reached out a claw to snag him, but somehow he had shrugged it away. Or someone else had batted it aside.

The beast had thrown him twenty yards, right over the jagged boulder that claimed its life, into the shallow water of the river at the bottom of the ravine. Stunned, he had slipped into unconsciousness, and then an hour later, staggered from one grey world to another, and finally, fell and slept in the arms of fragrant undergrowth where the ravine opened out and threw its arms wide in homage to the great lake.

Dreams had come. He almost remembered them. A first among many firsts this day.

Waking damp, sore and bruised, he had risen with a groan and checked himself, surprised to find little blood and nothing broken. Then, under a preening moon in a sky the storm had scorned, he trudged onward until dawn was close, but the mighty lake was closer.

And there, where elegant steps descended down towards a restless midnight, he waited.

And wondered.

How had he ended up here on the shore of this vast lake? From the last village, he should have followed a slow river north-west across the plain. Though memory had no foothold in his mind, a map of the rivers of Edria was emblazoned on it like a silver web. He had wandered a long way east of it... Wandered or driven?

Rift shivered, weary and aching, but eager for sunrise and its light and heat. This place demanded illumination to honour its grandeur, not hints and shadows. Water lived here; he heard it trickling. Silence breathed and rocks loomed like sentinels around him, cloaked in night secrecy.

A pressure, or power – something like anticipation swelled… he caught his breath at the sound of a soft groan.

Hello? He descended a step. Is someone there?

Like the first notes of an epic symphony, vermilion whispered into the sky. Colours bled across the glass surface of Lake Deluvius. At first just delicate pastels dancing across the vast water, but the hues deepened by the moment, swallowing the bright star Sainus hanging low in the south-east. Finally, the sun’s jagged edge broke through. Smoothing almost instantly to an arc, it sent a beam of orange skittering across the lake towards him.

Rift let his breath hiss away. The air was rich. He could not hold it long without feeling giddy and light-headed; strangely weak yet suffused with energy. Within a dozen heartbeats, the sun rose half above the horizon, unable to restrain the momentum that propelled it into the sky. He managed to look away then, gazing upward, head turning as he scanned the rocks around the shore. For several minutes, the perverse shapes remained as dark silhouettes with even less detail than they had revealed in the night. But gradually, black faded to grey, then grey to red as the sun climbed fully into the sky.

He stood on a wide stairway leading down to the inner curve of an oval inlet. To either side, rising terraces of white limestone framed it, each pooled terrace lipped with mossy boulders, each overflowing with water. He counted five levels; a giant’s amphitheatre from which to watch the sunrise. The scene drew his eye upward to the furthest terrace.

Two entwined arcs of stone rose up from the rock and leapt out over the inlet, fifty feet or more. They came down, fused together, on a flat islet just offshore. A slim-waisted tower of white stood tall on the island, its summit a swollen bulb set with narrow vertical windows. At the tower’s foot, another double arc of stone mirrored the first, but curved back to the terraces on Rift’s right. They were like bridges. Impossible, fanciful bridges. More like art than nature.

Only the warmth of the rising sun convinced Rift he was not dreaming. Sleep did not have such utter clarity. The alien beauty of it was staggering.

Without a conscious decision to move, he set off along the path bordering the inlet, breathing the crystal chill of the pools and the freshness of the moss. The sense of power intensified. He looked up, trying to locate its source. But it was an emanation without focus, radiating from everywhere. A shadow passed across his face and he paused, frowning, noting that the arc of stone above was incomplete. At the centre of the span was a gap. Only a few inches, but the sun was a slit in his eyes through it. His frown deepened. The gap was narrowing. He blinked, looked again, sure now, but unable to understand what he was seeing. Cold stone did not flow like that.

The slit of sunlight became a sliver. The hairs on his neck stood out almost horizontally, the air charged with a heavy presence as if a thunderstorm was about to erupt. But the sky was clear, morning haze burning away. He turned, uneasy, confused, turned again just in time to see the gap close with an audible crack.

