Sapphique Page 15
Anxious, she urged her horse on. As they emerged from the forest and clattered under the barbican, the acrid smell grew. Smoke filled the inner courtyards of the Palace and as they galloped in, the wind was crackling. A frenzied army of ostlers and grooms and servants were running, dragging out horses and squawking hawks, hauling pumps, buckets of water.
“Where is it?” Claudia swung down.
But she could already see where it was. The whole ground floor of the East Wing was ablaze, furniture and hangings being tossed out of windows, the great bell ringing, flocks of disturbed doves flapping in the hot air.
Someone came up beside her and Caspar’s voice said, “Such a pity, Claudia. After all dear Jared’s hard work.”
The cellars. The Portal. She gasped and raced after Finn. He was already at one of the doorways, black smoke billowing out into his face, flames flickering deep in the building. She grabbed him and he shook her away. Then she grabbed him again and hauled him back and he turned, his face white with shock. “Keiro! It’s our only way to him!”
“It’s finished,” she said. “Don’t you see? The ambush was to keep us away. They’ve done this.”
Following her gaze, he looked behind.
Queen Sia stood on the balcony, a white lace handkerchief to her face. Behind her, calm and unconcerned, his eyes on the collapsing crash of stone and flame, was the Pretender.
“They’ve sealed the Portal,” Claudia said bleakly. “And it’s not only Keiro. They’ve trapped my father Inside.”
16
A great Fimbulwinter will close down on the world.
Darkness and cold will spread from Wing to Wing.
There will come one called the Unsapient, from far away, from Outside.
He will plot and scheme with Incarceron.
They will make the Winged Man.
—Sapphique’s Prophecy of the World’s End
Attia, holding tight to Keiro on the horse, stared past his shoulder.
They had finally reached what seemed the end of the spiny jungle, because the road led out and downhill. The horse stood wearily, snorting frosty breath.
Framing the road was a black archway. It bristled with spikes, and on its top perched a long-necked bird.
Keiro frowned. “I hate this. Incarceron is leading us by the nose.”
She said, “Maybe it’ll lead us to some food then. We’ve eaten nearly everything.”
Keiro kicked the horse on.
As they neared it, the black arch seemed to grow, its massive shadow stretching out toward them until they entered its darkness. Here the road glittered with frost; the horse’s hooves rang with metallic clarity on the iron paving. Attia stared up. The bird on the summit was enormous, dark wings spread wide, and just as she rode under it she realized it was a statue, and not of a bird but a man with great wings, as if he was ready to leap, and fly.
“Sapphique,” she whispered.
“What?”
“The statue … It’s Sapphique.”
Keiro snorted. “What a surprise.” His voice doubled, echoing. They were well under the vault; it smelled of urine and damp, and green slime ran down its walls. She was so stiff she wanted to stop, to climb down and walk, but Keiro was in no mood to linger. Since they had spoken to Finn he had been silent and moody, his answers viciously sharp.
Or he had ignored her altogether.
But then she hadn’t wanted to talk much either. Hearing Finn’s voice had been a sudden joy, but almost at once it had soured, because he had sounded so different, so full of anxiety.
I haven’t abandoned you. I think about you all the time.
Was that true? Was his new life really not the paradise he’d expected?
In the darkness of the vault she said angrily, “You should have let me tell them about the Glove. The Sapient knew there was something. It might have helped …”
“The Glove is mine. Don’t forget it.”
“Ours.”
“Don’t push me too far, Attia.” He was silent a moment, then muttered, “Find the Warden, Jared said. Well, that’s just what we’re doing. If Finn’s failed us, we have to look out for ourselves.”
“So it wasn’t that you were scared to tell them,” she said acidly.
His shoulders tightened. “No. It wasn’t. The Glove is none of Finn’s business.”
“I thought oathbrothers shared everything.”
“Finn has freedom. He isn’t sharing that.”
Suddenly they rode out from the archway, and the horse stopped, as if in astonishment.
