The Night of the Swarm

It is always thus. We never spoke of Ularamyth in Dastu’s hearing, but his heart must have sensed what he would find here, and turned from it. May it find peace somewhere in Alifros, or beyond.’

They were nearing the top of the longest staircase yet, winding up the side of a barren hill. Pazel wished Thaulinin would go on speaking, if only to distract him from the mournful wind. The stars were sharp as cut-crystal, and for a moment Pazel imagined that he saw them through as the selk did: mute witnesses, looking down in judgement or pity. We are all young beneath the watchful stars. Would he ever understand just what that meant to the selk?

On the hilltop they stepped into the full blast of the wind. There was a railed platform here; it was the highest point on the island. And looking down at the back of the hill, which had been hidden until this moment, Pazel saw an extraordinary thing.

He took it at first for a walled pond or water tank. It was fifty or sixty feet square, and surrounded by a number of the ancient trees. Black and lustrous, it reflected the moons and the stars with an uncanny brilliance, like a mirror polished to perfection. But a moment later Pazel saw that it was not liquid he was gazing at, but stone.

The trail descended from the hilltop to the edge of this strange black courtyard. Beside the latter stood Lord Arim, alone and still, his bright blue eyes gazing up at them.

‘Go to him quickly,’ said Thaulinin. ‘I must remain here and keep watch. Farewell, Thasha Isiq!’

Thasha and Ramachni started down without a word. Pazel glanced at Thaulinin — why had he wished Thasha alone farewell? — but the selk only beckoned him on.

Arim did not move as they approached, but when they reached him the old selk turned and waved a hand over the square. ‘The Demon’s Court,’ he said. ‘Nothing older will you ever behold in Alifros. You are the first humans to stand here in many centuries, and you may well be the last. It was brought to this island in the dark times, for a dark purpose. But it is not evil in itself — not exactly.’

‘Remove your shoes,’ said Ramachni. ‘You must walk unshod upon the stone.’

Lord Arim’s feet were already bare. The old selk pointed up at the sky, and Pazel saw that the Polar Candle now stood precisely between the horns of the thin yellow moon.

‘Follow me when you are ready,’ said Lord Arim. With that he stepped up onto the stone, onto his own perfect reflection. Slowly he walked away from them. Pazel stared, transfixed. He was quite certain the stone was dry, and yet with each footfall its black surface rippled slightly, as though Lord Arim were walking on the surface of a pool.

Ramachni nudged Pazel’s ankle. ‘Crouch down, both of you. I want to see your faces.’

They obeyed, and Pazel saw stars reflected in Ramachni’s great black eyes. ‘Do you know why you are here?’ asked the mage.

‘Of course,’ said Thasha. ‘To bring Erithusme back. So that she can fight for us. So that she can help us take the Nilstone out of Alifros, and defeat the Swarm. But before that can happen you need to get me out of the way.’

‘That is about half right,’ said Ramachni. ‘We need her aid, and desperately, for without it we are hopelessly unmatched. And though many count me wise, since the death of Arunis I have not felt so, for I cannot explain what prevents Erithusme’s return. But with any luck that will change tonight.’

‘Gods damn it all!’ said Pazel, startling them both. He gripped Thasha’s arm. ‘What about her? You say they share a soul, but I can’t believe that. Thasha is Thasha. She’s seventeen. You can’t flood her with ten centuries of memory-’

‘Twelve,’ said Ramachni.

‘-and expect anything of her to be left intact. That’s like-’ he shook his hands desperately ‘-like pouring a cup of wine into a lake, and saying, “Don’t worry, the wine’s still there.” Well it’s not there, it’s ruined.’

‘Calm yourself,’ said Ramachni. ‘That is not how things stand.’

‘You’re a mage,’ said Pazel. ‘Seventeen years is nothing to you. But to Thasha it’s everything. If you do this, her life will be drowned, do you hear? It will be just some little moment that Erithusme recalls now and then. Like a fever, a time when she was not herself. You might as well kill her.’

‘Right,’ said Thasha. ‘Kill me.’

