Ecko Rising

Frustrated by her helplessness, her hands itching to fight, to rip his madness out of him by the damned roots if she had to, Jayr moved to the window, to look out at the pinpoint rocklights and flambeaux of Amos stretched below. The slow roll of the river ran to either side of the palace’s island, black strips of bridges sliced its broad shine into cold squares of metal.

Above her, the air was cool and clear, the sky arced over her here as it did in the desolation of the wide Varchinde. Somewhere out there, the same moonlight shone upon Syke and the Banned, upon Triqueta racing to avenge Feren. She leaned far out of the unshuttered window, muscled belly flat against the stone sill, and allowed the breeze to touch her skin.

She didn’t understand. Her hands tightened on the windowledge. She wanted to wrest this thing from his mind and throw it to the floor and tear it to pieces. She wanted to fight –

Behind her, healer and Lord contemplated the now quietly muttering Ress. She could hear them talking, the Lord of Amos demanding answers, the healer having none to give. If only Ress was awake, he would be smarter than both of them.

If only Ress was awake.

If only –

Shit!

All three of them were caught off guard by his sudden movement.

Writhing, he had both hands clamped over his ears in an effort to shut out a sound only he could hear. His face was pale, sweat had sprung out on his skin and the blankets stuck to him as he twisted his body this way and that, trying to find release. He was gagging, perhaps trying to speak but choked with horror at what was tormenting him.

As Nivrotar turned to grasp both of his wrists and hold him down with unexpected, metal-wire strength, he forced out his cry for help, gasping for breath as he spoke...

“Rhan... no, this cannot be!”

“Jayr!”

Jumping to help, Jayr wrestled one of Ress’s ankles motionless, then held it still while she grabbed the other. As she pinned him down, muscles flexing, she caught the eyes of Amos’s Lord watching the ripple of power in her shoulders with a curious light flickering in their darkness. Only for a moment, then Ress began to struggle and howl and her attention turned back to the bed.

“Let me go! Let me go, let-me-go, let-me-go!” He was fighting them, really fighting them as if he knew they were there, but his sight was still turned inwards. “Rhan, they’ve taken Rhan. I have to tell him!”

“Who?” Nivrotar leaned right over him, her curtain of pitch-black hair touching his face. “Where is Rhan? Whom do you have to tell?”

For an instant, just for an instant, he seemed to focus upon her face. He was still, staring into her eyes as though she compelled him to motionlessness. For that instant, his mouth worked, he tried to say, “Nivr-otar. Deathless sleep, passionless, empty – the world’s fear – comes. Rhan – you must... The Bard... I must... see –”

“Fhaveon’s Council is not my concern.” Nivrotar’s voice was soft through her curtain of hair. “To involve myself would be a declaration of –”

“No. I need...” Ress clawed one thin hand about her shoulder, pulling her close almost as if to embrace her. He was shaking with the effort needed to remain focused. “Roderick... must... know... what I’ve seen. All of it. This...” He was panting, sweating. “This is... what he’s been looking for!” His voice rasped with the import of what he was trying to tell them. “The Bard... I hear him, see him. He must understand!”

Nivrotar stared into his face. “I can reach Roderick, if I must. What do I tell him?” For a moment, the dark eyes of the Lord of Amos searched the crazed veteran’s face, his disfocused gaze. “Ress. A moment longer, stay with me. What do I tell him?”

“The world’s fear comes. It is manifest.” His voice was breaking now, his breathing becoming sobs. “She showed me everything!”

Jayr blinked, baffled and hurting.

Nivrotar said, “The world’s fear.” She sat back on her heels, considering. “I tried to protect you, Ress of the Banned. You have found the answer, but it has cost you your mind. Can you...” Her tone was gentle now, almost as if she were terrified to upset the delicate, desperate balance of his cling to sanity. One pale hand stroked his cheek. “Can you tell me... can you tell me what you can see?”

Her meaning was clear, though unspoken: Without costing me mine?

“My Lord, the drug is still in his blood. His sight is clear, but his words –”

“Ress.” The Lord stroked his cheek again, her white fingers gentle. “What does the world fear?”

“Nothing! It’s outside the Count of Time; it’s Nothing! Kazyen!”

Jayr said, “What the rhez is – ?”

“The world’s fear! Tell him!” Ress’s mouth exploded in red and he fell back, silent, his eyes staring empty at the Amos night. He was still breathing – but his mind was gone.

Nivrotar stood up.

Her voice was like a death knell as she said, “Send a bretir to my... emissary... in Fhaveon. Whether we understand them or not, Ress’s words must reach the Bard.

“And we must pray that he understands.”

* * *

Out of the darkness, images fell like drops of rain. They were infrequent at first and they delighted him. He turned his face upwards, blinking to see. Then they were more numerous, a downpour covering and soaking him – until they became a cascade like a waterfall, an onslaught, battering him down.

He tried to run from them; ran until he felt his chest would burst. Perhaps he was trying to outrun the water, to save himself from the assault; perhaps his running was just another image and he was tiny and tumbling, drowning under the deluge.

Somewhere, the voice called his name again, far distant, begging him to listen. It was female, desperate. He was a child, it was his mother; he was a man, it was his wife – her tones were coloured with hope and terror. Hear me, child. You must hear me. You are so close. He tried, but the images were battering him, drowning him. They were coming too fast.

Desperate, he reached out to hold on to something. And he saw...

The Ilfe, destroyed. The Well of the World’s Memory – gone. A single fragment from the chaos that tumbled past him, one he clung to, a lifeline. With it came others – the broken Monument, the desolation of the Great Library, the chill white of the Theatre of Nine. All of these things, decaying, because the World could not remember. In the instant of this realisation, a vast time passed him, an aeon of understanding.

Child who sees, you must hear! Help me!

The voice was a cry of feminine grief, terrible enough to make him cringe. He raised his arms and tried to cry back to her, “How?”

But she did not answer him, and the waterfall had gone. He staggered at the sudden lack of pressure. Fell, panting, to the ground.

She had left him.

He opened his eyes.

* * *

Sealed in hopelessness, far below the surface of the great Lord City, Roderick stirred in a breathless, wordless panic.

His mind was tumbled by images and memories, splashing fragments of things he had once seen, the same images that had swirled at the back of his mind all of his life. They were bright, now, like sunlight on the water. He had to blink to see that the room around him was dark.

The Ryll. The water and the fear. The tumbling, nonsensical chaos of the world’s nightmare – this, he knew.