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Part 8
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
1
For five days Hexiya roamed the city. Walking the streets, searching the parks. Visiting all the meeting places she could find - taverns, hotels, inns, marketplaces, brothels, guilds and more. She even went back to the university.
And though Varanta was a big city, she ceased to feel daunted by the task that lay ahead of her. She would keep going. She would continue searching. And either she would find Kaledria or the increasingly dangerous city would kill her. Or, perhaps, she too might be overcome by the madness that had conquered most of its people.
Each morning and evening she would stand at a window of her apartment and reach out with her mind. Each time she would strive to locate Kaledria's unique radiance among the million sparks of life that teemed within the city.
She felt no trace of her at all.
Afterwards - refusing to dwell upon her disappointment - she would look down at the passers by in the streets below. She would watch them as they walked and talked and went about their various tasks. And for a long while she would scrutinize their auras - seeking, probing, searching for some clue as to what had changed them.
But she saw only that they were not as they had been. She saw that they were confused or frightened, enraged or despairing, filled with black hunger or emptied of all desires. She did not discover anything further.
Something must have caused the change. But she had no idea what it might be. What is the source of all this? she wondered. But she discovered nothing.
Sometimes she saw people who did not appear to have changed at all - though it was hard to be certain. As she had been mistaken about Ragak and Avina and Ellakan, so she could be wrong about these strangers.
But she did not miss that the ones who seemed unchanged - a minority even when she started watching - diminished in numbers with each passing day. Until, on the fifth day, she saw no people at all who might not have succumbed to the plague of malice that had swept among them.
She wondered if she was the very last person who had retained her own identity. The last person in the whole of Varanta who had not been remade in a malevolent and destructive mold.
Later, as she walked the roads, plazas and parks, explored the bazaars and mazes and visited the public houses and inns, she would wonder at the fact that the city had not degenerated into chaos. She saw so many instances of petty cruelty and greater callousness, so little trust and so much suspicion that it seemed everything, at any moment, must fall apart. And yet it did not.
The city guard, she realised, had increased its ranks. The army, too, was rapidly swelling in size. People were signing up to fight.
The taverns were doing good business. Even more noticeably, the brothels - an attraction that Varanta had always been famous for - were busy all night and all day. Hotels had been converted to accommodate the rising demand for prostitutes and the services they provided. Women from all walks of life seemed willing, though Hexiya knew that in fact they were coerced, to take on the work.
Hexiya suspected that it had little to do with pleasure or money. The brothels, she believed, had become breeding areas - places for women to become pregnant. It was as if the city was demanding that its population should grow.
The factories and workshops were busy too. Large amounts of weapons and armour were being produced. Wagons were being constructed. The iron mines and coal mines in the lower flanks of the mountains to the north were at full output. The smelting plants belched thick smoke into the sky.
The city was readying for war. If things continued as they were, Varanta would soon become a fearsome military power.
More than anything, Hexiya wondered at the use that certain of the city's temples were put to. Each day she observed new, strange and complex rituals being carried out by priests, priestesses and worshippers. The established rites of veneration that Varanta's thousand deities had demanded for centuries seemed to have mostly been forgotten. Instead, bizarre new observances were followed, alternately beautiful and vile. Hexiya could not divine any sense to the changes, nor any purpose.
Utterly alone now among the heartless, pitiless and incomprehensibly alien people of the city, she made her way - watching, waiting, wondering and searching.
2
On the sixth morning, standing by her window, she tried, as usual, to locate Kaledria; and failed. Then, as was also her habit, she watched the passers by, and with all her will strove to understand the nature of what had happened to them. She thought that if she could discern the source of the plague, she might do something about it.
She regarded a man walking down the street towards her apartment building. He was elderly and his face was set in an ugly scowl. Staring at his aura, feeling his emotions, she willed herself to see him more deeply and fully.
Perhaps, she thought, his age would help her - his psychic barriers be weaker. Perhaps, this time, whatever had altered him would not be able to hide from her probing scrutiny.
His aura was dim, a grey and black swirl about him. It was strangely fragmented, as if gaps and fissures had crept through his mind. He was full of resentment and slow rage.
Underneath the aura . . .
Finally, she saw it. Looking into the depths of him, she perceived and understood what had happened to the man. Like an awful revelation, the truth seared itself in her mind - shocking, horrific and terrifying.
He had not changed at all. He was still there. Locked inside his body.
And something else was moving him.
Startled and amazed, Hexiya looked for someone else. Her gaze settled upon a woman making her way down the alleyway opposite her window. She peered at her in the same way she had regarded the old man.
It was the same.
The people of Varanta had become puppets. Their minds were their own but their bodies were not. They walked and acted according to demands from outside them.
What of their emotions? she wondered. She had seen so much spite, loathing and viciousness. Where did it come from?
She stared, and saw that these too were not the passions of the individuals. They were the feelings of whoever or whatever controlled them.
Turning to the old man again, she was now able to see straight through the outer layers of his aura and sense what was underneath - his original self, imprisoned in a body that was no longer his to command.
She felt his rage and shame and humiliation at the things his body had done and which he had tried so hard to resist - futilely, without result. He had watched himself beating his granddaughter and had been powerless to stop himself. He had been abandoned by his wife, similarly possessed, and had heard himself shouting after her not to come back, when all he had wanted was her return.
Hexiya reeled. She reached out to a wall for support. A million people. A million people with their control usurped. Watching themselves do things they did not want to do. Howling to be free. And utterly powerless.
Who was the puppet-master? she wondered. Or, more likely, the puppet-masters. What kind of forces could isolate the minds of a million people and then use them as marionettes?
Her thoughts flew with furious speed. Alternative possibilities came to her.
Perhaps there were no puppet-masters. Perhaps the people had been reduced to beings who acted according to powerful but idiot habits. Or perhaps their bodies were just mindless drones that were devoid of purpose or sense. The emotions they radiated might be nothing but deception.