In this Wing the light was a dull red. Below them was a hall larger than any Attia had ever seen, its distant floor crisscrossed by transitways and tracks. They were high in its roof, and from their feet a great curving viaduct carried the road across, so that Attia could see its arches and tapering columns disappearing into the mirk. Fires burned like tiny Eyes on the floor of the hall.
“I’m stiff.”
“Get down then.”
She slid from the horse and the road felt unsteady under her feet. She crossed to the rusty railing and looked over.
There were people down there, thousands of them. Great migrations of people, pushing trucks and wagons, carrying children. She saw flocks of sheep, a few goats, some precious cattle, the herders’ armor gleaming in the coppery light.
“Look at this. Where are they all going?”
“The opposite way to us.” Keiro didn’t dismount. He sat tall, gazing down. “People are always moving in the Prison. They always think there’s somewhere better. The next Wing, the next level. They’re fools.”
He was right. Unlike the Realm, Incarceron was always in a state of change; Wings were reabsorbed, doors and gates sealed themselves, steel bars sprang up in tunnels. But she wondered what cataclysm had caused such numbers to travel, what force drove them on. Was this the result of the dying light? The growing cold?
“Come on,” Keiro said. “We have to cross this thing, so let’s get on with it.”
She didn’t like the idea. The viaduct was barely wide enough for a wagon. It had no parapets, just a surface potholed with rust and a gulf of air on each side. It was so high faint wisps of cloud hung unmoving across it.
“We should lead the horse. If it panics …”
Keiro shrugged and dismounted. “Fine. I’ll lead, you come behind. Stay alert.”
“No one’s going to attack us up here!”
“That remark shows why you were a dog-slave and I was … almost … Winglord. This is a track, right?”
“Yes …”
“Then someone owns it. Someone always does. If we’re lucky there’ll be a toll to pay at the far end.”
“And if we’re unlucky?”
He laughed, as if the danger had cheered him. “We make a quick descent. Though maybe not, because the Prison’s on our side now. It has reasons to keep us safe.”
Attia watched him lead the horse onto the viaduct before she said quietly, “Incarceron wants the Glove. I don’t suppose it cares who brings it.”
He heard her, she was sure. But he didn’t look back.
Crossing the rusting structure was precarious. The horse was nervous; it whickered and once sidestepped, and Keiro soothed it continuously in a low irritated mutter, swear words merging seamlessly with comfort. Attia tried not to look to either side. There was a strong wind that nudged slyly against her; she braced her body, aware that with one gust Incarceron could topple her over the edge. There was nothing to hold on to. She paced in terror, foot before foot.
The surface was corroded. Debris lay on it, scraps of metal, abandoned filth, snags of cloth caught from the wind and fluttering like ragged flags. Her feet crunched the frail bones of a bird.
She concentrated on walking, barely lifting her head. Gradually she became aware of empty space, a giddiness of air. Small dark tendrils began to sprawl across the track.
“What’s that?”
“Ivy.” Keiro’s mutter was tight with tension. “Grow
ing up from below.”
How could it grow this far? She glanced briefly to the right and giddiness swept her like sweat. Tiny people moved beneath, the sound of wheels and voices faint on the wind. Her coat flapped against her.
The ivy thickened. It became a treacherous tangle of glossy leaves. In places it was impassable; Keiro had to coax the terrified horse along the very edge of the viaduct, its hooves clanging on metal. His voice was a low mutter.
“Come on, you scrawny nag. Come on, you useless beggar.”
Then he stopped.
His voice was snatched by the wind. “There’s a big hole here. Be careful.”
When she came to it she saw its charred edge first, crumbling with rust. Wind howled up through it. Below, iron girders corroded, old bird’s-nests in their joists. A heavy chain looped into emptiness.
Soon there were other holes. The track became a yielding nightmare, creaking ominously wherever the horse trod. After a few minutes, she realized Keiro had stopped.
“Is it blocked?”
“As good as.” His voice was tight, oddly breathless. His breath frosted as he looked back at her. “We should go back. We’ll never cross this.”
“We’ve come too far!”
