The Hidden Coronet (18 page)

19

“
I suppose,” the Wolf said, “I should be scared?” It licked its great teeth with a long tongue.

“You should.” Pyra put down the clam basket and shrugged off the red cloak.

“Because I’m not what you think. And if you swallow me, all you’ll get is a fire in your belly that will never go out.”

The Wolf crouched. “If you don’t mind,” it said politely, “I’ll take my chances.”

“Fine. Whenever you’re ready.”

Pyra and the Wolf

A
ND THE WOLF LEAPED.

“No!” Carys screamed in fury. “This is just a story!” But the great maw opened and she was inside it, swallowed deep down red tunnels into a raw, pounding heat.

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN. All the horizon was on fire and Herax knew the danger beacons had been lit; warning flames across the Karmor hills. Below her the Sekoi army was gathered, thousands strong, armed only with wooden staves, small knives, hastily cut spears. The Karamax went among the columns, encouraging them, firming their minds with legends.

Beyond the fires, over the edge of the world, the Watchmen were. They moved in dark rows on the high downs.

Herax tuned the final string on the saar. She struck a soft chord, and the music went down into the veins of Anara, and shivered in the leaves of the trees. All the Sekoi-host heard it; it entered their stories and memories, seeping into them, a great unsettling, stirring their wrath.

Herax sang the Song of Anger; a wordless song, a song without harmony, that had not been sung since before the Starmen came. It moved through the host like anxiety, like an ache, darkening their minds; and as she sang it she felt her own thought curl up and her mind go cold with the chilling anger of the Sekoi, knowing it was her skill that would bring so many to their deaths. Herax . . .

But her name wasn’t Herax.

She stopped, struck by that. Her fingers gripped the taut strings and she stared out at the smoky fires, not seeing them. Her name was . . .

Was ...

It had gone. Shaking her head she flung the saar down among the rocks. “No!” she snapped. “Not this story either. You’ll never get me to forget! My name is . . .”

But there was only emptiness. And as the army in the plain below gave a great cry, rain pattered hard from the iron-gray clouds.

Bewildered, she watched it drip from her seven fingers.

THERE WERE TOO MANY STORIES. They came so fast; she slid helpless from one to another like a shadow, caught up in the fights, the journeys, the escapes. Breathless and injured in the Karelian jungle; then lazing on a bed of silk in the Castle of Halen; another time wandering deep in the Forbidden mines, consumed with nothing but thirst—all the scenes crowded in on her. And she lived them. They were real. She could smell the mossflowers that tried to devour her, taste the bitter chocolate in Bara’s box. When the kite-bird struck at her in the tombs of Ista it made her bleed and hiss with pain, the thin amber stain clotting the fur of her neck.

Only now and then when a story drew to its close did the despair come flooding back, the sudden knowledge of the cage, so that she knew she was trapped in an endless web of words and events and happenings—old treacheries, love affairs, wars, quests—none of it hers, none of it mattering. And beyond that was something else, some deep real anxiety that bit her like a Kest-claw which she couldn’t shake off, and in all the confusion of the stories she could never find out what it was.

Once, deep in the strange Sekoi-houses in the tale of Emeran from before the Watch-wars, she caught a glimpse of her own narrow striped face in the mirror and knew her name was Carys and that her eyes were brown, not yellow, but the knowledge was gone in an instant as the keeper Ganelian knocked on the door and the whole relentless tragedy began. She was Emeran; all that had happened to her had to be lived through, and only when the tale ended and she found herself weeping over his body with the poison vial in her hand did she struggle back to herself.

Just for a second, her mind cleared. She smeared the tears away fiercely, knowing she had to do something, now! But what? There was no Watch-training for this. No procedures. Old Jellie had never taught her anything about escaping her own mind. Galen would have. The Order, they understood things like this. They knew ...

But it was already too late.

The story flowed back. She drank the poison, feeling its hot stain corrode her stomach and veins. As she fell forward, retching, the white Emeranflowers sprang out of the ground around her.

THIS WAS THE SEKOI-CONSCIOUSNESS. She saw with their eyes, smelled their sharp scents, dreamed in their odd, complex colors. The stories grew older, more alien. Now they were myths of heroes from before the Wakening, when the world was colder.

Standing on the rock of Zenath, tied hand and foot with the broken sword at her feet, she stopped struggling with the ropes and stared up at the sky, the wind flapping her long coat.

Because it was dark. Too dark.

Quite still, she wondered why the stars astonished her, what was wrong with them; ignoring the churning wash of waves as the great two-headed god strode toward her through the sea.

Then she realized.

THERE WERE NO MOONS!

The shock of it almost made the story fade. There were no moons, and the Anaran sky was black as she had never seen it, full of millions of brilliant stars.

And it was so cold.

This was important, she knew it was; she tried to hold on to it but the story surged back and the giant cried out, “Where is my sacrifice? Where is my reward?” so that the rock shook. She tore a hand free of the ropes and grabbed the sword.

“It’s not me!” she screamed. “And I’m not going to fight you!”

But the god roared and swung its great mace and she ducked, striking back at it. For a day and a night she fought with it, time that passed without time, until Anarax rode to her rescue on the winged night-cat, and in an instant the story transformed and . . .