She did not know.
Stepping away from the window to the centre of her living room, Hexiya closed her eyes.
She reached out again with her mind. For a long while she searched for a source. But as before, she could sense none at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
1
In the prison of her body, Kaledria raged. Eight days of hell had passed. A lifetime more was to come. She was powerless to fight against it.
Despair welled in her at the knowledge that she could not even kill herself.
She was a slave. A puppet. Someone else's toy.
Better to kill herself than endure it. But that option had been taken away from her.
Eight days.
On the first she had awoken at first light. Had got out of bed, sleepily wondering why. Then, as she began to get dressed, and realised that she could not stop herself, panic hit her.
She told her body to stop. She told herself to get back into bed. She told herself just to turn and look, even for a moment, at Hexiya - sure that a mere glimpse of her beloved would be enough to free her.
Without a backward glance she had left. She had gone out into the snow. Walked the streets. Eaten at a café. All the time without any idea what her destination or purpose might be.
In a park, she halted. Removed the gauntlet of her left hand, took hold of a knife with her right. And then proceeded to carve a pattern into her right forearm.
She had not even been able to cry out. But she had felt all of the pain.
Then she had found herself making her way around the Hill of Shards, to a road that led north. She had passed through a gate in the city walls and walked into the narrow span of desert between Varanta and the mountains. Before her and behind her marched other people - a hundred or more. All were young and strong-looking.
For a long while they trudged through the snow, packing it down. At their backs swirled the cold, outlying tendrils of a ferocious storm that was engulfing the city. Kaledria shivered in her cloak.
She found herself talking to a young man, though her mouth did not move of her own volition.
'I'm Kaledria,' she said.
'Faragin. You're going to work at the mine?'
She nodded - something made her nod. 'I'm looking forward to it.'
'I am as well. Perhaps we can meet up some time?'
'I'd like that.' She tried to look back, wishing she could return to Hexiya's sweet embrace; but her will and her rage were as nothing.
At length they reached the head of one of the many iron mines that were bored into the foothills of the range. Kaledria found herself going to a barracks with some of the others. They formed a line and filed past a room from which they were given shorts and vests of coarse cloth, and heavy gloves. Some were provided with boots as well, but Kaledria kept her own.
Without a word and acting in unison, they stowed the clothes they had arrived in boxes, and changed into their new gear.
When it was done, they stepped outside into the freezing cold and crossed the short space to one of the mine entrances. Quickly they made their way into the darkness.
A passageway spiralled down. Hot, dry air moved slowly around them - air of the summer desert and the fiery earth. Faint scents of ash and burned metal came to them. Kaledria guessed that the place was heated by volcanic activity.
Several hundred feet underground, at a wide crossing of passages, she was given a pickaxe, a shovel and a large wheelbarrow. Several bottles of water had been stacked at the front of the barrow, as was a lantern and a canister of oil.
A foreman assigned her to a tunnel further down - though presumably there was no need for a foreman, nor anyone to tell her what to do. Her body already seemed to know.
'You get one of the deepest ones,' he said to her with a grimy grin, as if he was doing her a favour. 'Your own tunnel. The iron ore is harder there, as it's mixed with the ores of other metals. The best weapons can be made from it. You see how important your job is?'
She thanked him, lit her lantern, and continued down the spiralling ramp, pushing her wheelbarrow before her. When the passage finally levelled out, she threaded her way through narrower tunnels to a wide space far away from where any other men or women were working. Here there was only silence.
The rock-face she would work at was broad and high. No doubt she could dig at it for a lifetime before exhausting the seam of ore that ran through it.
A lifetime of digging, alone, here, with no respite . . . Terror surged through her. It was an unthinkable damnation.
Yet, without a pause, she set the wheelbarrow to one side, placed the lantern on a ledge, hefted her pickaxe, and set to work.
Hours passed. She swung the pick from over her right shoulder at first, with her left hand leading. Then, when she tired, she swung it from over her left shoulder. The puppet that was her body was at least efficient in the way it worked.
More time passed. Her muscles burned from the exertion. Sweat covered her. Her heart beat hard in her chest and her breath rushed in her lungs. She was grateful only that there was not too much dust in the air - the rock broke cleanly and a breeze played across the face.
Sometimes she paused for a few moments to drink some water. Then she would get straight back to work.
Strong and fit as she was, the labour was utterly exhausting. There came a point when she would have had to stop had she been in control of her body. But somehow, when she should have collapsed, the force that was controlling her kept her going.
It lasted all day and through the evening. Around midnight - though it was hard for her to tell in the lantern-lit darkness - she stopped of a sudden, dropped her pickaxe and collapsed onto a flat area of rock.
Within moments she drifted into merciful oblivion.
2
When she awoke she saw that someone must have visited her during her sleep. The water-bottles had been refilled and there was more oil for the lantern. There was also a box full of food.
Ravenous and thirsty, she sat up on her stony bed, provisions and water to hand. She drank a pint and more of water and ate a large breakfast - bread and cheese, meat and fruit and a sweet pastry. It was cold fare and did not have much flavour, but at least it was filling and nourishing. She sat still for a few minutes, then rose and began the day's work.
Her limbs and back were stiff after the previous day's exertions, but she had no way to ease off her labours. Blisters had appeared on her hands despite her gloves, and hurt more and more as the morning wore on. Her possessed body did no more than glance at the damage - checking, presumably, how serious it might be. Kaledria was startled when she glimpsed the torn skin on her palms and the blood that welled from beneath it.
The day passed in the same way that the previous one had passed - hours of straining at the rock-face; burning muscles, sweat and heat; hammering heart and rushing breath; blood thrumming through her veins.
The most relief she had was when she filled the wheelbarrow and pushed it along a tunnel, where she emptied it into a large cart.