A high wordless voice cried out, a falling scream. Rift whirled, catching a flash of movement up above the terraces to his left. He had noticed the shape, but in the uncertain light supposed it was just another of the weird rock formations. But rock did not crumble and fall like that. Stone did not flow like cloth. The cry echoed for a moment and terminated with the soft scuff of a body hitting the ground. The terrible pressure in the air fled and he staggered into its sudden absence. A sharp pain lanced through his head and he almost cried out himself.

Who’s there? he said. Already he was thinking of this place as his own. No answer came down to him at the water’s edge. Hello? Hey. Are you all right?

The lip of the lowest terrace was only a foot above his head. Reaching up, he found a dry place where the deep green moss did not grow. With a grunt, he scrambled up the wall and rose to stand swaying beside the water. It was cold but shallow, so he waded across to the wall of the second terrace. His clothes would dry soon enough. It was going to be a warm day.

By the time he had climbed up the fifth terrace, sweat was running down his face, though his feet were numb. It would have been easier he now realised to go back to the steps and approach the ridge from the landward side. The backpack had opened up the strap sores on his shoulders again and he was more interested in being able to throw it down than finding who had cried out.

It took a moment to spot the still body. The full-length cloak was the exact shade of the iron-rich sandstone. Rift dropped his pack and sword with a grunt of relief and bent down beside the figure. Frowning, he reached with a tentative hand and pulled the hood aside. The thin material rustled away and raven hair tumbled out. He stared into the pale face of an old woman. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken, her skin wrinkled and sagging on prominent cheek bones. He drew back, disturbed at the mismatch of lustrous hair and ancient skin. At least she was alive. He could hear the rasp of her shallow breath. Whether she would remain that way was dubious. She looked and sounded close to death.

He sat back on his haunches, wondering what to do, puzzled by her presence out here in the wilderness. He looked again at the elegant span of the rock arcs as if they might provide an answer, but the stone was immutable, self-absorbed in its own elegant beauty. The land was coming to life. A long-legged heron skimmed across the surface of the lake and, with one lazy sweep of its huge wings, rose up to alight on the apex of the arch. It glanced at the man below and with regal dignity ignored him. Other birds joined it, swallows and sparrows, arranging themselves behind the heron like the members of an entourage. Out on the lake, something dark and massive broke the surface for a moment, sending ripples towards the shore, before sinking back down into the depths. Rift caught a glimpse of a sampwan, a small furry marsupial, darting along the path down below. The air throbbed with vitality. It was utterly serene, entirely peaceful and did not deserve the title of wilderness. People did not live here, that was all.

He stood up, entranced by the morning and needing to see, and remember it all. The woman slipped from his still-fragile memory for a moment.

The vista that opened around him from this viewpoint was immense. To the east lay the lake, calm and placid and giving no hint of further shores. To the south, the land curved away, rising to tall cliffs dripping with verdant creepers, crowned with huge trees dipping long vines into the water below. To the north, it was flatter and he peered into the early haze, fancying that he could almost make out cliffs bordering the lake in the far distance. Already the air was shimmering in the rising heat. With a prick of guilt he remembered the prostrate woman by his feet. Perhaps he should move her into the shade, fetch her water. She would fry, lying on the exposed rocky promontory.

Are you the best I could summon to sit my death-watch?

The voice was a rattling sigh. Rift whirled and looked down, recoiling from the beady stare of the woman. She had regained consciousness but not moved - was perhaps unable too, still lying with her cheek upon the ground, her black hair in disarray.

A boy, she said, when I should at least merit a lord.

He found no reply, his mouth empty of words, having spoken few for days. He gazed back, confused, awed by the setting, discomforted by her presence and cowed by such a casual degradation.

There are no lords within a thousand miles, he said at last. And I’m not a boy.

Mockery twisted her cracked lips. No? A girl then? Your face is soft and pretty enough. Gripped by sudden pain, she winced, groaning softly, unable to continue.

Are you hurt?

