The Bell Between Worlds (34 page)

In the end he said simply: “But they didn’t get you, Simsi.” Simia smiled with some effort. “No, they didn’t.”

“So how did you stay alive?”

“Skills. Cunning. Guile,” she said, grinning, brushing her sleeve across her eyes. He smiled with her.

She brought her shoulders up and rubbed her arms to warm herself against the growing cold, then tucked her hands beneath the sleeves of the coat.

“It was what Merimaat told me that helped more than anything. During the peaceful time, in the six months or a year before Thoth came, I got to know this place so well that it felt like part of me. I knew the sounds in the trees, the way the wind moved, how the rivers flowed. I started to see them as I had seen the stepping stones that morning – that they weren’t things
outside
of me, moving
around
me, doing things
to
me – they were part of my world... part of me almost.” She turned and looked at him. “That if I was open to them, they would help me, just like the stones. And when it all got bad, that’s just how it was. I trusted that the world around me would help me, and it did. Somehow I knew when and how to keep myself hidden – behind banks, in ditches, holes, riverbeds. When water was poisoned, somehow I managed to find streams that no one knew about. I knew how to keep myself downwind of the Ghor so they wouldn’t smell me, how to move through the grass so I couldn’t be seen, where to run at night without any moon. I wasn’t the only one – anyone who knows Essenfayle can do that kind of thing. But I was good...” She turned to him with an earnestness in her eyes. “
Really
good.”

He looked at her with admiration: suddenly she seemed a little older, and for a moment she almost seemed to fill the many folds of her father’s coat.

“Will you teach me?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Sure. If you teach me about those birds you talked about.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“You know, the ones made of paper and string.”

Sylas suddenly remembered telling her about his kites when they were in the Mutable Inn. “Oh yes, sure I...”

Suddenly they heard something behind them.

“As I remember you in those days, Simsi, you were quiet as a mouse...” Ash pushed himself up on one elbow, fingering the bandage around his head. “How things change.”

Simia rushed over and helped him to sit up, but was waved off. Ash looked about him a little unsteadily.

“Well, I’ve either died and gone to hell, or I’ve lived and... gone to hell.”

Simia giggled. “Ash, you sound as good as new. How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” said Ash witheringly. He cast his eyes around the makeshift camp. “So what kind of mess are we in now?”

They told him everything that had happened. When Simia described the earth cracking in two and the deafening thunder as the chasm closed up, even Ash seemed impressed. He looked Sylas up and down.

“I knew there was something about you,” he said.

Sylas smiled, dropping his eyes.

At that moment they heard muffled voices somewhere out in the blackness. They all fell silent, instinctively lowering themselves to the ground. They soon made out two male voices talking rather loudly a short distance away in the direction of the river.

“Espen and Bayleon,” Sylas said, relieved.

They heard Espen’s words first: “… And so I followed the boy to the mill, and then here.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Bayleon. “But why didn’t you just come and tell us when you reached the mill?”

“You know I can’t show myself in public, Bayleon. It’s not time for that. There are spies everywhere – even in the mill.”

“Not in the mill,” grunted Bayleon. “I’d stake my life on it.”

“Well, after all I have seen in the past few years I wouldn’t stake mine. It was a risk I couldn’t take.”

“So instead you risk our lives by having a Slithen spy on us!”

“I couldn’t have known it would betray me,” protested Espen. “I had worked with it before without problems and I was paying it well. Anyway, I had to be able to protect the boy while keeping myself a secret. Surely you understand that?”

“No. I don’t understand at all,” Bayleon replied gruffly.

Both men fell silent and all Sylas could hear was the thud of footsteps in the dirt. Finally the two huge black silhouettes emerged through the gloom, striding directly towards the camp. They clambered into the circle, dropped their loads of firewood and looked about them.

“That’s a very fine fire pit,” said Espen, his voice betraying his surprise. He looked at Simia. “You’ve done this before.”

She grinned, her white teeth glowing in the darkness. “Told you,” she said, patting the earthen bank. “I know my way around this place.”

A fire was laid and before long they were all gathered around, sitting back against the bank, the trace of an orange flicker playing across their faces. Bayleon had prepared a pot of meat and potatoes and laid it among the embers, and the first warming aromas were rising in trails of steam. Everything was silent except for an occasional crackle or hiss from the fire and all were lost in their thoughts, staring into the fire, watching the dancing flames as they licked the sides of the pit and occasionally leapt into the blackness.

Simia was sitting next to Espen and was trying to draw him into conversation. She searched his face with such interest and attentiveness that it was as if they were engaged in the most fascinating debate, but in truth Espen seemed hardly aware of her: his eyes darting around the group, his expression solemn and distracted. Occasionally his lips seemed to move as though murmuring something under his breath, playing out his own secret conversation in the confines of his mind.

Bayleon sat silent and alone on one side of the fire, his face dark and serious, only occasionally raising his eyes to glance at Sylas or Espen. He had not spoken to anyone since his return.

Ash looked bored. He tapped a spoon on his knee absentmindedly and looked about for some kind of amusement. His eyes moved from Bayleon’s face and then to Espen’s, but they didn’t acknowledge him. He tugged at his great mop of hair in frustration, then placed his spoon at his side. Quietly, he rested his hands on his knees and straightened his fingers. They danced lightly as though he was playing on a piano, shifting from side to side, up and down according to some strange and inaudible rhythm. Above him, the many sparks that rose from the fire began to perform a silent ballet in the darkness, leaving a trail of incandescence in their wake. The pinpricks of fire swayed and whirled, leapt and fell, tracing impossible pathways through the air. His display soon drew the eyes of the group and they watched in amusement as the sparks began to form patterns in the night sky, gliding between, above and below one another until they seemed to settle in one place.