3
Time passed. Kaledria's labours did not diminish. But each two days she emerged from the mine and went to one of the barrack-like buildings on the surface. There she would shower with the other men and women. The feel of the water on her over-heated, over-exerted body was like the most wondrous balm. Though she did not move her hands nor soap herself - they moved of their own accord - it was still the greatest pleasure.
After showering and changing, she would go to a hall where everyone ate together - meat stew, vegetables, bread - simple food but nutritious and filling.
Conversation flourished. She even found herself talking. But she wondered whose words were coming out of her mouth, and whose words the others were speaking. It was a strange and awful experience to see and hear such ordinary human behaviour but to know that within each body was an imprisoned consciousness, impotent and powerless, raging as she raged against the usurpation of her physical self.
'How's the work going?' asked the young man sitting opposite her, during her second meal at the surface. Looking up, she recognised him as the man who had walked beside her during the march to the mine. He looked tired now - just as she did, no doubt - and had grown a stubble of beard.
'I'm making good progress,' she heard herself answering. 'The overseer, when he came for a look this morning, was surprised by how much I'd done. Well, I'm a lot stronger than I look, and I have endurance to match.' Not the kind of thing I'd say, Kaledria thought as she listened to herself talk. I tend to hide such information.
Fury gripped her as she wondered who was doing the speaking and where the words were coming from.
'What about you?' she asked.
'Doing fine,' replied the young man. 'It's a bit awkward, working in a big team like I am. But I'm enjoying it. I feel like I suddenly have a real purpose.'
'Me too.' She smiled, then they went back to eating.
All too soon, the meal was over and she went back down into the mine for another shift of hacking away at the rock-face of her own private seam.
Heat, sweat, straining muscles; the beating of her heart; the blood flowing in her veins; the breath rushing in her lungs. These had become her whole existence.
Anyone watching her as she worked would have marvelled at her. Though her black hair was tangled and her face and limbs smudged with dirt, still she was achingly beautiful. Her balance as she swung the pickaxe was perfect, her movement graceful and with such power. When she threw rocks into the wheelbarrow she was swift and strong. She had become a physical goddess in an underground purgatory.
Finishing her work for the day, she dropped her tools and stood for a moment, easing her tired limbs. Relief flooded through her that her labours were over for a few hours.
She reached for a bottle of water, drank deeply and upended the rest over her face. Then she sat on the flat area of rock that was her bed and ate a small meal. Afterwards she stretched herself out, to sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
1
Hexiya roamed the streets. She did so methodically, intending to explore the length and breadth of Varanta. As she went, she ventured into many buildings, both public and private.
The exotic complexity of the city astonished her. Seeing it in such detail filled her with awe - the endless layers of buildings constructed over ruins; the countless different architectures. Several times she ventured down into the undercity and wondered how far and deep the labyrinths and catacombs went. There seemed no end to them.
Every day she cried out with her mind, calling for Kaledria. There was never any reply. Every day she reached out and tried to see the beacon of her aura and feel the fire of her emotions. But she felt no sense of her presence at all.
She looked not only for her love, but also for Rammon - the man with metal skin. Her reasoning was simple:
After the battle against the Warriors of Ruin, the priestess who had been with them had spoken of him. She had said that anyone who hunted Rammon was in turn hunted by him; and that it was he who had sent the warriors against them.
The priestess had been a puppet - Rammon's puppet in all likelihood. Perhaps Rammon was a puppet-master. If Hexiya could find him, perhaps she might discover a way to break the strings of control.
It was a vain and wretched hope, and she knew it. In all likelihood, if she did find him, she would be going straight to her death. But this awareness did not weaken her resolve.
2
Weeks passed. The people of Varanta became increasingly alien, strange and cruel. Sometimes Hexiya wondered at the fact that she was still alive.
Gradually, she came to realise that she had acquired a degree of invisibility to those around her. They went their ways and met and talked and dealt with each other. All acted with purpose. All assumed purpose in others. But they acknowledged her less and less. Some walked into her as if they had not seen her, so that she became careful to get out of the way of hurrying people. Sometimes she had to repeat herself or touch a person - a barman, a street-seller or a passer by - in order to get their attention. Even then, they would soon look away, forgetting her.
Late each night, after many long hours of exploring the city, Hexiya would return to her apartment and collapse, exhausted, into bed. For three or four hours she would sleep, before resuming her search at dawn.
During these times of rest, dreams came to her with greater intensity than ever before.
Once she found herself on an eroded hill of orange stone. A single violet sun was setting in a lurid blaze. An army was encamped far below her, around the crumbling wall of a ruined and ancient city.
Romgallak was standing beside her. A magnificent cloak of copper-coloured cloth was slung around his shoulders. His blue and dark red armour glittered in the sunlight. Intricately-wrought chain and plate shifted as he turned.
He looked down at her with wise eyes - eyes that had seen millennia passing. He smiled a gentle smile.
'Romgallak,' she breathed. 'Can you help me?'
He regarded her for a long moment. She saw his concern at the anguish he saw in her. 'Tell me what has happened,' he said. His voice was soft and very low.
She told him. When she had finished he gazed out across the camp of the army below. Worry and compassion seemed to war with necessity. His brow was clouded with thought.
'I cannot do much,' he said at length. 'I am so far from you - a great crossing between existences, and lightyears innumerable. It would take me more than a year to reach you. And then, there are my warriors. So many thousands, dependent on me. This war cannot be lost.'
She nodded in understanding, and looked down. When she looked up again the landscape had shifted. Romgallak was gone. So had the orange hill, the army, the ruined city and the violet sun.
In their place, trees rose around her. Birds and small animals sang and skittered among the branches. A pool of water lay clear and enticing before her.
She recognised Obenaia's glade.
Obenaia was sitting upon a flat rock, writing in a book. She looked up at Hexiya and smiled, but her large eyes were solemn.
'I was writing some music,' she said, and laid the tome and her pen aside.
