leading her? And then Oliver saw it – the heath dipping in front of them before rising into a slope. A slope crested by a stone circle.
There were similar artefacts scattered all across the Kingdom of Jackals: burial circles, circles of astronomy, circles of power where the leylines crossed and intersected. Many were treated with reverence by the order of worldsingers, those that called themselves sorcerers, but surely not this one – so far away from the industry and homes of the race of man. This isolated, wind-blighted heathland that had grown out of the forest's borders and never seemed to end.
'There's nothing here, just a circle of standing stones,' said Purity.
'Nothing but the land,' Oliver told her.
Purity flashed him a look of concern – something in his voice seemed to be worrying her. Dejection? Acceptance? Relief? A dissonant blend of all of these? But then, she didn't know what he was going to have to do here. Even if he succeeded, things were unlikely to turn out well. Not for him, at any rate. And he probably wouldn't be doing Purity many favours either. Oliver led her across the grass, his riding cloak billowing in the breeze that whipped across the bleak open space. There was a mist rising out of the grass around his boots. A marsh mist. They slipped into the centre of the circle of stones, granite menhirs at least three times their height. There was a sense of stepping into another world up here, of isolation. Separation. One of the stone sentinels stood twice as tall as all the others, its shadow like the hand of a clock across the grass, descending over a menhir fallen in front of it – there to serve as an altar?
Oliver moved in front of the circle's tallest stone, letting the wind blow across his face. The night carried a scent that was not altogether pleasant: rich and boggy.
'What's that smell?' asked Purity.
Oliver pointed to the horizon. 'There's a marsh a mile ahead.'
'You sound pleased about that.'
'The marsh and a darkness over it. What more can a man ask for?' Oliver lifted the brace of pistols out from his belt and gave them a theatrical twirl. Showing off. Anything to distract him from the twinge of fear freezing his heart, the shadow of a dark foreboding.
'You look after yourself, Purity Drake,' said Oliver.
Purity took a step towards him, but the wind picked up suddenly and pushed her back. Oliver slammed the barrels of his pistols into the altar stone, a finger's width apart, planting them like saplings that might grow into oaks. He was kneeling down, head bowed before the rough-hewn rock.
'What-?'
‹He is the key,› whispered the ancient voice.
Beneath Oliver's boots the ground was trembling, the two pistols glowing brighter and brighter, cruel stars set upon the land. Oliver yelled and shut his eyes. This was it, then. Circle, he hadn't expected it to hurt quite as much as this. Changing and burning and changing and…
There was a rumbling under Purity's feet, then the pain of the intense light started to dwindle and she blinked tears out of her eyes, trying to focus on the spot where Oliver had been standing. He had vanished, completely disappeared, but the two pistols had been transformed into a sword: tall, silver and sheathed in marsh mist. A sword. Bleeding steam into the evening air, its blade sunk halfway into the fallen menhir.
'Oliver,' shouted Purity. 'Where are you?'
‹He is the key,› repeated the ancient voice.
'Please don't leave me, Oliver. Don't leave me here all alone, not like everyone else.'
‹He has been freed. The part of him that is fey has passed to the land of the fast folk, far beyond the feymist curtain.›
'Oliver…'
‹The part of him that was of this land stands before you still. He abides within the blade.›
'He's not a sword,' said Purity. 'He's a man. And he's more than those two cursed pistols he carries. What kind of queen are you, what kind of creature, to do this to him?'
‹The kind that has passed into the land. My blood has become the streams that run down from the mountains. My flesh is the soil that lifts up each summer's harvest to your people. Pick up the sword, Purity Drake, see if my blade speaks to you.›
Purity stood before the blade, the true edge of the sword captured by the rock, its hilt protected by a basket – a guard shaped as the face of a lion. The blade sang through her, wind blowing over its edge and splitting along the basket, whistling out of the lion's sculpted metal teeth along the buckler. 'The sword's caught inside the rock.'
‹A queen with my blood was destined to carry this weapon.›
'I am all that's left of my line. The last of my house.'
‹Then you must believe in yourself. This is an old test, as ancient as the bones of my land. Take the grip of the sword and set it free of the rock.›
Purity's hand reached out, feeling the wind funnelled through the guard, as if the lion of Jackals was blowing onto her fingers. She hesitated, her hand wavering above the sword's pommel. 'It's not just Oliver inside the sword, I can feel something else. More than the land, more than you…'
‹The blade contains a little of the essence of the god-machine. It is the power to split worlds.›
Purity shivered. A little of its essence. Now it had been revealed to her, she could feel a similar energy humming in each of the stones circling her. The rest of the power was stored, but stored for what purpose? 'The Hexmachina. Oh, Molly. Why did you have to go to Kaliban without me? This is your legacy, not mine.'
‹No. Molly Templar serves as a symbiote for the god-machine. Like Oliver, she could join with the blade, but she could never carry it. That is your heritage, Purity. Do not hesitate, do not show fear. This is your blade and your destiny alone.›
Purity bit her lip and reached out to wrap her fingers around the grip, a spark of fire leaping out between its crosspiece and her skin, burning, but burning with a fiery cold. The sword slipped out of the fallen menhir with a rasping song of stone, as if its granite had been shaped to be the blade's sheath, the long silver length of the blade so thin and light the metal might have been folded with air.
She had it! Purity gazed at the blade in wonder. 'The sword hardly weighs a thing.'
‹So, a queen after all. Like so many things, the weight of the blade is felt in other ways. By the deeds you will be called towards. Now, strike the tallest stone and strike it well.›
Purity clutched the grip harder, strange symbols flowing down the metal like light on the waters' edge as she did so. 'The sword will shatter against the stone. I broke one of Jared's practice blades on much less than that.'
‹The one who carries it may shatter, but never the blade. It is no mortal sword. It is the last hope of Jackals wielded by the last true queen of this land. Its power is as limitless as your belief in yourself. Now, bow to the stone in front of you and strike it with all of your will.›
Purity spun the blade twice in slow windmill turns, then lashed out at the menhir. At first, just for a second, Purity thought she had missed it, though the Circle knows how she could have done so at such a short distance. No impact, or clatter of steel on rock. Then Purity realized she had not missed her target. The top half of the menhir was sliding down the slope she had carved through it, tumbling to the side with a heavy rumble. As the stone fell away, a volcano fire lifted out of the section still resting on the grass, leaping from rock to rock until the circle of stones was a carousel of flames and light. It was being discharged, all the power of the god-machine. The space between each menhir had become a gate of energy, crackling and shimmering in the cold air and filling the hilltop with a fire-grate warmth. Figures began to step from out of the gates, silhouetted against the burning energy behind them for a moment before it winked out of existence.
‹Hail,› said the voice inside Purity's head. ‹Hail, the Bandits of the Marsh.›
Bandits? Purity glanced around the darkening circle. A handful of figures. Four of them. Three men and one woman. The legends of Elizica of the Jackeni from Coppetracks' books came back to her. Two hundred warriors who had fought to free the land from the invaders from the sea. A sword-saint to lead them. 'Aren't you about one hundred and ninety-six bandits shy?'
‹The sword is only as powerful as your belief, Purity Drake. You should have believed more.›
One of the figures was wearing an archaic metal breastplate with a high steel collar, his hair shorn brutally