Of course I’m hurt. She clenched her yellow teeth. More deeply than you could guess. Would I choose to lie like this? Help me sit up and fetch some water as there are no men around to serve me.

I believe even the Empress in Neneva thanks her attendants, he said, but without any conviction that such a place or such people even existed.

I’ll say please and thank-you when I’m not in quite so much agony. But for now, little lord, extend some charity… Her colourless eyes flicked to the wrinkled hand lying flat beside her face. To an old woman, she finished softly.

Rift shrugged. He crouched, slipped a hand under her arm and eased her upright. From his pack, he removed his water bottle, but she gestured it away with a feeble hand.

From one of the pools, she said. I need something more fortifying than your stale mouthwash.

In silence, Rift filled the flask from the highest terrace. She fumbled for a small paper sachet from an inner pocket of her cloak and poured a fine white powder into the water, swirling it, mixing it.

What’s that?

She took a deep draught before replying. Dried hiydn dung. Cures all bodily ills.

Rift wrinkled his nose. Smells more like ginger.

You are wise, my lord. It is in fact Ventan Ginger. Very rare. Very powerful. I would offer you some, but you would not stop dancing until nightfall.

He offered her an open smile. I doubt in a place like this I would need it to dance all day. He watched her sidelong, waiting to see some improvement in her pallor, though, if anything, she looked even worse.

Suit yourself, she said. And I suppose I should now say please and thank you. Who should I address my gratitude to? I mean, what’s your name, boy?

Rift, he said. Then straightening a little, Riftas San Mirrion, adding, Not lord, or boy.

She nodded, almost amused. And if it pleases you, the meaning of me is Samanta. Of the House of Sude. That is my name, you understand.

I understand you talk to me as if I was an idiot.

Her lips twitched as if she was about to smile in mockery again, but he realised after a moment that her eyes on him were contemplative.

Not an idiot, no. A young man in body – but you seem a child to me. If there was time, I would learn how not to talk above or below your wit.

You are very arrogant, Rift observed dryly.

Perhaps. There is both arrogance and humility in the power of knowledge I have possessed. But I am beyond apologies for what I am.

And you like to talk in riddles.

Perhaps, she said again, distracted. Help me up. I don’t have much time to admire my creation. She was looking over his shoulder towards the stone arcs.

He lifted her easily, feeling the angular ribs in her chest, keeping a hand on her bony arm when she swayed. She was so insubstantial a breath of wind could carry her away. Even so, he was a half head shorter. He turned to follow her gaze.

Your creation?

Samanta eyed him in mild curiosity for a moment, and then shrugged as if she should have predicted his ignorance. My Lapis Testam. My penance and soul. Saman Tou it will be called. I would educate you, if there was time, as you appear badly in need of it.

It is why I’m here, Rift said, but he was not looking at her. Was she claiming to have made these beautiful arches? The tower and terraces? Ridiculous. The bridges were bizarre, but Setti let her world grow in strange ways.. Perhaps some ancient underground lava flow. You were expecting someone to sit your death-watch, he said, and now you keep saying that time is pressing. You don’t seem well, but I doubt you are about to die. I have a little food left you can share. That and rest will see you right.

She shook her head. I will be dead within the hour. Even now, I can feel my essence bleeding away. But it must not be here. I must go to the tower.

Rift looked again at the small island out in the water, noting now that there was sufficient light, how fragile and insubstantial the tower seemed. The stone was a brilliant white but colours seemed to shift on its surface like nacre. Are you going to fly or swim over? he asked dubiously.

Of course not. You will help me across the arch. That is why I summoned you here.

I wasn’t summoned, he replied, but not without a note of sudden uncertainty. I came of my own free will. I am a journeyman.

Please yourself, but I need one more kindness from you, my lord, and then you may continue your travels. Help me to the tower.

He shrugged and with his arm for support she hobbled towards the stone bridge.

It was not sandstone. He bent and touched the arc before stepping up to the first and steepest section, suspecting it would be slippery. The texture was smooth and crystalline. He turned and gripped Samanta’s hand, easing her up onto the bridge.