Hexiya walked over to her and sat down beside her. Leaning sideways, she allowed Obenaia to cradle her head. She did not say anything. She was glad only to be able to take some comfort from this woman, even through her sorrow and loss.
3
As the weeks passed, Kaledria almost became used to working in the mine. Her body was adjusting to the enormous strain put upon it by the intensity of the work. She became stronger and her endurance increased. Sometimes she even found herself taking a degree of pleasure in the precision with which she would swing her pickaxe and feel the satisfying splitting of stone. But it was a hollow joy, one that mocked her and brought back to her the utter hopelessness of her situation. And again she would be wrapped in black despair.
Then, one day, after five weeks of labour, Kaledria found herself leaving the mine. She simply put down her pickaxe and walked away from the rock-face. Through the lonely tunnels she made her way, then ascended the long, spiralling passage to the surface. From the minehead she crossed to the barracks-like building where the showers were located.
She removed her dusty shorts and top and boots and stepped under glorious hot water. Afterwards she towelled herself dry and stood for a moment before a mirror. Combing out her wet hair with her fingers, she regarded herself - not of her own volition.
She was slightly leaner than she had been. The lithe muscles along her long limbs were a little larger, more noticeable. Her abdominal muscles had become quite apparent. Her waist was narrower, which enhanced the curves of her hips. She was leaner than she would have liked to be. She wondered what Hexiya would think of her appearance - and suddenly wished she could cry. Her eyes, mirrors of blue ice, were haunted and despairing.
Trapped within the prison of her body, Kaledria wished and yearned to give her beauty again to Hexiya. The thought that she would never be able to filled her with crushing grief and despair.
Unerringly, she located the chest where she had left her clothes and leathers when she had arrived at the mine. Quickly she donned them, stepped back into her boots, and swung her cloak - Hexiya's cloak - around her shoulders. Leaving the barracks, she set off back to Varanta.
Intrigued as to where she was going, she looked out as her body walked swiftly down the road. The morning was bright and the sky was clear. The red sun was nearing its zenith. The mauve sun trailed it, and the white was mostly hidden behind it. Their light was brilliant upon the snowscape of the desert, and glimmered and sparkled upon the spires, domes and roofs of Varanta. The mountains beyond rose majestically - rugged, snow-clad leviathans that dwarfed the hills and buildings of the city.
For four hours she walked through snow that creaked with each step she took. At the end of this time she reached the great North Gate and the towering city walls.
Two guards stopped her, their swords held casually but unsheathed. 'What's your business here?' one of them demanded. He stood very close to her, staring aggressively into her eyes.
'I'm here to be impregnated,' she heard herself reply. And she went cold within, wondering if there was truth in what she had said. Wings of terror beat within her mind.
The guards stood aside. The one who had spoken to her grinned lasciviously. 'Perhaps I'll see you soon then,' he said.
She walked through the arch beneath the walls and headed southwest around the Hill of Shards. Before long she turned onto the Way of Bones - the widest road in all of Varanta. Magnificent buildings lined it - meeting places of the nobility, temples, palaces, mansions, and structures of more sinister purpose. Huge, ancient trees overhung either side and ran down the centre. Between them, enormous fossilised bones were set vertically upon stone plinths - more than a thousand of them, running the length of the Way.
Before long Kaledria halted in front of a building on the east side of the road. It was a big and imposing edifice - an ancient mansion of heavy grey stone. Dirt-covered windows of leaded glass were set between massive pillars. It looked blighted and menacing - a place of torment that had lain unused for several years.
The fear within her was building. She wanted to run, to get away, or even just to retreat within her own mind - to slam the doors of her consciousness and find oblivion within. But she could do nothing.
She did not approach the main entrance, but took a flight of steps down to a tavern in the building's basement. Quickly she passed through rooms where customers drank and smoked. At the back she stepped through a door and climbed a wide staircase into the main part of the mansion.
Halls and galleries and rooms passed by. All were ornate, with pillars and bayed windows and alcoves. The floors and walls were of marble or rich wood. The chambers had plush furnishings and were hung with ancient, darkened paintings.
Dust lay everywhere, thick upon the surfaces. Some of the woodwork had rotted. It seemed that no one had made use of this place for many years - until now.
Throughout the mansion, as motionless as figures of wax, were people from all walks of life. None of them moved. They did not even breathe. It was as if time had stopped for them.
Warriors lined the corridors, utterly inert. Brightly-dressed nobles stood here and there, in ones and twos and threes. In a wide gallery a woman sat at a clavier of some kind, her hands raised over the keys as if to play - but never shifting to draw forth a note. A group was gathered around her, apparently listening. Maids, carrying trays, were halted in mid-stride. In the hall beyond, sitting around an empty fireplace, drunken revellers held tankards full of foaming beer half-raised in a toast. Their mouths were open. Silence prevailed instead of the noise of merriment. In a chamber on an upper floor, a couple lay in bed together under dusty sheets and covers. They might have been there for decades.
Yet as Kaledria approached or passed each stationary person, a slight tremor ran through them. They would shiver and look about, as if startled from sleep. Then they would turn to her and a sick hunger would fill their eyes.
They followed her. Through the passages, galleries and chambers they trailed in her wake. As she went, their numbers swelled. Soon a crowd of warriors, nobles, musicians, servants, roisterers and others shuffled after her through the dust like a train of slaves that both worshipped and hated her.
At length she came to a great bedroom. In ancient times it might have been used by a king. A fireplace was set in one wall, its grate cold for many years. Tattered curtains were drawn over moss-covered windows. The floor was of coloured marble, with a thick rug in its centre that was rotting away. A huge, green-tinted mirror was set between two columns in one wall - warped and streaked with mould, its reflections unclear. Thick dust lay everywhere.
She drew back the mildewed covers of the bed and shook them out in a cloud. Then, without pause, she took off her clothes and discarded them upon the floor.
