Twin slits of blazing white light appeared before him. He squinted as they illuminated the cavern. Notch gasped. The brightness came from a pair of eyes, glowing orbs large enough to drown within, like great pools.

  Welcome, Notch.

  Light grew and he fell back. A gigantic cocoon hung from the roof, all but lost in shadow above. The two eyes glowed in an insect face at the bottom of the glistening cocoon. Web-like strands stretched from the enormous body to the rear wall, giant grey ropes. Spiders scattered at the light, running across the surface of the body.

  Furred antennae brushed the floor, moving in tiny circles, as if constantly tasting the stone. Above the eyes, the mouth alone could have swallowed him like a morsel of food – as if he were the insect. The butterfly was tall as the hilltop itself, which had to have been mostly hollow to protect its inhabitant. The edges of the cavern stretched beyond the edges of the light – which all came from the eyes themselves.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  We have already met, Notch. I am the Oyn-Dir. You see my true form.

  “But...” He couldn’t finish. If that were true, who or what was the man in yellow on the dais? But if the Oyn-Dir was a butterfly it explained how Nia could transform. How many children did he have? How old was he? What exactly was he?

  During our meal you conversed with something of an echo; the man I once was. While I have many children, not all are as special as Nia. A new sadness echoed in his voice. You bear grim news, do you not?

  He lifted Nia. “Yes, My Lord. We killed Efran but Nia sacrificed herself to protect us. Can you save her?”

  I do not know. The eyes closed. Leave her here when you go. I will try.

  Notch lowered her back to the ground. “I’m sorry.”

  No, you are not to blame, Notch. You may have saved her.

  “I pray that it is so.” Yet his heart remained heavy – if the Oyn-Dir was doubtful, there did not seem to be much hope. With Nia, he’d almost let himself feel something he hadn’t thought to feel again...

  I have sent for someone to guide you to a nearby seal. It will take you to the edge of the Wiraced. There you must make your way back to the city of Anaskar, for it faces a threat that may spread across the whole world. Greater than that posed by Efran’s poisonous dabbling.

  Did he mean the invasion? “But what of Sofia and her father? What of your own people; is the Grove safe?”

  The Oyn-Dir’s eyes opened again. For now. Catrin and Mor turn their attention toward Anaskar and vengeance but much is unsettled now the Sea God is dead; something ancient stirs. And yet beyond that even, I fear the true threat has appeared from a vast distance.

  True threat? Gods, could things get worse? “Can you see the threat?”

  Bones.

  “Bones?”

  They cover Anaskar, young, alive – not unlike Sofia’s Argeon. Such numbers; it is a veritable swarm.

  “Gods, how can we face that?” Notch cried. And what did he mean, ‘young’?

  The future is hidden from me, Notch.

  “That’s not very helpful, My Lord.”

  Was there a sense of a smile in the Oyn-Dir’s voice now? Of course, but I will offer all the help I can. This is my world too, and though my centuries are few compared to the Old Ones, there are secrets I have learnt.

  “Knowledge about the Greatmasks?”

  Of the earth. Its shape and its songs. Something is amiss on Celnos’ Peak, though I know not what it may be – save that it is connected to the bones that have caused so much upheaval.

  “I see.” Notch glanced away from the Oyn-Dir. Home. To reach the Peak, he’d have to pass through – or at least near – his village. He’d have to bear the usual bitterness from Father and the silence from Mother. Neither worse than the other and both the very things he’d vowed to leave behind.

  If they lived still. Winters on Celnos were harsh on the old and he’d not been home in years.

  “And what of Sofia?” he asked. “Do you know how she fares?”

  Well. She and her father, along with the Captain and Efran’s former prisoners, now travel the Aforna River. They are safe for the time being.

  “Good.” Tension melted from his shoulders, until he saw Nia. “How will you restore her?”

  Leave that to us, Notch. The eyes began to close. Your guide has arrived. He is waiting.

  “Thank you.”

