Black Halo

‘Seeking salvation for your companions?’

‘Shut up,’ he muttered. He closed his eyes, attempted to seek out the gull’s thoughts.

‘That they might look upon you with the adoration that befits a hero?’

Don’t answer, old man. She’ll twist your words first, your thoughts second and probably your bits last. Focus on the gull. Focus on finding help.

He found the gull and listened intently to its electric pulse. There was a silence, then a burst, then a gentle sense of relief. A bowel movement.

Good thing you didn’t waste any energy on that. Oh, wait.

‘This is not the way, lorekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘You will find no salvation in the sea. This island is dead. It has claimed your other companions.’

‘Not all of them,’ he replied.

‘You seek their approval? When they do not so much as care for the effort you expend for them? The pain you feel?’

‘There is no pain. I’m fine.’

‘You are not. Something has broken within you, lorekeeper. A well of sickness rises inside your flesh.’

‘Nausea,’ he replied. ‘Sea air and sea trollops both make me sick.’

‘And you continue to harm yourself,’ she whispered. ‘For what? For them?’

Dreadaeleon said nothing. Yet he could feel her staring at him, staring past his skull, eyes raking at his brain.

‘Or for her?’ Greenhair said.

‘Shut up,’ he muttered. ‘Go away. Go turn into a tuna or get harpooned or whatever it is you do when you go beneath the waves. I have business to attend to.’

‘As do they.’

‘What?’

He turned to her and found her staring down at the beach. He followed her gaze, down to the shore and the two people upon it. The people he had extended his power for, the people that he had put himself in pain for, the people he had magically lassoed and mentally dominated a filth-ridden sea-pigeon for. He saw them.

Embracing.

‘But … he’s a rat,’ he whispered. ‘And she’s … she’s …’

‘She has betrayed you.’

‘No, they’re just doing … they’re …’

‘And you are not,’ Greenhair said, slipping up behind him. ‘As you burn yourself with impure fire, as you expend yourself for them, they roll on each other like hogs.’

‘They just don’t know,’ he said. ‘Once they see, they’ll know, they’ll see-’

‘They didn’t know when you saved them from the Akaneeds? When you kept them aloft with no concern for your own safety? Your own health? When will they notice?’

‘When … when …’

‘When you find the tome.’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘This island has barely any food. Even the creatures of the Sea Mother avoid it. But there is something else. The gull can find it. It calls to everything. It will call to the gull. The gull will call to you.’

Her voice was a melodic serpent, slithering into his ears, coiling around his brain. He was aware of it, of her talents, of her treachery. Yet even fools occasionally had good ideas, didn’t they? If he could find the tome, find it and show it to them, to her, she would know, she would know him. They would all know. They would see his power.

He closed his eyes, searched for the gull. He found it, circling somewhere out over the sea. Its eyes were down, its head was crackling as it spotted things bobbing in the water. It saw wood — wreckage, Dreadaeleon concluded, even if the gull couldn’t comprehend it. It saw no food, yet remained entranced, circling lower toward the sea.

Tome.

He twitched; that shouldn’t be possible. Birds had no idea what a tome was. They could not recognise it.

But it did, somehow; Dreadaeleon could feel it. It stared down into the depths, seeing it clearly as a stain of ink upon the pristine blue. It stared into the sea, past the wreckage and past the brine. It stared into the water, it stared into a perfect, dark square plainly visible even so far down as it was.

Tome.

The gull stared.

Tome.

The tome stared back.

And suddenly, Dreadaeleon heard it, felt it. Voices in his head, whispers that glided on stale air and whispering brine rather than electric jolts. A grasping arm that reached out, found the current that connected gull and wizard, and squeezed.

Where is it, the voices whispered, where is it? It was here ages ago. It spoke. It read. It knew. Tell us where it is. Tell us where it went. Tell us how it got there. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us who you are. Tell us what you’re made of. Tell us of your tender meat and your little mind. Tell us of brittle bones and tears that taste salty. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us how you work. Tell us. Tell us. We will know. Tell us.

He trembled, clenched his teeth so fiercely that they creaked behind his lips. His breath came in short, sporadic breaths. His head seared with fire, whispering claws reaching out to flense his brain and taste the electric-stained meat, tasting it for knowledge. He could hear the tome. He could hear it speak to him.

TELL US.

And then he heard himself scream.

‘Dread?’

He hadn’t recalled falling onto his back. He certainly hadn’t noticed Greenhair leaving. And he was absolutely positive he would have seen Asper coming. And yet he was on his back, the siren vanished and the priestess was kneeling beside him, propping him up, staring at him with concern. His voice was a nonsensical croak, his head spinning as thoughts, his own and the gull’s, sizzled in his skull.

‘Are you all right?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head to dispel the last sparks. ‘I mean, yes. Yes, perfectly fine.’

‘You don’t’ — she paused to cringe — ‘look it.’

Steady, old man, he reminded himself. Don’t act all helpless now. Don’t let her know what’s wrong. He snarled inwardly. What do you mean what’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong! Just a headache. Don’t worry about it. Don’t let her worry about it. And most importantly, don’t pay attention to the urge to piss yourself.

That proved a little harder. His bowels stirred at her touch, rigid with pain, threatening to burst like overfilled waterskins. Still, he bit back pain, water and screams as she helped him to his feet, resisting the urge to burst from any orifice.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Strain,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Magical strain.’

‘Bird magic, Denaos said.’

‘Bird magic,’ Dreadaeleon said, all but spitting. ‘Of course. It’s nothing so marvellous as seizing control of another living thing’s brain functions. It’s bird magic. What would he know?’ He found himself glaring without willing it, the words hissing through his teeth. ‘What would you know?’

‘Dread …’ She recoiled, as though struck.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just … a headache.’

In the bowels, he added mentally, the kind that makes you explode from both ends and probably kills you if it is what you think it is. He shook his head. No, no. Calm down. Calm down.