“The horse is on the edge of panic.”
Was he scared? His voice was low, his face set. For a moment she sensed weakness, but then his hissed anger reassured her. “Back up, Attia!”
She turned.
And saw the impossible.
Masked figures were swarming up over the sides of the viaduct, through holes, up chains and bines of ivy. The horse gave a whinny of fear and reared. Keiro dropped the reins and leaped back.
She knew it was over. The horse plunged in terror; it would fall, and far below, the starving people would butcher its body.
Then one of the masked people grabbed it, flung a cloak over its eyes, and expertly led it away into the dark.
There were about ten of them. They were small and slim, and wore feathered helms, all black, except for a jagged lightning flash across the right eye. They held Keiro in a ring of aimed firelocks. But none of them came near Attia.
She stood, poised, the knife ready.
Keiro drew himself up, his blue eyes fierce. His hand dropped to his sword.
“Don’t touch that.” The tallest raider took the weapon, then turned to Attia. “Is he your slave?”
The voice was a girl’s. The eyes in the mask were mismatched—one alive and gray, the other with a pupil of gold, an unseeing stone.
At once Attia said, “Yes. Don’t kill him. He belongs to me.”
Keiro snorted but didn’t move. She hoped he’d have the sense to stay silent.
The masked girls—for Attia was sure they were all girls—glanced at one another. Then the leader made a sign. The firelocks were lowered.
Keiro looked at Attia. She knew what that look meant.
The Glove was in the inner pocket of his coat, and they’d find it if they searched him.
He folded his arms and grinned. “Surrounded by women. Things are looking up.”
Attia glared. “Shut up. Slave.”
The golden-eyed girl circled him. “He doesn’t have the bearing of a slave. He is arrogant, and a man, and he thinks himself stronger than us.” She gave a curt nod. “Throw him over.”
“No!” Attia stepped forward. “No. He belongs to me. Believe me, I’ll fight anyone who tries to kill him.”
The masked girl stared at Keiro. Her golden eye glittered and Attia realized that it was not blind, that she saw through it in some way. A halfwoman.
“Search him then for weapons.”
Two of the girls searched him; he pretended to enjoy it, but when they took the Glove from his pocket Attia knew it took all his self-control not to lash out.
“What is this?” The leader held up the Glove. It lay in her hands, the dragonskin iridescent in the gloom, the claws split and heavy.
“That’s mine,” Keiro and Attia said together.
“Ah.”
“I carry it for her,” Keiro said. He smiled his most charming smile. “I am the Slave of the Glove.”
The girl gazed at the dragonclaws with her mismatched eyes. Then she looked up. “Both of you will come with us. In all my years taking toll on the Skywalk I’ve never seen an object of such power. It ripples in purple and gold. It sings in amber.”
Attia moved forward cautiously. “You can see that?”
“I hear it with my eyes.” She turned away. Attia flicked a fierce glance at Keiro. He had to shut up and play along.
Two of the masked girls pushed him. “Walk,” one said.
The leader fell in beside Attia. “Your name?”
“Attia. You?”
“Rho Cygni. We give up our birth names.”
At the large hole in the floor the girls were sliding expertly through.
“Down there?” Attia tried not to let the fear into her voice, but she sensed Rho’s smile behind the mask.
“It doesn’t lead to the ground. Go on. You’ll see.”
Attia sat, her legs dangling over the edge. Someone caught her feet and steadied her; she slithered through and grabbed the rusty chain. There was a rickety walkway built close under the viaduct, half hidden by ivy. It was as dark as a tunnel and it creaked underfoot, but at its end it divided into a maze of smaller passageways and rope stairs, hanging rooms and cages.
Rho walked behind her, noiseless as a shadow. At the end she guided Attia to the right into a chamber that moved slightly as if beneath it was nothing but sky. Attia swallowed. The walls were of interwoven wattle and the floor was hidden in a deep coating of feathers. But it was the ceiling that made her stare. It was painted a deep, amazing blue and gleaming in it were patterns of golden stones, like the one in Rho’s eye.