Within the prison of her body, Kaledria's mind screamed out. Incandescent fury filled her. She knew what was coming; knew she could do nothing at all about it. Her rage built and built, blazing so hot it became like white fire in her head.
Her body, seemingly unaware of her passion, sat down upon the bed.
She looked up. A tall, powerful warrior with dark eyes and dark hair was standing in the doorway. Behind him were the other denizens of the mansion. Woken by her passing. Coming to her.
He, the first, approached her with unmistakeable intent.
Kaledria sat naked, quite still, watching as if from a distance, aware of her heartbeat and her breathing as if they were not her own. Her anger did not abate but merely crashed against the walls of whatever it was that had taken control of her body.
The warrior stepped towards her. She saw lust in his eyes - though she had no way of knowing if it was his lust or merely a mask he wore - if he was as much a puppet as she was.
She expected him just to take her. She expected her body would respond as if she wished him to. She was just a trapped observer now - though she still felt whatever pain her body did.
Other men followed the warrior into the room, spreading out, then standing apart from each other, becoming almost like statues. They watched.
The warrior halted before her. He tilted his head. He reached out towards her face, cupping her cheek. And his expression seemed to change - if it was his expression at all. The lust she had seen became muted. It was replaced by a hint of what appeared to be puzzlement.
Minutes passed. She did not move. He remained just as motionless, still cupping her cheek with one hand, still staring into her eyes. The others in the room looked on, seemingly unconcerned.
And then, after perhaps ten minutes, the warrior suddenly stepped back from her. He turned and made his way from the room, the others following him.
Kaledria stood and dressed. Relief flooded through her. They had lost interest in her. And suddenly she knew why.
They had intended to impregnate her. To make her breed so that whatever controlled her would have more to control.
But they would never have been able to make her pregnant. And she did not doubt what the reason was.
She understood that she was a different species to them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
1
After three days, Hexiya's ongoing search took her to the Way of Bones. She had walked its length a week previously and had decided to do so again.
Halfway along, she halted beneath a broad and towering tree whose needles and bark were encrusted with glittering ice. Standing there, she watched a parade of warriors and dancing girls go past.
She hoped she might see a leader, a figurehead - anything at all that might give her some clue as to whom or what was controlling the city. But the parade was without focus. One fighting man seemed no different to the next.
After it had passed she gazed southwest along the Way. She could hear the throbbing pulse of vast drums from that direction, coming from the head of the road. A great building was being constructed there, in the bowl between the Overlord's Palace and the Hill of Shards. The previous week she had watched an army of labourers digging trenches for its foundations.
The drums . . . She wondered about their significance. For days their noise had thudded and boomed through the air over Varanta. It echoed between the temples and mansions and reverberated along the alleyways. Menace seemed to spread with the clamour, outward over the city.
A sudden burst of laughter and cheering came from behind her, rising momentarily over the thunderous rhythm. Turning, she saw that it came from a tavern built into the basement of a mansion. The building above it was a heavy, sinister-looking place constructed from grey stone. Its archaic leaded windows were green and dirt-covered. Tattered curtains were drawn across them, within.
As if drawn to the place, Hexiya walked to the top of the steps that led down to the drinking house. After a moment's hesitation and not a little trepidation, she descended them. As she did so she wondered how many similar places she had ventured into over the past weeks.
She opened the door and pushed through a heavy curtain that helped keep out the cold air. Warmth and the scents of woodsmoke and ale assailed her. And there was another smell: the metallic tang of blood.
The tavern was large. Wooden pillars and rails separated the many levels, booths and nooks of the place. Two fires crackled in ornate fireplaces. Waitresses hurried between groups of customers, carrying jugs of beer.
She began to walk around the place. Few people even seemed to see her. The few who did gave her no more than the briefest glance.
Before the changes that had swept through Varanta, all the people in the place would have turned and gazed at her. All her adult life she had been accustomed to the stares of others - stares of fascination, curiosity and envy. She understood that others found her quite beautiful, and a little otherworldly. But now she was fading from their sight. Soon, she thought, she might become invisible - a mere ghost or spectre haunting the thronging city.
In a large, open space at the back of the tavern, a crowd of people had gathered, surrounding a fight that was in progress. They cheered and shouted as they watched with avid fascination.
Hexiya approached slowly, trying to peer around them or over their shoulders. She was intrigued despite herself. She wondered what was drawing her on.
And then she set eyes upon Kaledria.
She almost cried out her name. Just barely, she caught herself in time. Instead she just whispered it: 'Kaledria.'
Her love was facing her but did not seem to see her. Dressed in her customary black leathers and boots, she was facing off against a man who was now circling slowly, closing in on her.
Though the man's back was to Hexiya, she immediately recognised him. It was Ellakan.
The crowd cheered as blows were traded. Kaledria ducked a swing from Ellakan and slammed the base of her right hand into the side of his chest with enough power to break ribs. He grunted and staggered, then came towards her again.
Hexiya backed slowly away, praying that no one would turn, that no one would see her. Desperately, she wondered what she could do. She wanted to go to Kaledria and take her in her arms, and lead her away from this place. But she knew that such an action was impossible. These people - these puppets - would not let her. Kaledria herself would probably resist her.
Tears ran from her eyes. Misery and grief engulfed her - not for herself, but for her love. Sorrow, too, for Ellakan, for the good man that she had known - as he went down from yet another crushing blow of Kaledria's fist that might have shattered the side of his jaw. And even with the pain he must have been in still he came back to his feet and threw himself at her, trying to grapple with her.
And Hexiya's thoughts ran swiftly. How was it possible that she had come across this scene? How could her search for Kaledria have come to fruition at just this moment?
But she had seen enough of the city to have become aware of the pattern of things.
Ellakan and Kaledria were here because of her. They were here, locked together in combat, because the sight of them would torment her. Thus the city was moving its denizens with twisted purpose.