  Notch started toward the entrance while the glow remained, heading for a bright light at the end of the passage.

  And do not fear the Silverine – the children and I have them well in hand.

  Whose children? Yet if he asked, he felt he wouldn’t receive an answer that made a lot of sense. “It is a relief to hear it, Oyn-Dir.”

  I am pleased. A pause. On your journey, seek buried bones, Notch.

  He stopped. “Buried bones?”

  Just an intuition.

  “I will try.”

  Notch blinked as he exited the cave into a misty rain. When his vision cleared, a Braonn dressed in forest greens stood before him.

  “Gelehn.”

  Chapter 7.

  Vinezi paced before his prisoners. Dim light cast deep shadows across their weary faces where they waited in one of the rooms adjacent the Regeneration Pool. The single torch burned low, flickering yellow – it would need replacing soon. How scarce were such tediously necessary supplies now?

  Vexing that his recruits were all dead. It would have been the perfect task for them.

  Yet the prisoners were a fine compensation.

  And how wonderful it had been, for Tarvilus to chance upon them – caught in the web he had strung in the mountain pass. Vinezi was still to reset such a trap, but Julas’ regeneration took priority.

  Dull eyes watched him pace and a low hum sneaked beneath the clap of his footfalls. The eyes belonged to Alosus; the Gigansi was weak from hunger. Vinezi gave him enough to keep him alive, but the chains bolted around both hands and ankles were the heaviest he could find in the entirety of the First Temple.

  Of course, the leverage of Alosus’ child was still in place, yet it never hurt to have extra insurance. Especially after the misguided escape attempt. Which brought Vinezi to the next prisoner. He paused. Tarvilus had recently replaced one Storm Singer with the other – strapping the still-bruised man into an ancient chair of rusting iron.

  Abrensi was the man. He, like the woman, had lost weight too but his voice remained as rich as ever. He hummed an old chant, something Vinezi had been forced to teach him. As with Anaskar’s pitiful Mascare, much lore had been lost among these new-land Storm Singers.

  But the hum served its purpose.

  The chant formed a shield over the temple – preventing Marinus from finding them. And search his older brother did. Each day, many times per day, someone in the city set about scrying the mountains.

  Yet all they found were illusions, the command in the chant caused them to see what Vinezi wanted. And what he wanted was constant chanting to be utterly sure. For his situation was precarious. Admittedly, while threats to one Storm Singer kept the other cooperative, that in and of itself was not enough.

  With no force to speak of and no desire to risk recruiting in the city below, his plans had to be carried out now by two – at least until Julas was regenerated. Again, Tarvilus had already worked tirelessly to return Vinezi to life, strength and mind.

  It had taken longer, working from a knuckle bone only.

  Yet this time, a memory of Flir’s look of shock as she killed him remained. As if burnt into his skull. And this time, there was not enough flesh left for two. Julas had to wait for more raw materials before the regeneration could be completed.

  Vinezi drifted from the Storm Singer and his soothing hum.

  A second chamber held the woman. Vinezi leant against the doorway, cold stone beneath his shoulder. Lavinia. A striking creature with fiery red hair – only it was lacklustre in the dim room. She lay on the cot, sipping from water in a cup, her hands bound and her leg chained to the wall.

  “You performed well during your shift,” he said.

  She did not respond, only drinking again. Her throat was no doubt strained – and why wouldn’t it be, after days upon days of humming.

  “For now, Abrensi and Alosus will remain alive.”

  “To what end?” she whispered.

  “That you know.” He raised an eyebrow. “You are more talkative, this time.”

  Lavinia sat against the wall and closed her eyes. Deep shadows ringed her eyes, she did not answer at first and he nearly turned away. “What do you want, Vinezi? The city? Godhood?”

  “Perhaps, after a time. But now, what I want is simple. I want to carve a novatura and mask so powerful that I might one day return home and crush my father like the bug he has always been. Is that too much for a son to desire?”