The incline lessened as they ascended and his trepidation at the precarious perch receded. Alone, he could have run across like a mountain goat, but with the old woman using him as a crutch he worried she would pull them both over the edge if she stumbled. He wasn’t sure how deep the water was fifty feet below, or whether it even mattered.

In the middle of the span, they halted and a subtle change came over Samanta. She straightened to her full height and looked across to the double arc opposite, inland to the water terraces, then left towards the white tower. She nodded to herself, critically pleased by the graceful structures. In a voice barely above a whisper she said, Is it good, father? She nodded once, as if at some private answer, then turned away, suddenly shrunken, bent with the end of a long labour. The sadness emanating from her was palpable, though she looked away from Rift’s curious gaze, gesturing for him to precede her down the other side.

He helped her down onto a flat rock at the base of the tower, unable then to resist reaching out to touch its milky wall. It was cold, translucent like ice. There was no visible door, though he walked around the perimeter twice.

Is there a way in? he asked.

Her reply was distant. Only once.

She must have pulled some hidden handle, because when he looked back there was a round opening in the wall.

It was bright inside. Light passed straight through the walls. A narrow, spiral stair began at their feet, curling up and out of sight. Their steps did not echo as they climbed. Rift counted the stairs. Three hundred exactly, and then they came up through the floor of a round chamber, perhaps thirty feet across. The narrow windows he had seen from a distance were the height a man, the width of an arm. He counted sixteen, each a compass point. In the centre of the chamber sat a marble slab, raised several feet off the ground by an obsidian plinth. The sight of it disturbed Rift slightly. A stone pillow lay at one end. A small stone bench stood beyond it against the curved wall.

What is this place used for? he said, afraid to disturb the silence with more than a whisper.

Samanta strode past him to the eastern window. She stood for a minute, looking out across the vast lake, then to the western window for the same amount of time. Then the northern and southern. Eventually she turned to him, gravity in her grey eyes, cares in her heart of which he could not even begin to guess.

Riftas San Mirrion, she said with grave formality, will you sit the watch for me?

He shook his head, frowning. I don’t... What do you want me to do?

Witness. That is all. She indicated the bench. You do not need to understand - few really do. When I am gone, ask someone about the Lapilli. Ours is an ancient civilisation, our art the foundation of all others. Ask about the Lapis Testa… this place. She paused, and then said again, Will you sit the watch for me?

I will, he agreed, moved by such grave sadness, realising there was more to her than the irascibility she had so far displayed.

Suddenly, she smiled; a warm and grateful thing that hinted of the girl she might once have been. Raising her arms, she combed the dark hair through with her fingers, the pride of a once beautiful woman. He watched, neither surprised or embarrassed as she unclasped the broach at her throat and stepped out of the russet cloak. She was naked beneath. Her breasts were wrinkled and sunken, her limbs emaciated, flesh hanging without fat from her bones, skin grey and mottled.

Folding the cloak carefully, she laid it in his arms. Payment for your kindness, she said, if any is required. It was expensive and will keep you warm at night, cool during the day. Only then was he convinced that she thought she was about to die. Had the Ventan Ginger actually been poison? Is that why she had not offered him any? He knew she wouldn’t answer if he asked, so remained silent.

Samanta had no difficult climbing up onto the marble bed; there was strength enough in her, now that there would soon be none. She lay down on her back, head on the hard pillow, hair spread around her shoulders. Rift sank to the bench, her cloak on his knees. He watched her close her eyes, saw her chest deflate in a long sigh of resignation, saw her muscles relax and the tension of a full life drain from them.

What sort of life had it been? He guessed her age at seventy or more. That she had once been beautiful was likely; there was still the memory of brightness and grace in her. Though curtained by folds of dry skin, her cheekbones were high, her features refined. Though now bowed and thin, her legs were long, her fingers delicate. He caught an image of her in his mind, striding purposefully through some ornate garden, her head held more proudly than the thrust of her breasts, an emerald green cape flowing from her shoulders.