2
Kaledria's mind howled within the prison of her body. She had seen Hexiya at the back of the crowd. Her rage at her inability to free herself and go to her had become a liquid fire that roared through her blood, demanding release.
And still she could not move of her own volition.
She watched Hexiya as Hexiya watched her. She was barely aware of Ellakan reaching out to grasp her around her neck - did not have to think as she span aside, grasping his wrist and turning, slamming her elbow down on his arm such that the bone broke with a dull crunch before she let him go. She wished she could stop. Ellakan, though he was larger than her and a good fighter, could never match her in combat. He did not have anything like her strength or speed or technique - or the martial experience she had attained across so many decades upon worlds far away from this one.
Even as she fought, her wretchedness and sorrow became appalling in their intensity. Soon, she knew, her mind would break.
3
Hexiya realised whatever was controlling Kaledria was deliberately taking its time in the tormenting of Ellakan. Blow after blow he had endured until he could no longer stand. His body was broken, one eye perhaps destroyed.
If this one-sided fight was taking place just so that Hexiya could see it, the best thing she could do was to leave.
4
Hexiya! Kaledria cried out silently - for it was all she could do. Hexiya! Please help me! And yet she did not know what Hexiya could possibly do.
But even as she called to her, Hexiya was moving away. Until, retreating, Hexiya paused once and looked back - perhaps just for a last glimpse of her. And she felt her eyes lock with her love's.
She felt the hate that was in her own gaze. She felt the malicious curl of her own lips. She felt the gloating mask that twisted her features.
Then she reached out to Ellakan, who was on his knees before her. She grasped him by his hair. And then, with a tremendous blow, she brought her right fist down against the side of his head, crushing bone and the brain within.
5
Even as Hexiya glanced back, she saw Kaledria look directly at her. Her face was a mask of hatred. Her eyes glinted with malice and victory. Vile triumph and vicious loathing contorted her features.
And then Kaledria slammed her fist down, one last time into Ellakan's head - a killing blow that caved in his skull. A moment later Kaledria released her hold on him and he slumped to the floor.
I should not have turned to look , thought Hexiya. I should have - But there was no use in thinking that Ellakan's death was because of her.
She reeled. Though she knew the hatred was not Kaledria's, still it brought home to her how futile her quest had been. She had searched so hard for her and now she had found her. But she did not know what to do; did not know how to free her.
A sense of utter impotence welled up from within her and crashed over her in a great wave. When looking for Kaledria, she had hoped that her presence would be enough. She had thought that perhaps, seeing her, she would regain control of her body.
Now she saw how empty that wish had been.
And yet - though she knew it might well result in her death - she found herself moving forward. Towards her friend and love. Remembering how she had helped her before - taking upon herself part of the terrible wound she had suffered at the hands of the Warriors of Ruin.
With desperate hope, she wondered if she might affect an even greater cure this time - if only she could will it strongly enough.
But before she reached the edge of the crowd, a snarl pulled back Kaledria's lips, revealing her teeth. Slowly she raised her hand and pointed straight at Hexiya's face.
At this gesture, the entire crowd turned and looked directly at her. They were still for a moment. Then, as one, they shifted and walked towards her - slowly at first, as if being pulled by sluggish strings. Then, quickening, they reached for her - abhorrent, malignant marionettes that wanted nothing less than her life.
Hexiya leapt back from their grasp. She turned and ran, past tables where groups of drinking companions were suddenly looking around at her - taking notice of her as such people had not for many days. As she passed them they reached out to slow her flight or bring her down.
They were not quite quick enough.
She fled through the entrance and up the steps, pursued by those within. But she was faster than they were, and they hindered each other.
Out into the dappled sunshine beneath the trees she burst. Without slowing, she ran southwest along the Way of Bones. For a moment she feared that the passers by would turn and try to stop her; but no one seemed to notice her.
When she looked back she saw the people from the tavern still coming after her.
She turned left into a side street and ran up the narrow, cobbled way. Between two old and majestic houses she turned right, and lost herself in a maze of alleys and passages.
She halted eventually. Standing with her back to a wall, she breathed hard and looked around her.
The street was deserted. The only movement was that of a small animal, scavenging in a pile of rubbish. There was no sign or sound of pursuit. She had outdistanced and evaded the last, swiftest man several turns back.
It took her only a moment to decide what to do. She would try to follow Kaledria without revealing her presence to her. She would watch and wait for an opportunity to be with her alone.
She made her way back to the tavern - not by the way she had come, but by a circuitous route. Crossing a stone bridge over a tributary of the River Varant, she passed through Fossil Park and rounded the foot of Aluin Hill. All the way she ran swiftly but steadily, at a pace she could keep up for a long while should it be necessary. Her agility allowed her to pass quickly through crowds and to negotiate steps and turns with ease. As she went she kept herself alert for those who might still be looking for her.
Soon she was back at the Way of Bones. Emerging from an alleyway, she came out directly opposite the tavern. Taking cover behind the broad, gnarled trunk of a massive arrow-wood tree, she peered out.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She did not see anyone entering or leaving the place. But even as she watched, a procession of priestesses and acolytes marched past, obscuring her view.
It seemed that they were heading for the site of the new building at the top of the Way, where the temple drums thudded and boomed - beating more frenetically now, creating an overwhelming, throbbing pulsation that seemed powerful enough to split the very sky. Hexiya wished she could get away from it, for it was deeply disquieting. It was a clamour that jarred the senses. It seemed to call to some place or deity that was utterly alien and strange to the world.
No longer able to see the tavern, she forced her way through the marching throng. No one tried to stop her. Most did not even see her.
Urgency goaded her like a knife. More than quarter of an hour had passed since she had been chased from the tavern - enough time for Kaledria to be hidden from her again, if that should be the purpose of whatever it was that controlled her.