“The stars!”
“As Sapphique wrote of them.” The girl stood beside her and looked up. “Outside they sing as they cross the sky. The Bull, and the Hunter, and the Chained Princess. And the Swan, of whose Constellation we are.” She pulled off her feathered helm and her hair was dark and short, her face pale. “Welcome to the Swan’s Nest, Attia.”
It was stiflingly warm, and lit by tiny lamps. She saw the shadowy figures remove armor and masks and become girls and women of all ages, some stout, some young and lithe. The smell of food rose from cooking pots. Deep divans filled with downy feathers littered the room.
Rho pushed her toward one. “Sit down. You look exhausted.”
Anxious, she said, “Where’s … my servant?”
“Caged. He won’t starve. But this place is not for men.”
Attia sat. She was suddenly unbearably weary, but she had to stay alert. The thought of Keiro’s certain fury cheered her.
“Please eat. We have plenty.”
A bowl of hot soup was put in front of her. She sipped at it hurriedly while Rho sat, elbows on knees, watching.
“You were hungry,” she said after a while.
“We’ve been traveling for days.”
“Well, your journey’s over now. You’re safe here.”
Attia savored the thin soup, wondering what she meant. These people seemed friendly, but she must be on her guard. They had Keiro, and they had the Glove.
“We’ve been expecting you,” Rho said quietly.
She almost choked. “Me?”
“Someone like you. Something like this.” Rho drew the Glove from her coat, laid it reverently in her lap. “Strange things are happening, Attia. Wonderful things. You saw the tribes migrating. For weeks we’ve watched them down there, always searching, for food, for warmth, always fleeing from the commotion at the Prison’s heart.”
“What commotion is that, Rho?”
“I’ve heard it.” The girl’s strange gaze turned to Attia. “We all have. Late at night, deep in dreams. Suspended between ceiling and floor, we’ve felt its vibrations, in the chains and walls, in our bodies. The beating of Incarceron’s heart. It grows stronger, daily. We’re i
ts providers, and we know.”
Attia put down the spoon and tore off some black bread. “The Prison is shutting down. Is that it?”
“Concentrating. Focusing. Whole Wings are dark and silent. The Fimbulwinter has begun, and that was prophesied. And still the Unsapient sends out his demands.”
“Unsapient?”
“So we call him. They say the Prison summoned him from Outside … From his chamber in the Prison’s heart he is creating something terrible. They say he is making a man, out of rags and dreams and flowers and metal. A man who’ll lead us all to the stars. It will happen soon, Attia.”
Gazing at the girl’s lit face Attia felt only weariness. She pushed the plate aside and said sadly, “What about you? Tell me about you.”
Rho smiled. “I think that can wait till tomorrow. You need to sleep.” She dragged a thick cover over to Attia. It was soft and warm and irresistible. Attia snuggled into it.
“You won’t lose the Glove,” she said sleepily.
“No. Sleep well. You’re with us now, Attia Cygni.”
She closed her eyes. From somewhere far off she heard Rho say, “Was the slave given food?”
“Yes. But he spent most of the time trying to seduce me,” a girl’s voice laughed.
Attia rolled over and grinned.
Hours later, deep in sleep, between breaths, in her teeth and eyelashes and nerves, she felt the heartbeat. Her heartbeat. Keiro’s. Finn’s. The Prison’s.
17
The world is a chessboard, madam, on which we play out our ploys and follies. You are the Queen, of course. Your moves are the strongest. For myself, I claim only to be a knight, advancing in a crooked progress. Do we move ourselves, do you think, or does a great gloved hand place us on our squares?
—Private Letter;
The Warden of Incarceron to Queen Sia
“Were you responsible?” Claudia stepped out of the shadow of the hedge and enjoyed the way Medlicote spun around, alarmed.
He bowed, the half-moons of his glasses flashing in the morning sunlight. “For the storm, my lady? Or the fire?”
“Don’t be flippant.” She let herself sound imperious. “We were attacked in the forest—Prince Giles and myself. Was it your doing?”