Where had she been born? Where had she lived and loved? It was no surprise to him that he had never heard of the Lapilli. Some things he knew; some things he travelled to learn. Were there people who loved or disliked her still?

With a start, Rift realised that perhaps this was why he was here; to sit the watch was to ask the questions by which she would be judged. Surely not. She had said he was a witness, no more. But could that be why she had been scathing about his being a boy and not a lord; she had hoped for someone worthy enough to ask the right questions?

For an hour or more, he sat in perfect stillness, struggling with confusion and uncertainty, watching the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. Sunlight through the slitted windows moved across the floor and he imagined that the intricate black and white mosaic was actually a sundial. In fact, the sweep of light followed a dark curve within the design quite neatly. He guessed the time at midday.

The sound was so soft at first that Rift wasn’t sure he had heard it. But looking around the chamber, nothing had changed except the pattern of light on the floor. His gaze returned to Samanta, noted that her chest still moved slowly. It came again, and a third time. She was crying, a bright tear rolling down her cheek.

He did not dare move or speak. She had predicted her death within the hour with confidence, yet here she was, gone noon and still very much alive. The poison had not worked. A brief horror rose in him. Would she ask him to help her die? He would refuse. Leave immediately. If she wanted it so badly, she could throw herself from the mirador to the rocks below, or swim out into the lake and give herself to a basking maaladon. She would find release in the leviathan’s huge jaws quick enough.

The sobbing grew louder, tormented. It was the saddest sound he had ever heard; an old woman crying.

What’s wrong? he asked softly, then, despite himself, Can I help? The sobbing stopped. She was shivering even though the chamber was dense with sultry heat. You need something more than I can give, don’t you? he said.

She sat up, turned her back to him, her legs over the far side of the marble bed. Is it not obvious? It came out as a strangled cry. Isn’t is plain, even to a boy?

You want to die.

She whirled to face him, features contorted in a fury which he knew was not really aimed at him. Of course I don’t want to die, she said. "Who does? But I should be dead. By now I should be. In one week, I have expended a life of energy crafting this place, poured my heart, soul and essence into it. But it doesn’t want me. It doesn’t want me. It is flawed. It is barren and worthless, and it will not accept me."

I don’t understand.

How could you?

I would like to understand.

Why?

I am a journeyman. I was reborn today to learn, to live a new life.

About to snarl another reply, she froze, her face tightening, eyes widening. Reborn? she whispered. A journeyman?

He nodded simply.

Reborn? she said again shrinking away from him. Where do you live? she demanded, almost in trepidation.

He shrugged. I don’t know.

What…what is your mother’s name?

I don’t know.

Disgust and loathing twisted her mouth. She span on her backside and jumped down on the far side of the bed gripping the edge You are a Mastat? It was an accusation hurled at him.

Yes. Why is that bad?

Why? She laughed incredulously. You perform self-mutilation and ask why that is bad? You deliberately erase your mind of all memory, of all your ancestor’s memories… mutilate the most fundamental essence of your being - and ask why it disgusts me?

Is that what I have done? I can’t remember.

She could only stare, her hands on the stone trembling with palsy. After a moment she laughed, the sound rife with bubbling hysteria. It took her a minute to control it, and in that time, her eyes softened slightly. Of course, she said quietly. You can’t remember. How could you? The parody was evident but subdued. What do you know of yourself? What do you remember?

My name. That I am a Mastat, and I should travel and give help to any who may need it. That I should re-remember innocence.

Anything else?

He shrugged. Some names, of birds, beasts, trees and flowers. The names of some cities, towns, lands, lakes and oceans.

But nothing personal?

No.

Absolute absolution. You might have been a thief, cheat or liar.

No, he said. They don’t allow it. That is the only other truth I know. She turned her back on him to hide the play of emotions. Why is that so bad? he repeated.

She turned back to him with a heavy sigh. Because you did not know what you were destroying.

Then teach me.

Her lips twitched. No, she said.

Why not?

