'And?'
'The Mzithrin drove the Shaggat's followers back to Gurishal,' said Pazel, 'and Arqual took the Shaggat prisoner, in secret.'
'Yes, yes, and?'
'The Red Wolf,' said Pazel. 'The Red Wolf fell into the sea.'
'With the Nilstone inside it,' said Oggosk. 'Precisely. The Shaggat Ness, with Arunis goading him on, squandered the last of his military strength on a suicidal raid on Babqri City. He took the Wolf from the Citadel of Hing, though the Mzithrinis blasted most of his ships to matchwood as he did so. But the Shaggat escaped with the Wolf, and made it as far as the Haunted Coast before we sank his ship. And from that day the Nilstone itself began to wake.
'The Citadel, you see, was a containment vessel for the Stone — a protection against its evil, like the Red Wolf itself. Half our protection, then, was stripped away forty years ago when the Shaggat raided the Citadel. The rest melted away with the Wolf.'
'So the Nilstone is behind all these wakings!' said Neeps.
'The Nilstone's power, yes,' said Oggosk, 'but the spell was cast by a living person.'
Her lips formed a tight line, and she studied them as though reluctant to share anything more. But after a moment she continued: 'Beyond this world and its heavens, in the Court of Rin if you like, there is a debate about the worth of consciousness. What good is intelligence? What's it for? Shouldn't Alifros be better off without it? And if not, which creatures should possess the sort of minds we call woken? It is an ancient debate, and a hard one, even for eternal beings. It is not settled yet.
'But centuries ago, an upstart mage decided to take matters into her own hands. Every other wizard and seer in Alifros opposed her — but she held the Nilstone, and did not listen. Ramachni may have told you about this mage; I am certain he told Thasha. Her name was Erithusme.'
'He told us,' said Pazel. 'He said she was the greatest mage since the Worldstorm.'
'Undeniably,' said Oggosk. 'She healed many a country devastated by the Storm, and drove the Nelluroq Vortex away from land, and put the demon lords in chains. But Erithusme laboured under a curse, for her power had been sparked by the Nilstone. She was the first being capable of using it in twelve hundred years, and no one has succeeded since. Courage made it possible: Erithusme was born with an almost total lack of fear, and as you know it is through fear that the Nilstone kills. Without the Stone, her magical powers would have been unremarkable. With it, she changed the course of the world — and not for the better, mind.'
'Are you saying she was evil?' Pazel asked.
'I am merely saying that she relied on the Stone,' said Oggosk, 'and the stone is evil perfected: a coagulate lump of infernal malice, spat into Alifros from the world of the dead. She never let it master her, as the Fell Princes did of old. She was that strong. But no mage is strong enough to stop the side effects of using the Stone. Every miracle she worked came with a cost. She chained the demon lords, only to learn that it was in their nature when free to devour lesser demons, who began to flourish like weeds. She banished the Vortex to the depths of the Ruling Sea, but the spell-energy that pushed it there also doubled its size.'
'And the wakings-'
'The wakings, yes. They were Erithusme's last great effort. She looked at the world's suffering, its violence and greed, its long history of self-inflicted harm, and decided that it all began with thoughtlessness. And so she decided that the cure must be more thought, and more thinkers. She prepared a long time in secret, for what would be the mightiest deed of her life. And when she was ready she took the Stone in hand and cast the Waking Spell.
'It swept over Alifros like a flame. Everywhere, animals began erupting into consciousness. Soon they were learning languages, demanding rights, fighting for their lives and territories. But the spell did not stop with animals. There were stirrings even among the lowest things, a hum of thought in certain mountains, awareness in the flow of rivers, contemplation in boulders and ancient oaks. Her idea was to let all the world talk back to man, to help him see his mistakes, end his plunder, live at last in balance with the rest of Alifros. Paradise would be achieved, she thought, when all creation found a voice.
'The Nilstone, of course, had other ideas. Rather than create a Garden of Happiness, the Waking Spell plunged Alifros into a nightmare. The side effects! The monsters unleashed into Alifros, the diseases! The talking fever is but one example, and far from the worst. What does a mountain think, when a wizard shakes it from peaceful slumber? Not thoughts of gratitude, I can assure you.'
