Leaning her weight on her wrists, she found she could lift her heels. One side then the other, she could reach down to scratch and scratch and
And then what?
She traced the spiral again. The fading of the stone through her flesh had left only memories of its touch in her soul. Its vast awareness had gone from her heart – but she was herself, at last, she was Amethea. The spiral was comforting, as though the stone had not forgotten her.
She was no warrior, no scout, she had been raised by the church, parentless – but never purposeless. As her feet came at last away from the rock and she stamped on them, hard, fighting the pain of returning feeling, she remembered her determination.
He had looked down at her, and he had laughed.
Triumph and realisation.
Whatever he wanted to do with his flesh-and-metal minions, she had no doubt that flesh and stone would be his next step – that, somehow, he would seek to tap consciously into the awareness they’d awakened.
Into the sheer Gods-power of whatever lay beneath.
She threw her legs into her trousers, her feet into her boots, laced them both shut. There was a twinge of loss as her feet finally lost their skin contact.
Settling her belt at her hips, she faced the chamber door.
She’d only ever travelled one way – but had seen enough to realise the size of the maze that lay down here, forgotten by all but Maugrim himself. There was no way out through the treasure chamber – and besides, she found she wanted to stay with the stone.
Alone, her feet stinging raw with the return of circulation to bloodless muscles, she drew a long breath and rolled back the door.
He was smiling at her, a smile of victory.
“Going somewhere, sweetheart?”
* * *
The Kartian metalworker called Vice knew his usefulness was over – and the price he would pay.
He was an artisan, born to craft, raised in almost darkness and tuned to heights of hearing and tactile sensitivity no Grasslander could emulate. In Maugrim’s voice, he’d heard clearly the nuances of hope, exhilaration, domination and death; in the warm, shifting air of the passageways, his scarred Kartian skin responded to the faintest breath of draught, to the raised awareness of what lay deeper.
Maugrim had cauterised the stone, he’d burned away the light-lichens, the stray grass roots, the loose soil and the errant, blindly curious creatures. The rock was warmed by his elemental alignment, but he’d still not yet touched the site’s true nexus.
The stone had awoken, Vice had heard its pulse thrum in his skin, in the bones behind his ears. It lay quiescent now – but its potential left him breathless.
Further in. Somewhere.
Maugrim’s chamber of wealth and death didn’t interest him – it was a dead end in more ways than one. He took a little of the white-metal – not enough to be missed – and he slipped silently away.
This site had no fears for one raised under the dark might of the Kartiah Mountains.
Following the soft touch of air, his fingers tracing the stones in the walls, he began to understand that Maugrim had only cleansed a part of the passageways – that so much more lay untouched. Slowly, the stones about him grew cooler and the roots of the grass began to penetrate the rock, touching his face with creeping pale fingers. Fallen soil caught his feet; the air smelled chill and dry. In places, the walls were graven with sigils his fingers traced with curious incomprehension.
It grew moist and cold, the cold of soil and stone.
He closed towards the centre – the heart of the site that lay directly beneath the broken sarsens of the Monument itself.
Here, the passageways were crumbling, tumbles of rocks littered the floor, dirt fell with a hiss as he passed, dusting his intricate white hair. There was emptiness here, loss and ancient abandonment – now awakened and seeking understanding. No mortal foot had passed this way in perhaps thousands of returns.
The rockfalls grew deeper and older until they barred his way utterly – he couldn’t reach the centre.
Whatever they defended, he needed to find.
He was Kartian, he could navigate with a breath and a touch. In the darkness of the passageways he tried again to reach the site’s heart – and again – but each time, rockfalls or tumbled ceilings barred his way. Growths of dried lichen teased his fingertips and the roots of the grass hung almost to the floor, curtains of pale entrapment.
Then the air behind him moved.
And the rock came savagely to life.
10: FEREN
THE WANDERER, ROVIARATH
The crash of wood made Roderick jump.
The tavern’s doors had been kicked open, slammed back against the benches. Between them stood a silhouette, small and strong, haloed by the moons’ glitter. The rocklight glinted on four pale eyes.
In its arms dangled a corpse.
“Gods!” Heart in his throat, he was moving before he realised it, skid-vaulting the bar and hitting the floor running. The last gaggle of drinkers fumbled for peace-bonded weapons.
The thing in doorway staggered, cried, “Ress!” and the four-eyed shape stumbled forwards into the light.
Triqueta.
She was wide-eyed and shaking, sweat and desperation slid clean trails through the dust on her skin. The stones in her cheekbones gleamed – and in her arms hung the body of a boy.
“Help him!”
The few remaining members of the Banned were moving, shouting.
“Triq!” Stool going over, one of the vets was shoving his way to the fore, around him, his mates were drunkenly swearing. Voices clamoured. “What the rhez?” “Who’s
Triqueta was folding under the weight.
“Ress! He’s out cold – pretty badly chewed up.”
The tide of questions rose again.
“Over here!” Roderick made a grab for the nearest rocklight, shadows leaped like figments through the room as he lifted it over a table. “Put him there, in the light. I’ll get you water.”
With a grunt, Triqueta hefted the boy onto the tabletop.
And stood back.
It was deep night, and the tavern’s staff had long since retired. In The Wanderer’s taproom, the Banned’s final die-hards had gathered close to raise old songs and leather tankards, but the soldiers had finally reeled away and the rest of the room was empty. Cursing rolled from a nearby figure, snoring on a bench.
The veteran Ress, tall and lean, his short beard shot with grey, studied the boy’s dirt-streaked face.
Triq’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “He was conscious when I found him, just. His ankle’s busted – he’s a mess. Think you can fix him?”
“Think I can try.”