Because you need to be out in the world. To see, to touch, to feel and understand. Not caged in a tomb I cannot leave.

He cocked his head at that. It’s not that you can’t leave, is it? You just won’t be able to enter again. I asked earlier, if there was a way in, to which you replied, ‘only once’. Am I right?

Yes.

Then why is it so important that you die here today?

Not important - inevitable.

Are you a ghost, then?

She burst out laughing. A moment later, he joined her in it, without understanding her bitter mirth. He thought it might help. He held the cloak out for her to dress. The amusement died on her lips.

Is the death-watch over? he asked. I’m hungry.

Samanta closed her eyes for a moment, a long sigh whistling through her cracked lips. She shuffled across to him, flinching as he held the cloak up for her. But she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Hugging herself, as if the chill finger of death still toyed with her heart, she indicated the stairs and the route back out into a world she had never expected to see again.

Yes, she whispered, and closed her eyes against the pain of it. It is over.

~ Chapter 2 ~

He fed Samanta and they sat beneath the shade of a fat baobab tree, feet dangling in the water of the highest terrace. The dried, spicy beef brought some colour back to her cheeks and they washed it down with a plum concentrate he found at the bottom of his pack. Mixed with water from the lake, it made a tart, but refreshing cordial. He had tried water from the terrace pools, but found it too rich with minerals.

Where does it come from? he asked her, stirring the water with a lazy foot.

I found a spring. She gestured inland. It was easy to direct the flow up through the rock here instead. You did not like the taste? There is iron and calcium in it. But you should fill your bottle from here, rather than the lake before you go. It will fortify you better than normal water. There is power and healing in it as well.

He gave her a small smile. Before I go? Where to? He shrugged, not caring. I came up from the south, got food in a village three days walk away. I was following a river, but I don’t know if I could find it again.

And before that?

I’m not sure. Mastat, I suppose. It is hazy. He looked away to his right. What lies to the west?

Savannah. Grassland for several hundred miles. Mastat sits in the mountains on the far side. There are nomads who follow their cattle through the seasons across the plain. The grass is so tall you could easily pass a vast herd without noticing. And the tribes might avoid you anyway. But there is water and food enough if you can hunt.

He grinned. I certainly noticed a herd last night. He shifted in discomfort, suspecting there was a huge bruise on his left buttock. I could build a raft, sail across the lake. Is it far? Are the maaladons dangerous?

She followed his gaze out over the placid water. Anything two hundred feet long is dangerous, as you are dangerous to an ant. But they are not aggressive - just fearsome. One could sound beneath your raft, make splinters of it and not even notice. The far shore must be fifty miles at least. The northern is closer.

What will you do? he asked. Why not travel with me? Predators are less likely to harass two people.

She barked a laugh. Do you really want to journey with an embittered old woman? Feel the lash of my tongue on the trail every day? No, I think not. You don’t understand how hard it is for me to even sit here with you, take your food and drink. You are anathema to me, Rift. She sounded weary rather than bitter. What you have done to yourself sickens my spirit, and it is only that you have no memory of the act, have no understanding of why you did it, that I am able to tolerate your presence.

I was born to re-remember. Teach me.

No. I would poison you with disillusion.

He just looked at her, too innocent to be judgmental, too naive to be hurt for long. You don’t know how sad that sounds.

My life has been sadness, she breathed. And ends with a great work which is nothing but an empty husk, sterile and cold. To die in this task was a great honour; one that inspired envy in my friends. I did not want it, though having been chosen, there was no way to refuse. She laughed, the soft sound polluted by bitterness. I thought there was some great destiny waiting for me. She shook her head. Such arrogance.

Then perhaps I am here to teach you.

I had more teachers than I could ever need, she said, tearing her eyes away from her creation. But they have rejected their new home as unworthy and have gone... Why Rift? Do you know?

He did not hear the seed of suspicion in her tone. He cocked his head to the side, trying to fix on a sound. Low hills ringed the shore here and he could not see far.

What is it?

He pursed his lips, restless eyes still roaming. I thought I heard something. I don’t know... a horse?