Pazel fidgeted; Oggosk's gaze always seemed to unsettle him. 'Couldn't Erithusme just cancel the spell?'
'Obviously not,' snapped Oggosk. 'Her mastery of the Stone was not total — otherwise she would hardly have devoted the rest of her life to getting rid of it, would she? No, she is gone, but the Waking Spell continues. And will continue, in all its glory and perversion, so long as the Nilstone remains to give it power. With the Red Wolf destroyed, that spell is returned to its full force, and we are all in danger.'
Her cat hissed suddenly, from just behind Pazel's back. Neeps cried out, clutching his arm. There was a bright red scratch on his elbow. 'Damn that beast!' Neeps shouted. 'Why'd she attack me? I didn't even look at her!'
'You were not paying sufficient attention,' said Oggosk. 'But my tale is finished now — and here, for your easier digestion, is the moral. The universe has a texture, a weave. It cannot be improved by meddling, by tugging at one thread or another, especially when the hand that tugs is an ignorant one. Disaster alone follows from such interference.'
Blood oozed through Neeps' fingers. Pazel was enraged. 'Is this why you brought us here?' he demanded. 'So you could lecture us about interfering, and attack us with your blary pet?'
Oggosk studied them with the disdain of a jeweller handed some trinket of rhinestone and glass. 'Neither of you is a fool,' she said. 'Not a hopeless and abandoned dullard, I mean.'
'Thanks very much,' said Pazel.
'Unfortunately your antics make it hard to remember.'
'Antics?' said Neeps. 'What would those be, I wonder?'
Pazel saw that the witch's eyes had come to rest on his hand — his left hand, the one burned with the medallion-hard mark of the Red Wolf. At once he closed his hand around the scar. Her eyes moved to Neeps, with keen interest. The smaller boy carried the same wolf-shaped scar at the wrist.
Pazel felt his anger deepen. 'Antics, Neeps,' he said. 'You know, like getting burned with hot iron. And stopping Syrarys from poisoning Thasha's father.'
'Ah, right,' said Neeps. 'I was forgetting. And getting Hercol out of that poorhouse before his leg rotted off. And exposing Sandor Ott.'
'And keeping Arunis and his Shaggat from using the Nilstone.'
'And harbouring ixchel,' said Lady Oggosk.
Pazel knew in a split-second that his face had betrayed him. He had given a guilty jump, and that was all Oggosk needed. She cackled, but the laugh had none of her usual acid glee: it was a savage, embittered sound. She raised a claw-like finger and pointed at the boys.
'All your high-minded dreams of stopping Arunis, stopping this final war between Arqual and the Mzithrin abomination, taking the Nilstone beyond reach of evil for ever — where will they be when the crawlies do as they have always done, for centuries without a single exception? What will you say when your Diadrelu turns and spits in your face, and laughs as the sea claims the Great Ship through a thousand secret bore-holes?'
Now Pazel was frightened as well as angry. How the blazes did she learn Dri's name?
'I don't know what you're-' he began, but Oggosk cut him off angrily.
'My time is precious, in a way almost impossible to understand at sixteen. Don't waste it. I know about Ixphir House and the crawly fortress on the mercy deck. I know about Diadrelu and her jealous nephew Taliktrum, son of the late Lord Talag. Stop shaking your heads! Look at this, you fibbing urchins.'
Twisting, she reached back over her shoulder to a little shelf. From the clutter of vials and bent spoons and bangles she extracted a tiny wooden box. She tossed it to Pazel with a flick of her wrist.
Inside the box something rattled softly. Pazel glanced warily at Oggosk, then freed the clasp and opened the lid. Inside lay two shoes, well-worn, soft-soled, each less than an inch in length.
'Those are Talag's,' said the old woman. 'Sniraga brought him to me, slain by her own fangs, I think. Another crawly came to me later, to plead for the body. I gave it to him, but in exchange I made him talk.'