  “To kill so many for such a goal...” She did not appear to have the strength for her disgust, despite the way her expression twisted, for she did not open her eyes or even turn her head.

  “To kill is the way of nature – all know that, my dear.”

  “It is not my nature.”

  He chuckled. “And that is exactly why you have been captured. Now, we must move on from such naïve concerns. You have a new chant to learn.”

  “Its purpose?”

  “My brother is not going to be content to seek from afar forever. Once he has finished with his subjugation of the city, he will turn his attention to a physical search. You will be part of the force that repels him. I will teach you what I know of the Chant of War, the rest you will no doubt recall. It is somewhere in your bones, the memory of its structure.”

  “I will not sing for violence.”

  “Then you will sing the Griever’s Song,” he said, and executed a short bow before leaving. He passed Abrensi with his humming and the listless Alosus, then strode across the floor of the Regeneration Chamber and climbed the stairs leading up to the temple’s watch-tower.

  Now the staircase was a chore rather than an agonising journey but necessary for his recovery. Even so, he was breathing hard at the top, where Tarvilus leant on the sill – looking across the mountain. He did not turn. “I should return to the city below and recruit more men.”

  “It is too dangerous,” Vinezi said. “Saving Julas was a miracle all by itself. Ana would not grant you another.”

  “Fine. One of us needs to go to the village again; it might as well be me.”

  Vinezi joined his brother. Below, a broad path of paved stone led to the temple entry, lit by a watery noon sun where it fell down between the surrounding peaks. None from the village had any notion from whence the attacks that terrified them came – nor would they ever know. Only Mascare could open the passages. “I will go. My body needs the exercise.”

  His brother turned, his own face a mirror of their prisoner’s weariness. “And your memories?”

  “Mostly intact – up to a point.” There were whole chunks of his recent history that simply did not exist, including hours leading up to the fight with Flir or carving the ruined novatura, but it did not matter. He knew enough and he had since carved another gauntlet. “It’s nothing of concern. Whatever memories are due to return can do so after we restore Julas and lure Marinus into the temple to finish him.”

  “Or he finishes us,” Tarvilus responded.

  Vinezi placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “No. We have an unexpected boon; we will make a fitting end of him now.”

  He nodded. “You should do some hunting while you are out. We are running low on food once more.”

  Vinezi hissed. “Always a struggle.”

  “I will prepare the Pool,” his brother replied. “It is as I feared, you know.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “No more regeneration after Julas – near to the last of the blood will be used. Whatever remains after will not be enough for another full regeneration.”

  “I understood you,” Vinezi snapped.

  Tarvilus held his gaze. “I only want for you to be safe. Consider the risks from now on.”

  “Sound advice but unneeded. I know the risks – I have felt the cold clutch of death twice now, Tarvilus. I know.”

  His brother glanced back out the window. “I will be waiting.”

  Chapter 8.

  Flir squeezed between charred columns of stone, heading away from the Harper. A warm sun beat down on the black tiles of surviving buildings – rather mild for winter, but she kept her grey hood raised. Two days of searching for Luik, of gathering survivors and plotting beneath the Harper, had already passed and during that time she’d not found a way into the palace and the invaders – or the Ecsoli as they called themselves – had for the most part, let the Tiers get back to day to day living.

  Somehow, the inn had survived the attack.

  More surprising, was that it was still operating almost without interruption.

  At a cost of course.

  The last of the bone was now aboard the Ecsoli ships but not all the ships were in a hurry to leave. Instead, many of the blue-cloaks remained in the city. Wherever a Greatmask went, food, wine, and services, their every whim was to be catered for. At once too, lest someone find themselves screaming in the street with a broken arm or leg. Otherwise, the conquerors both permitted and expected the citizens of Anaskar to return to work.

  She slowed near a grimcart standing at the mouth of a dark alley.

  Renovar and Shield, Vigil and civilians were piled high. With all the armour and dead weight, it’d take a sturdy pair of mules to tow it. She held her breath and examined the bodies she could see, waving at the cloud of flies.