She followed his gaze but there was nothing but the sigh of the breeze in the branches of the baobab tree above them, the gentle lap of the lake. Jeman.

He glanced at her. Yours?

I set her free to find her own way home, if she could. But that was a week ago. She should be far away. There was a saddle sitting at the base of the tree. He had not noticed it until now.

Rift stood and Samanta followed, though with a grunt of pain at the stiffness in her joints. She nodded, hearing it; a distant, nervous nickering. A moment later they both heard the horse neigh, an angry protest of exhausted fear.

She’s coming this way, he guessed. The thump of galloping hooves grew louder.

The horse appeared below them, skittering down the steps to the inlet. Blocked by the water ahead, she turned to the right, stumbling in her haste, speeding down the path that led only to the rocky outcrop at the mouth of the small bay.

Oh, Jeman, Samanta breathed, shocked at the condition of her mount. The horse’s flanks glistened with sweat, her mouth flecked with foam. Eyes wild and hunted, they grew wider still as she suddenly realised that there was no way out ahead. She halted, turning, stamping the ground, dipped a hoof in the water but shuddered at the touch and drew back.

What’s wrong with her? Rift asked, though even as he said it, he spotted her fear. Beside him, he felt Samanta stiffen and freeze.

The creature stood at the top of the steps, cloaked in stillness, radiating menace.

What is it? he breathed.

Don’t move a muscle, Samanta said. Keep still and it may not see us.

Rift forced himself not to nod, eyes locked on the eight-foot beast.

It is a parator, and it is deadly.

It was a thing of savage beauty. From the rounded snout to its whipping tail, the parator radiated compact power through its glossy, mottled hide. It stood upright on massive hind legs, the forelegs shorter but armed with three curved claws. Its mouth parted, a long tongue flicking through rows of small, razor teeth. The beady eyes studied the horse with chilling, intelligent dispassion. Thirty feet separated the two, but Rift guessed it could leap the distance to rip the horse’s throat out in a heartbeat.

Perhaps Samanta’s horse also believed the parator could not see her if she remained still, or perhaps she was just petrified. Jeman stared back as if by force of will she could make the creature hunt elsewhere for food. But she was trembling with the imperative to flee, and when the inevitable stasis broke, the parator would strike.

Rift bent, reaching with slow care to the sword which had spent many un-regarded miles strapped to his pack.

So this is what had been hunting him.

He couldn’t let the pretty mare die. She had saved his life last night in colliding with this parator he now realised.

Keep still, I said, Samanta snapped, her warning sibilant through compressed lips. Let it have the horse and we can slip away whilst it eats.

Rift hesitated. He could sense the guilt and betrayal beneath her heartlessness. He drew the sword from its sheath. No, he answered.

Do you want to die? Idiot. She glanced down at his hands. And what the hells is that?

My sword. If I can distract the parator, your horse might get away. Climb into the tree if you want.

No, she hissed, but he was already moving to the left, in moments opposite the horse on the far side of the inlet below. Out of the shade of the tree, the merciless sun pounded him. His grip on the embossed leather was slick with sweat.

The parator’s head swivelled to fix on him, its eyes narrowing as if sensing some threat, however small. It took a cautious step, claws clicking on the stairs, then another, moving with avian delicacy to the edge of the water. It hesitated, head swinging low, nostrils flaring. It could smell the horse, Rift guessed, but not him. Crouching he reached blindly and found two loose rocks near his feet. Without taking his eyes from the creature, he slid to the left, towards the base of the stone arc.

Movement, when it came, was a blinding blur of furious acceleration. The parator tore down the path towards Jeman. Rift yanked back his arm and launched the rock downward. It smacked straight into the parator’s snout, a lucky strike at such distance. The creature howled, scrambling on the smooth pathway, tossing its head. Instantly it swivelled. Its eyes flared, fixing on him. Without hesitation, it turned and shot back down the path, past the stairs. Muscles bunched in its massive legs as it exploded up and on to the first terrace, water erupting like fountains between its claws. It angled towards him and bounded up the second terrace. It hit the edge of the third with its stomach, and scrambling with its forelegs, hauling its mass up and over.