She descended the steps and passed through the door and the curtain. Groups of people still huddled around tables. She recognised a few of them. Some had even pursued her from the place. But no one so much as glanced at her now.
She noticed that the drinking-house was quieter than it had been. Many of those who had gone after her must not have returned. But the noise of an excited crowd still came from the back. Hearing it, Hexiya's heart beat harder in her chest and adrenaline surged within her.
A waitress, carryings several jugs of ale, bumped into her. She did not apologise, nor even look at her. She seemed startled for a moment as if she had been struck by something invisible.
Hexiya made her way to where Kaledria had been. She looked around the edge of a wooden wall.
A small crowd was still there. A man she did not recognise - a warrior, she guessed, judging from his build and the scars he bore - was taking a gaudily-painted harlot while the onlookers encouraged him and made suggestions. Of Kaledria there was no sign. But Ellakan's body still lay where it had fallen, bloody and broken - forgotten by those around him, just discarded as if he had never had his own life, as if he was nothing at all.
She approached a group standing to one side of the room. 'Excuse me,' she said to a young woman with long red hair and copper-coloured eyes.
The woman did not hear her.
'Excuse me.' This time she touched her on the shoulder.
The redhead turned, seeming to wonder what had disturbed her; apparently looked right through her for a moment; then focused on her. A measure of surprise was written on her face.
'I was here a few minutes ago,' said Hexiya. 'There was another woman on the table. Tall, with long black hair and light blue eyes. Wearing black leathers. Do you know where she went?'
The woman frowned, seeming barely to understand her. It was as if she was having trouble concentrating on what she was saying. After a moment she began to turn away.
Hexiya reached out and grasped her shoulder. 'Please. Help me.'
The woman bit her lip and looked down. 'Another woman?' she murmured, as if speaking in a dream. 'Yes, there was one. Yesterday, and the day before. She had amazing eyes. Yes, light blue, like you described. The men took it in turns to take her.' She trailed off.
Hexiya did not know if the woman was lying but the pain of the image was a sudden and terrible ache within her chest - a horror at the thought of what Kaledria might have had to endure. She desperately hoped the woman's words were only said to hurt her. 'And today?' she asked.
The woman shook her head. 'No. No one today except a couple of whores.' She nodded at the harlot. 'This one and one other.'
'What did the other one look like?'
The woman pursed her lips and seemed to fight to hold her concentration as Hexiya's gaze bored into her and her grip tightened on her shoulder. 'She had blonde hair, quite short,' she said at length. 'And green eyes. She was very lovely.' Squinting, she looked into Hexiya's face. 'She looked like you. Yes, just like you.'
CHAPTER FORTY
1
Kaledria walked back towards the mine. She did not feel physically very tired - her time in the city had been a rest compared with her time working the underground tunnels. But black despair filled her.
She thought of the fact that it had been intended she be impregnated. To make her conceive a child. Contempt mixed with anger. It was not possible. Not with them. She was other. She was different.
And then she had found herself descending from the upper building to the tavern, where she had been made to fight against Ellakan while a crowd had looked on. She could only conceive of one likely reason why.
It had been staged for Hexiya.
For a moment, thinking of the gloating, loathing manner her body had adopted, she wondered if Hexiya might think she was utterly lost. But the doubt lasted only for an instant. Their love was too strong. Only death or madness could break it.
As she walked, a tiny flicker of hope took root within her.
Hexiya's control had not been usurped. She must, Kaledria thought, be the last in all of Varanta. She did not understand how this could have happened. She could not begin to guess what might have made her immune. But as long as she was free and searching for a way to help her, there was just a chance that she might win her way back to freedom.
2
Hexiya returned to her apartment. She took a shower, changed into a nightshirt, made herself a cup of tea and slumped upon her sofa. Warmth flowed through her chilled limbs. Tiredness was a pleasant ache.
She might have enjoyed it but for the complete and heart-rending blackness that filled her.
It was clear that whatever controlled Kaledria's body could easily recognise and resist her. It could even plot so that she would come upon her only when it wanted. How then to bring back the woman that she knew?
I have to get close to her, she thought to herself. Close enough to touch her, to embrace her. It was all she could think of.
It seemed far too little.
She went to bed. Lying there, weary but unable to sleep, she was aware of the vibration of the temple drums beating out through the night. Just barely, she could hear their thudding, alien rhythms. That they were audible from here, so many miles away from the Way of Bones, astonished her.
Eventually, deep in the night, she drifted into an uneasy sleep. Dreams came to her - neither normal dreams, nor vivid visions wherein she talked with Obenaia or Romgallak or searched distant worlds for Kaledria.
This dream was different. It was black and hot and terrifying. She felt as if she was sinking through the infinite deeps of some immeasurable ocean. A gigantic, unseen beast lurked below her. She could hear the titanic pulse of its heartbeat. Soon this monster would drag her further down into the abyssal darkness and hold her there forever.
Then the dream shifted. She found herself in space, and all about her was the luminous serenity of distant stars. Regarding them, she wondered at their beauty. And then, for a moment, she thought she made out a face in the pattern of the trillion glittering points.
It was Obenaia's face. But even as she watched, it shifted and became Romgallak's. Within an instant it changed again, adopting the likeness of Kaledria. And lastly, it dissolved and reformed into her own visage - a stellar portrait that suddenly and inexplicably smiled a soft, warm smile.
Slowly then, she came awake. And just for a moment, as she opened her eyes, mauve light flickered around the room. Even as she wondered what it was, the soft purple radiance raced up the walls and gathered in a pool upon the ceiling. A moment later it faded to nothingness.
She blinked, wondering if she had dreamed the phenomenon. Then, overcome by tiredness, she settled back and slept.
Later, she awoke and saw that it was light outside. Vaguely, she told herself that she should get up; but slumber reclaimed her before she had moved.
Still later, she realised that it was dark again. She experienced the faintest puzzlement at the fact that she had slept all day. Yet she did not rise, but drifted off to sleep again.