‘Over my dead body!’

‘Pazel Pathkendle!’ said Ramachni, his fur bristling. ‘I will tell you this but once. You love Thasha. You are hardly alone in that distinction. There is great danger to her in what we do tonight, and that cannot be avoided. She may even die — or you may, or I myself. But she was never singled out for sacrifice. This is not Treaty Day on Simja, boy, and I am no Sandor Ott.’

‘Ramachni,’ said Thasha, ‘where did Lord Arim go?’

Pazel started. The old selk had simply disappeared.

‘No more talk,’ said Ramachni. ‘Follow, unless you would undo all that we have worked to achieve.’ He stepped onto the stone of the courtyard, then looked back over his shoulder, waiting. Thasha groped for Pazel’s hand. Together they stepped onto the stone.

Pitfire!

The sensation was like a plunge into frigid water. And yet the shock was far deeper than that: he felt it in his muscle, his blood, his very bones. It was a moment of total annihilation, of not existing. But he was still here, still holding Thasha’s hand. Both of them were gasping, and their breath sounded oddly loud. Then he knew why: the wind had vanished, utterly. It was as if someone had just sealed a hatch.

‘What’s happening, Ramachni?’ Thasha whispered.

‘Look there,’ said the mage, pointing with his eyes. Pazel turned and saw nothing at first. Then his eyes made out a brown autumn leaf just beyond the edge of the courtyard, one of countless leaves tumbled by the wind. It was five feet off the ground — and perfectly motionless, as though trapped in a pillar of glass.

‘We have stepped outside of time,’ said Ramachni. ‘Once every ten years, when the moons conspire, anyone who enters the Demon’s Court may escape time’s dominion, for an hour or an age. When we depart, not a minute will have passed in the world outside. The old king of Wauldryl raised demons here, gaining servants overnight that would otherwise have needed centuries to mature. And there were other uses: prisoners who resisted interrogation saw their loved ones brought here, and made elderly in a heartbeat. Royal children were brought instantly to marriageable age. But the selk have turned even this place to the good.’

The mage crept forward, choosing each step. The perfect silence only added to Pazel’s fear, his sense that Thasha was walking to her doom. Inwardly he raged at himself: Trust Ramachni. Like you always have, like she’s done all her life. But at the same time a part of him recalled Thaulinin’s words by the streamside: I fear the youths are not ready.

At the centre of the Court, Ramachni stopped and closed his eyes. ‘Now, Thasha,’ he said, ‘lift me up.’

Thasha glanced quickly at Pazel, then bent and gathered the mage into her arms. ‘Step forward!’ barked Ramachni, and Thasha, startled, obeyed at once. Her bare foot came down upon the stone-

— and passed through, as smoothly as if she had stepped off the end of a pier. She fell, too amazed even to shout as her body vanished into blackness. Pazel cried out and lunged for her. Too late. Thasha and Ramachni had fallen through the stone. Pazel struck the glassy surface; it felt hard as steel. But within the stone he could still see them falling — Thasha reached for him, horrified — deeper, deeper, gone.

He beat the stone, howled their names, very close to despair. He looked around wildly for help. Death he could manage; death he had so often faced; but not survival without them, left alone with that last image of them sinking in the dark.

A mistake, he thought, sobbing uncontrollably. Ramachni had made them before. Rin help them, bring them back or take me too.

Something touched his shoulder. He leaped away in shock. Upon the stone before him stood a human woman, tall and tremendously old, dressed in a green woollen cloak. Her skin was translucent, her arms stick-thin. In her eyes was a fascinated gleam.

‘You’re the tarboy, aren’t you? Pazel Pathkendle. The one who keeps trying to get her britches down.’

He stared. She stared back. She wore glass bangles and a blood-red scarf that looked for all the world as though it were made of fish scales. He felt a powerful urge to get away from her but did not move an inch.

‘You’re not going to fall through the stone, if that’s what concerns you,’ said the woman. ‘Ramachni and Old Arim had to work to make it happen, just as I did to rise to the surface.’