The Pilgrims

‘Others aren’t far.’ Sharfy’s voice. Eric quickly shut his eyes, feigning sleep.

‘Is he ill?’ said Kiown.

‘Keep him here, let him rest. Anfen’ll want him.’

‘I’m going back to camp.’

‘Tell em not to bother us yet. I’ll mind him.’ Footsteps padded away. Eric lay on flat, smooth rock that seemed as comfortable as any bed he’d known. He thought of his comfortable, soft mattress back home, with its creaking springs, right now still unmade.

Sharfy draped a blanket over him and put something soft beneath his head. You can trust him, Kiown had said. He just doesn’t look like it.

Who cared either way? Sleep. Deep sleep, this time not troubled by wild dreams. Those, he supposed upon waking, were now for the daytime.

17

When he was out of the Arch Mage’s earshot, Case ran. Heads turned in the Hall of Windows as his footsteps scuffed on the floor.

The way wound downwards, until he was sure he’d gone well beneath the floor on which was Aziel’s bedroom. Soon he was out of the tower altogether, and into a larger part of the castle’s body. Some long passages here were completely abandoned, others packed with busy staff. Every so often he found a window and stuck his head out, calling urgently for the winged woman, but she didn’t answer him. He began to think he’d been swindled, that she had never meant to keep her side of the bargain — which, he realised with a sinking feeling, might mean Eric wasn’t alive after all.

The lower he went, the fewer vacant-faced grey-robes there were. Soon, it seemed the people were normal people, and were in a fashion just like people anywhere else, doing their jobs behind benches or at tables, though those jobs were mostly preindustrial. He passed smiths making things of metal, women weaving straw and fabric, courtyards where teenagers lined up to be taught how to use weapons or tools. He saw so many things, some normal-seeming and some peculiar, that his mind began to shut it all out, and to long just for it to be over, for a bed, even just a soft field of grass to rest in, naked sky above, cool breeze to breathe in.

Sometimes he came to mess halls where workers sat for meals. More than once, Case helped himself to someone’s plate or cup, not caring about the startled reaction of its owner. The goblets of wine were far inferior to Vous’s upstairs, but they kept him going.

At last, at long last, he came to what felt like the ground floor. More chambers, more hallways, until a cavernous space opened before him, bigger than an aircraft hangar, clattering with the sound of busy people and machinery. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people bustled around large metal wagons, which drove in from an underground passage. Across from this was the outside world, a view of the horizon from ground level, and that big flat road Case had seen from the sky, dividing the horizon in two.

Bundles of hay and straw, crates of fruit, livestock with its animal smell, and all manner of other things were being unpacked from the underground wagon train and loaded onto smaller carts; the smaller carts were wheeled off through side passages and out of sight. Case sat to rest for a spell, watching it all. If he hadn’t been so tired, he’d have been glad to see the semblance of normality here, of real people doing real things, whatever insanity happened on the floors high above them, which he knew they themselves were probably forbidden from knowing. Foremen shouted orders, strong men did heavy lifting with grunts and curses. One or two grey-robes roamed about, scrolls and pencils in hand, seeming to supervise it all, not half as dead-headed as those upstairs had appeared. Here, they gave orders and were hastily obeyed.

Then, as though Case’s very relishing of normality had given the signal, some kind of commotion broke out near the entrance to that underground passage. Shouts and cries broke out. ‘Why’s that wagon unattended?’ a passing grey-robe demanded of no one in particular.

A large wagon lurched up the passage and onto the floor-space, where rails ran along the floor. Blood was spattered thick over its side. Shrieks and cries spread around the large space and people began to scatter.

That was when the pit devils leaped from the wagon. Four, five of them. Then more poured out of the tunnel in a scurrying pack, dozens of them loose among the workers, jaws open wide, teeth gnashing as their heads whipped around on unnaturally flexible necks, mauling anything that moved.

Case shrugged and calmly walked towards the exits, not having to try hard to shut out the chaos that ensued, the screams, human and inhuman, the blood and the death. He’d had enough of it all. He didn’t even bother worrying about whether the evil-looking monsters could see through the charm’s disguise or not. At any rate they left him alone.

On a patch of soft grass outside, some distance off the long flat road, he collapsed, exhausted. He slept right there, shutting out the background noise and not caring a damn about anything just then: not the castle, the winged woman, not the real world nor this one, nor even Eric. Sleep was what mattered, sleep in the soft trampled grass and, as he’d wished, the cool breeze blowing over him.

Meanwhile the Invia just watched, just watched, as the powerful mage paced around her frozen and trapped body. She had known the danger of coming within the home of one such as this; even a war mage would have been dangerous for her where there were walls and roof to prevent an easy escape if the fight went ill. Her chances against this mage, much greater than they, had been poor. She had barely even realised she was cornered and must fight before he snared her, blind and deaf, in an invisible web that held her still. She had been dragged to this small dark place and left here to wait.

The Arch Mage now regarded her as if she were a puzzle piece that didn’t belong. His blazing aura filled the room, shocking waves of multicoloured plumes radiating power. She’d have been impressed and scared, had she not beheld the dragon-youth, whose auras could be seen long before they themselves were in sight, beaming through the rock layers of their prisons. That power was real greatness, a blazing inferno. This was a campfire … yet, she had put her hand in it, and been burned.

He had asked many questions, of the dragon-youth mostly, demanding news of the eight major personalities (and of some of the minor ones, whose business she did not know or care about). She had answered truly to save pain, time, and trouble. It did not matter what words of the dragon-youth this man now knew, for they would have foreseen this, probably, her very imprisonment, and chosen their words with care. Yet she wished to get back — there was much to tell her sisters, even without retrieving the old man’s charm.

She also knew the mage’s dilemma: to kill her was easiest, but if he did, he would be Marked, and the skies here were often travelled by her kind. Should twenty of them descend upon him, he would not fare as easily.

‘I will keep you caged here for a time,’ he said at last. ‘You have entered my home without leave, and deserve to be punished. But listen. You have not acted for the dragons, only for your own curiosity. Had you acted for them, it would have been a breach of the natural law, and they would risk doom. I know this. Do not think fear of them is what stays my hand, only your utility. Yesterday’s enemy is today’s friend, if he is of use to me, and to the Project. Can you be of use to me?’

She would not serve him, and thought him insane to ask, but why say so? ‘Yes.’

He studied her. ‘Very well. I must consider in what way you can serve. I will allow you to live, in my service.’ For a full day he left her there alone, before there was a sound of keys in the lock, and a guard came in with a sword in hand, which he lifted high, smiling down at her. ‘Pretty,’ he said.

He would be Marked, no doubt sent out on the rooftops right away, where her sisters could find him with ease and tear him apart — that would be the matter’s end. The mage was smart. He must have communicated his order with as subtle a signal as he could; or, perhaps, he’d long ago made provisions for what should happen, if an Invia needed to be slain. If the mage had been careful enough, and if this servant were bound and gagged, her sisters would not know the mage’s real part in her death, and he would go where he wished without fear. Not so, this ignorant man …

She did not care either way, even as he ceased leering and the sword descended. Her purpose had been fulfilled. Others like her remained, others would be made. Had her life been important, the dragons would have warned her.

The cry of her death, as the cries of a dying Invia always did, swept across every corner of Levaal, from the