After a time of blankness, she rose to consciousness and saw that the curious mauve light she had glimpsed before was flickering around the room again. It was faint against the daylight that shone through the gaps in the curtains. As she watched it, it faded away.
Once again she found herself unable to get up.
3
At dawn the next day Hexiya came wide awake within a matter of seconds. A moment of panic surged through her, swiftly subsiding. She sat up and ran her hands through her mussed hair.
Three nights and two days! she thought.
She could not understand what might have caused her to sleep for so long. Yet she felt well, and rested, and without the thick-headedness that usually went with over-sleeping.
Without any clue as to what might have happened, she rose and showered and had breakfast.
Later in the morning she returned to the Way of Bones. She wanted to go to the construction site at its end. Though she had been there when the foundations were being dug, she wondered if the beating of drums might signify great progress. Perhaps, she thought, she might learn something about the purpose of whatever had usurped control of the people of Varanta. Perhaps she might discern some figurehead or leader, or even see the man with steel skin.
Besides, the place was close to the tavern under the mansion. Her new search for Kaledria would begin from there.
The Way was as busy as it had been the previous day. Yet another procession was in progress. It looked like some kind of mixture between a funeral march and a coronation parade. Incense, smoke and music filled the air. Priests of the Red Moon and Priestesses of the White Moon wore strange headgear over their traditional garb - bizarre, fantastic, many-coloured masks and crowns. Hexiya thought that she recognised the style, and that it came from some ancient culture of the southern desert.
She moved with them, towards the unceasing pulse of the drums. Today the din of gongs had joined the noise, raising its volume still further. The deep and menacing current of sound continued to reverberate through the foundations of the city.
After a mile the Way emptied into the great bowl between the Overlord's Palace and the Hill of Shards. All around, people swarmed and hurried. Everyone seemed to have a purpose. There was a pattern and rhythm to their movement.
Hexiya took a steep, narrow alley up the flank of the hill. Turning into a tiny square, she climbed to the top of a wall from which she could look down.
Beneath her was a near-vertical drop of more than a hundred yards. What she saw spread out before her was astonishing.
Little more than a week ago she had regarded the construction-work. All she had seen were the trenches of foundations, the immense abyss of the central area, and a great hill of earth.
Now the underground areas and the bases of the walls were almost complete. The building's floor-plan was clear and distinct. And it was utterly strange.
More strangely still, she recognised it. It seemed to pull at the depths of her mind with a power of recognition that was so strong she thought it might overwhelm her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Sweat broke out across her chest and back. A single thought seared itself across her consciousness:
I know this place .
Though she could not recall the circumstances, she did not doubt the knowledge.
She looked at the grotesque and disquieting architecture. She saw the exotic, bizarre and hideous outline of it. It was vile and alien and weirdly biological. Something about it filled her with loathing. It was as if the very stone from which it was built radiated the vile stench of malevolence.
It was not a structure in which people might dwell. Rather, it was a kind of temple. Its floor-plan was a symbol of -
I know it , she thought again.
She was filled with the same sense of recognition as when she dreamed of searching endless worlds for Kaledria. She was filled with the same sense of familiarity that she felt when she dreamed of Obenaia or Romgallak.
It was a symbol of her enemy.
The knowledge rocked her. Afraid she would fall, she dropped from the wall back into the little square. Disorientation assailed her. A moment of nausea came and went. She put her back to the stonework and sank down upon the snow-covered ground.
Knowledge and memories welled up, hammering on the barriers of her mind, demanding that she acknowledge them. She wanted to; tried to; but could not quite bring them forth.
Long moments passed. Then something opened within her. It was as if a portal, previously locked and bolted, suddenly swung inwards; and now she could enter the palace of her inner self. She could walk the halls of her experience. She could wander the chambers of her memories. She could explore the libraries of her knowledge. She could peruse the galleries of her many talents.
Standing on the threshold, she sensed the vastness of it all - the enormity of the world within her. She felt frightened by its endlessness but saw that it was beautiful too.
The palace of her mind beckoned her.
She stepped inside.
Immediately, heat flooded through her chest. Heat flowed through her veins. Heat spread along her limbs.
Even as she watched, in awe, her hands began to glow. A light mauve radiance danced between her fingers.
She made it brighter, then dimmer. She wove the energy into a sphere, then extinguished it.
It was easy.
The palace within, it seemed, included a great store of such power. She had always had it but never known she possessed it. It had lain inside her all her life - a treasure chest, unopened.
She was like a woman who had been convinced she was blind, suddenly opening her eyes and finding that she could see.
Again she looked inside herself. She wanted to know . . . everything.
What am I?
She felt a rushing sensation. Fear wrenched at her. There was a terrible moment of being dragged from a safe place that had shielded her from the truth, to a place of appalling knowledge. Sudden, racking convulsions contorted her limbs. Terror reared within her, unbearably intense.
Then, abruptly, the dread vanished. And in the comparative calm that replaced it, she heard a voice. Obenaia's voice, from a dream she had had long ago - a dream she had forgotten, or never remembered.
We have enemies. You, as one of us, have enemies too.
In her mind she saw the alien architecture again. Saw its pattern, that symbolised one of the most ancient of those enemies. Her enemy. Kaledria's enemy. The enemy of all the -
Qallish.
The name came from nowhere.
That was what she was, she realised. That was what Kaledria was. Qallish. Like Romgallak and Obenaia and the others.
Her heart quietened and her breathing slowed. Her trembling limbs became still.
Slumped like a discarded doll in the corner of the wall, she looked around her. The snow-covered square was bright with reflected light. The suns shone down from where they rode in the red-mauve vault of the sky.
She did not climb to her feet, but pushed herself up from the ground with a thrust of the power that had, until now, lain dormant inside her. Cool fire seemed to burn through her body - a strength that, now it had been ignited, would never be extinguished.
**