  A voice shouted.

  Striding up the street were a pair of the Gigansi – or mules, it seemed – if the grimcart was what they’d been tasked with. They waved their arms and she slipped down the alley and crossed to a busy street, where people walked with worried faces. None of the bodies in the cart had been Luik – none that she could see anyway.

  She’d tried all the familiar spots on the Second Tier, even the makeshift graveyards, and now it was time to try the Lower Tier. Kanis and the rest she’d left back at the Harper. He’d be able to protect them but only if he held his temper and kept out of sight. She’d have to let him out soon, let him feel useful.

  But not just yet. Guard duty was the least of what he deserved. She thumped a nearby wall and it creaked. Beside her, an old man jumped, dropping a loaf of bread.

  She picked it up and handed it back. “Sorry.”

  He started to thank her but paused. “Your hand.”

  “Yes?”

  “Your skin is pale.”

  “I know.”

  He waved her out of the flow of traffic and into a doorway. “If they see you, they’ll kill you.”

  “The Ecsoli?”

  “Yes. They’ve started rounding up foreigners and driving them from the city. They’re killing whoever resists.”

  Flir sucked in a breath. “Where?”

  “At the Gate.”

  She ran, feet pounding on cobblestones as she slipped through the people, ignoring the shouts that followed when she jostled them. Most were probably thrown to the ground – she didn’t check.

  But she thundered to a halt within sight of the rubble-strewn gates. Amid still-smouldering heaps of stone and charred wood, shattered wagon wheels and crowds of muttering people, stood a small group of Ecsoli.

  They barked orders at a line of Broann servants in palace livery and labourers still wearing singed clothing, and even a few Renovar sailors too. They laughed as they stood around, blue cloaks open. The white bone of their Greatsuits was bright. Flir stepped onto a slab of stone to peer above the crowd.

  The line stretched out onto the plains, dust from the south road stirred by many feet. Beyond the exiles lay a week of sparse plains and eventually the Bloodwood. Without supplies or shelter, it would be a hard trek for them.

  Flir narrowed her eyes at new movement by the gate. The Ecsoli were pointing and cheering as one lifted a slab of rock by gesturing with his bone-gauntleted hand. The rock rose, dust trickling from the sides, then it hurtled through the air, as if thrown by catapult. Only the catapult was the Ecsoli.

  The stone sailed through the sky then crashed down into the unsuspecting Braonn.

  Screams rose and the line scattered.

  Flir growled and the crowd gasped, emitting cries of horror.

  Another Ecsoli joined in, lifting a second stone and flinging it onto the plain. Two men simply disappeared, flattened beneath it. More screams rose from beyond the walls. The Gigansi guardians remained still, faces expressionless. Flir circled the crowd, fists clenched.

  They weren’t the only ones who could throw stones.

  Keeping out of sight was easy enough. The Ecsoli were engrossed in their sickening game and their guardians were keeping an eye on the front lines of the dissolving crowd – yet the line of Braonn appeared held in place. They probably were.

  She bent by a tumbled tavern and took up a slab of stone that reached her shoulder. Hefting it, she whispered to those standing at the back of what remained of the crowd.

  One turned. His mouth fell open.

  “Make room on my command,” she said. “Tell the people in front of you. Quietly,” she added.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Crush them with this.”

  He tapped a trembling hand on the man’s shoulder in front of him then murmured a moment. The fellow shook his head, then turned. His eyes widened. Word spread; she heard her Anaskari name ‘The Pale Girl’ several times, and marked when her instructions reached the front of the crowd.

  Faint screams continued to rise from the road beyond the walls and another cheer followed.

  She raised the slab over her head. “Now,” she shouted.

  The crowd parted and she stepped forward, hurling the slab. It flashed across the open space before the Ecsoli. At her shout, one of the blue-cloaks started to turn but it was too late. The slab tore him from his feet, shattering his breastplate of bone and, she hoped, his rib cage.

  Cheers rose.

 

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