. . . SHE WAS STANDING ON A HILLTOP, still under a dark sky, with six other Sekoi.

Breathless, she looked up.

Out of the night, a silver staircase was forming. Down it came new, strange people; small, slender forms, their hair long, unfurred. A male first, tall and dark-haired, dressed in a coat of stars, and behind him others—a female, another bigger male with an animal in his arms.

The Sekoi murmured. Around her, anxiety rippled.

The Karamax walked out to meet the Starmen.

Under her feet the grass was frozen. As she crunched on it something shot through her numbed mind like a stab of memory. She had seen this meeting before. A hundred times. On smashed windows, images, relics. These were the Starmen.

Men.

She struggled for the other word bitterly, forcing her mind after it as it slipped away.

Makers.

These were the Makers.

The Sekoi gathered at the foot of the stairs.

“We welcome you, strange people,” Sharrik said in the Tongue.

The Starmen smiled. The tall one held out small hands.

“Let us be friends,” he urged. “My tribe and your tribe.”

She knew this story, but it was wrong. This wasn’t how Raffi told it.

Raffi!

How do I get out? she asked him, almost in tears. How do I direct the dream, Raffi, and get out of this stinking mess! What do I do?

But he wasn’t there, and the Starmen were turning away. The story was fading and she knew she had to do something now, right now, or this would go on forever, so she shoved through the gap and ran, breathless, to the foot of the silver stairs and grabbed the cold handrail, screaming out the only name she could think of in an explosion of breath and anger.

“
Flain
! Wait! Talk to me!”

He stopped.

Halfway up the stairs he turned, as if he was puzzled.

She felt free, as if she had burst a hole in some smothering web.

“Listen to me, Flain, please! Galen always says I should talk to you. So now I’m talking.”

He smiled. “I see.” Quietly he walked back down. She saw he was a man in his prime; dark hair slightly touched with gray, hiding the thin gold crown. Close up, his face showed a small scar on the bridge of his nose, and the dark coat he wore was threadbare, flecked with small moth-holes.

She caught hold of his arm. “Tell me my name.”

“You know your name,” he said patiently. “It’s Carys.”

“Carys! That’s right!” She frowned, scratching her furred tribemark. “Look, I need help. I have to break out of these stories!”

Flain laughed. “You’ve needed help before. You’ve rarely asked for it.”

“That was different!” Looking up, she saw Tamar and Soren and Theriss waiting for him. Right at the back was a smaller man, thin and wiry, his narrow face bearded, closed with some inner tension. A chill of astonishment touched her. That must be Kest.

“Different?” Flain asked lightly.

“It was never like this!” She shook her head. “There was never a time I hadn’t been trained for, when I didn’t know what to do. But this! It’s all in my mind. I can’t stop it. It won’t let me out and Galen’s in trouble, all of them are!” She had five fingers now. She threw down the Sekoi wand in disgust.

“And we, the Makers? We’re in your head too?”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t help me.”

He smiled wanly. “Remember that outside the cage, Carys, if you can. And tell the keeper he will see me soon. Very soon.”

Suddenly she caught a glimpse of gold in his hair and put her hand up. “That’s the Coronet!”

He stepped back.

“That’s what we’re looking for!”

He nodded. “Indeed. Gold.” A long look passed between them; she caught her breath in sudden understanding. But he had turned and was walking up the stairs.

“Wait! How do I get out?”

“That’s easy! Even Raffi could tell you. You just open your eyes.”

“They are open!” she yelled, furious.

“Ah, but they’re not.”

A door slid wide in the sky. One by one the Makers went through it. On the threshold Flain looked down at her and smiled. “It’s easy, Carys.”

Then he stepped in, and the sky slid back.

At once the story began to gather; she could feel its power, speeding, crowding, moving her on, the fur on her face rippling back. She yelled with anger, shrugging off everything, swearing, struggling, kicking it away. “Wait! ” she screamed at the stars. “What use are you? Come back and help me!”

No one answered.

So she gave up in utter exhaustion.

And opened her eyes.

20

Alas, who speaks in the silence now?
Who lights up the dark?

The Lament for Tasceron

A
T FIRST SHE THOUGHT it was another story.

She was lying on her back, and all she could see was blue. After a moment she realized it was the sky. A mew-bird soared across, opening its mouth as if it squawked, though Carys heard no sound. In fact, all she could hear was a faint hum.

She sat up, and stared around.

She was on a wooden slab in an empty room, and she was cold, but the amazing strangeness of the room made her forget that.

It was a bubble. An enormous clear dome of glass, coming right down to the floor all around, and as she stared out of it in wonder she saw that it rose up in the middle of the ocean, and all she could see out there on every side was water, a vast swell that slapped and surged against the glass, leaving swathes of foam that slithered silently down.

It was astonishing. She swung her feet off the table and stood up, finding her body stiff and aching. She was ravenously hungry.

But the dome! Walking up close she saw her own reflection, and putting a hand up she touched the glass. It was smooth and perfectly transparent, though it had to be incredibly thick. Not a whisper of sound came through it. Maker-work, obviously.