return might well prevent a catastrophe.’
Vuldon seemed to take a deep interest in the pictures. With reverence, and a delicate gesture, he turned the pages, smiling when he came to an elaborate sketch. ‘This is a recipe book for life itself, then.’
‘It is indeed, my dear Vuldon,’ Ulryk sighed.
‘The pictures — do they come to life or something? I mean, is this magic?’
‘No, though there are techniques I know where pictures can have an extra dimension added to their purpose — pictures that can influence minds.’
‘I’d really like to see that.’ Vuldon seemed impressed. ‘Fulcrom, Ulryk can stay here for the evening if he wants.’
Fine by me, Fulcrom thought. Better to keep an eye on him than have him summoning anything else into being.
TWENTY-NINE
Their ship ran into trouble: the seas were rough, rolling at four times the height of their vessel, and none of them had the skill to sail or navigate.
Dartun was forced to steer them to the western edge of the island of Folke, and it took them some time before they found a stretch of coastline that satisfied their needs. They had run out of provisions and were desperately hungry. Verain was so exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, that nothing in her life seemed to matter any more.
Eventually, they ran their ship into a wide estuary, surrounded by high, snow-smothered valleys, with a scattering of buildings nestled into the nooks and crannies of the landscape. Smoke drifted up from chimneys, a sight that generated some optimism in Verain’s heart: here was a signal of domesticity, an indication that life was perfectly normal for some people.
Up ahead was a reasonably large port. A few dozen boats of various sizes were moored, most of them equipped for fishing. Slick slate roofing and grey granite structures created a dreary ambience, but at least this side of Folke was untouched by the invaders pouring from the Realm Gates.
Snow and winds buffeted them as their craft approached the quay. A local harbourmaster strolled out in a thick coat and hat to meet them as they alighted on the quayside. Verain’s determination to survive had somewhat diminished since they’d left Tineag’l, but it felt good to be on land again, to have something solid beneath her. She did not have the legs or stomach for sailing.
‘Sele of the day, strangers,’ the harbourmaster called out loudly in heavily accented Jamur. ‘Not from these parts then.’ A declaration more than a question.
Dartun strode forward to meet him. ‘Morning, sir. We were passing through, on our way to Villjamur. We seek lodgings for the night.’
‘You, uh, got a licence for that vessel of yers? ’Fraid we’ve a tax for those who ain’t registered with our community, like.’ He had small button eyes, narrowed tight against the weather. His skin was sun-blemished by years of working outdoors, his close-cropped beard was grey.
‘We’re cultists,’ Dartun announced.
‘I see…’ the harbourmaster replied. ‘Well, I’ll let it be known to yer, we don’t welcome the likes of magicians here.’
‘Sir,’ Dartun continued, ‘we will be no trouble. We need simple lodgings, that is all. We’ve little in the way of money, but I’m sure I can lend my hand to something that requires fixing in exchange.’
The harbourmaster appeared to think about it. Seagulls called out across the distance, and boats rattled against each other in the water behind. ‘After last night’s storm, a wall on one of our churches has collapsed, four streets away,’ he said. ‘Road’s blocked and we ain’t any spare horses to clear the rubble. Whatever magic yer have, keep it hidden — but if yer can clear our mess, I’ll guarantee lodgings.’
Dartun nodded curtly. ‘Consider the road cleared.’
*
The roads were very narrow, the houses tall, so the rock was piled not just over a wide area but high, too. Dartun worked with his bare hands, tossing aside boulders as if he was playing a game and eliciting admiration from the gathered locals. Verain wondered what they’d feel if they knew the truth: that he had transformed, that he was inhuman.
While he single-handedly hauled chunks of granite, more locals congregated. But awe soon changed to fear, and soon Verain could hear sinister accusations about them being cultists, people of magic. Most didn’t trust cultists: they thought they were abnormal, artificial, ghosts, monsters, whatever — anything other than welcome guests.
A grunt drew her attention to Dartun once again, as he laboured with a hunk of granite the size of his torso. Verain could only watch in awe: she knew what he was doing was not possible for a human. Rock by rock, Dartun slowly cleared the street, piling the rubble neatly alongside the remains of the church, and eventually traffic could now flow along the cobbles with ease.
Having lost interest the locals drifted away, resuming their routines. In the distance a pterodette’s cry rose above the sound of the sea.
Dartun sat on a rock and his cultists gathered around him. He was breathing heavily, showing that the labour had, at least, required some effort. Verain threw his cloak around his shoulders, whispering, ‘You’ll need to keep warm.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, and gave her such a look of tenderness that she almost hoped him capable of returning to normal again.
‘We could’ve helped you,’ Tuung muttered.
‘You wouldn’t have been able to lift any of this.’ Dartun gestured to the stone. ‘The locals couldn’t, and you don’t have any relics.’
‘But why do this on your own?’ Verain asked, laying a hand to his shoulder. ‘At least you could have let us try.’
‘No. You each need safe accommodation for the evening. You need food and warmth if you’re to survive the journey home.’
Tuung didn’t seem satisfied by that, and if she was honest with herself, neither was Verain. Their exchanged glance revealed that they weren’t buying Dartun’s reasoning, but she knew better than to press him.
They were rewarded with cheap lodgings in the local tavern, which was more like an impressive drinking warehouse overlooking the harbour. A large and spacious building, with several rooms available for rent, the group were the only guests — although the word guests implied an element of hospitality, whereas their stay was negotiated in one swift, urgent conversation between the harbourmaster and the landlord.
This was the only tavern in town, so the place remained packed with mouthy locals until late. Not that it mattered: they ate well, and Verain was sitting so close to a log fire she thought she might burn. That was all that mattered, to feel some heat in her bones, to feel… human again.
The landlord didn’t let the locals get near them. The harbourmaster had said that they should keep their heads down. A line had been drawn with the fug of weed smoke and ale, and Verain was fine with that. Dartun slumped silently in the corner of the tavern, in the lantern light; and, as he impassively regarded this vast hall, which was an excellent opportunity to discuss their plans, Verain remained too scared to say anything. Now and then the locals would direct fierce stares at Dartun, but when he returned their gaze without response, they quickly looked elsewhere. Two citizens even spat on his table as they passed, but he did not move an inch. Dartun’s inertia disturbed her.
In between sips of the strong, local ale, Tuung whispered to Verain, ‘I don’t know about you, lass, but I reckon your fella is up to something.’
‘He’s not my “fella” any more,’ she replied solemnly. ‘I just want to get back home.’
She longed for Villjamur again, for the comfort of the ebb and flow of the city.
*
It wasn’t until they were about to go to bed that the trouble started.