Rift stared, immobile, a sensation he had never known rippling through his muscles. Fear. Terror. The parator scrambled up towards him, only slowing when it mounted the last terrace.

Run. Samanta screamed.

Her shout pierced his trance. Blinking, he hefted the second rock and launched it at Jeman to make her flee. He did not wait to see if she did.

Rift turned and jumped up onto the arc, spinning, slashing in blind panic with the sword. The bright steel glinted in the sunlight, passing an inch in front of the parator’s snarling jaws. It shied away, growling, dodged inside his thrust, lightening fast, snapping up at his face. He hopped backwards, coughing in the cloud of its carrion breath. He kicked out, connected with its flaring snout and yanked back his foot a moment before the jaws could clash together on his boot. With the creature over-reaching, he tried to bring the blade round and down. But the hilt felt awkward in his hand, the weight of the blade cumbersome and unfamiliar. He had to scuttle back, up and away.

Rift realised his mistake. The parator jumped up into the space he had relinquished. He no longer had such an advantage of height. It advanced, cautious on the narrow span, crouching low, watching him with cool intent, claws clattering on the stone. He tried several experimental thrusts with the blade, which the parator evaded with ease. The creature sensed his awkwardness and continued to advance, waiting the right moment to make the final strike.

The extent of his peril hit Rift hard. If he turned and ran away across the arc, the creature would be on him in a moment. If he tried to fight, its victory was assured. He was not strong enough to bundle it over the edge, and it was too intelligent to give him the chance. He was trapped. He glanced down. The surface of the lake fifty feet below looked deceptively soft. He thought he could see jagged rocks beneath the surface. The parator saw his momentary distraction and tensed to leap.

Without choices, Rift ran at it, whipping the blade back and forth in artless zeal, but with enough fury to make it hesitate.

He saw the tip slice across the parator’s snout, saw it flinch in pain. He swung back again and scored a glancing blow on its crown. Bright blood smeared its face. It had been toying with him so far, but now it was angry.

Rift leapt backwards as the parator surged forward again, clawing the air before his face, snapping at his arm. Its teeth caught his sleeve and it tore, the material ripping away to hang like a strip of sinew from its jaws. Twice more he darted in and slashed, panting now with exertion, arm trembling with effort. He could not get close enough to deliver a killing thrust. He was only making it mad. He caught a glimpse of Samanta down below at the base of the arc, her hand to her mouth as she watched the combat, helpless in her age and infirmity.

It was all or nothing. Rift ran at the creature, howling his fear, holding his sword above his head like a dagger. Summoning the last of his remaining strength, he thrust downward. The tip entered the parator’s jowls, passed through the skin into its throat. It echoed his howl, but in pain and surprised agony. The hilt tore from his grasp and he fell onto his back. The parator’s blunt head thrashed in the air above him, the sword whistling through the air, still embedded in its flesh. Sour breath washed over him, saliva and blood splattering his face. With a low growl, the parator snapped its head back. The rapier flew out and up. Rift heard it clatter to the ground a long way distant.

Time slowed. He could not watch his own death approach. He looked down at Samanta, silent apologies on his lips. The horror in her face turned to anger and a curious resignation. She hobbled forward, dropped to her knees and reached for the base of the arc.

The rock beneath her fingers blurred, the air shimmering with intense heat. Rippling waves of catabolism flowed outward and up, the stone melting, white hot, bulging towards the parator’s thrashing tail. The tail whipped down to knock her away, and plunged straight into the semi-liquid rock. Samanta yanked her arms back and for a moment the transformation reversed, the stone sizzling, solidifying, and clamping the parator’s tail. It howled, thrashing at the sudden weight, turning its head, bewildered and wild with pain. Rift seized the moment, scrambling backwards, higher up the arc.

Jump, she shouted. "It will not hold for long. Jump, boy,