“There you are,” said Ash triumphantly. “What need of the night sky when we can make our very own!”

Simia looked at the sparks more closely and then frowned. She cocked her head on one side.

“It is!” she gasped, pointing up at the glowing lights. “It’s the stars! That’s the Southern Star! And there – look! That’s the Panhandle!”

She reached into her bag, pulled out her notebook and flicked to a page towards the back. “Yes! I thought so! And that’s the Bear!” she cried, jabbing her finger at a collection of sparks and then pointing at the page in her notebook. “And there – there’s the Ewe!”

Bayleon and Espen tilted their heads and shifted to get a better look.

“Clever,” grunted Bayleon with a smile, returning his eyes to the fire. “Just don’t be long about it – the whole point of a fire pit is to avoid being seen...”

“I agree,” murmured Espen, breaking his silence for the first time. He gave Ash a nod of appreciation. “But you
are
good. You control them well.”

Ash shrugged. “Nothing exciting,” he said, watching as the patterns slowly rose into the night and faded away, “just Essenfayle.”

Espen raised an eyebrow and a look of amusement passed over his face.

“
Just
Essenfayle indeed,” he murmured. “When you have Essenfayle, what need of anything else?”

Ash gave no answer, but he shook his head and smiled to himself.

Sylas sat alone on the far side of the fire. He had been only distantly aware of the astonishing lights above his head: his body was tired and his mind was full. He was aware that he ought to be amazed by this new wonder, that he ought to be excited about all that had happened in that impossible, magical, overwhelming day, but above all else, he wanted to clear his head and sleep. He wanted quiet, a brief solace from all these marvels – some time to rest, that was all.

He shifted position, trying to get comfortable, hoping that the flames would soothe him and the darkness would ease him into slumber. But, as the little camp fell silent and the fire offered its lullaby of crackles and hisses, the world of miracles rushed back in. His mind filled with the astonishing sights and sounds of his journey.

So many things to be understood. So many questions.

He puffed out his cheeks and turned over. There was no way he was going to sleep. He looked over at Espen as he lay back with his cloak arranged about him, occasionally nodding or shaking his head as Simia spoke. Surely, if anyone could answer his questions, it was Espen. He had been there at the beginning, in Gabblety Row; he had helped him to reach the Passing Bell; and now he had suddenly reappeared out of nowhere, to save them all.

Sylas pushed himself up on one elbow and opened his mouth to speak, but before he made a sound, Espen lifted his eyes.

“It would seem a good time to talk, Sylas, would it not?” he asked.

Sylas drew breath. How did he—?

“No vicious beasts snapping at your heels, no mystic bells ringing in your ears... We must take what few opportunities we have, don’t you think?” An enigmatic smile traced his lips.

Sylas smiled. “I was... I was just thinking the same thing. I wanted to ask you—”

“There are three pressing questions,” interrupted Espen, raising his hand by way of apology. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and rested his elbows on his knees. “The first is who I am. The second is why I am here. The third – and I must say that this is far more interesting – is who the devil are you?” There was a gruff bark, the slap of a bolt and suddenly the large timber door fell away. A cool blue-grey light flooded the interior of the carriage. The prisoners shielded their eyes and retreated to the furthest corners, drawing closer to one another in fear.

One of the Ghor guards vaulted down on to the riverbank and heaved a crude wooden ladder into place while the other bounded back into the crowd of prisoners and began hauling them to their feet.

“Get up, vermin!” it growled, pushing them towards the ladder. “Time for a boat ride!”

The terrified captives filed down the ladder, squinting to see what new torment awaited them. They found themselves on a riverbank, in the dank remains of a wooded glade. The trees had lost all of their leaves, which had long since rotted away, and the silver trunks were hung about with decaying bark, which gave them a ragged, unnatural appearance. Large pendulous clouds rolled above them, cutting out the sunlight and cloaking the scene in a cool grey. Most of the Suhl lowered their eyes, knowing all too well what place this was, not wishing to see any more of it than they had to. To them, the borderlands of the Barrens were a reminder of their defeat, of the abominations of the Reckoning, and worse, a promise of what lay at the end of their journey.

But while most trudged despairingly between the armoured Ghor guards, trailing towards the barge, two of their number were different. Fellfith and Hinksaff had slowed to the rear of the group, their eyes casting about anxiously, their gait certain and purposeful, their faces lively and focused. They counted the guards in the glade, spied the Slithen harnessed to the barge, peered into the deathly woods beyond, looking for signs of others.

It was this energy that had drawn the attention of the Scryer.

Bowe had also slowed to the rear of the column so he could watch them more closely, and he became anxious at what he saw. He looked past the world of sight and sound, past the steely visages of the two men, past the muddle of the crowd. He saw instead a rich tapestry of colour and form: the piercing blues of hope, the swirling steely greys of courage, the sharp, stabbing reds of rage. He knew the meaning of these things and it filled him with dread.

He drew alongside them, fell into step and took them both by the arm.

“Don’t!” he whispered urgently.

“Silence!”

One of the guards leapt forward and swiped at Bowe’s chest. Despite his size, Bowe was lifted bodily into the air and hurled backwards, landing some distance from the other prisoners. He slithered down the riverbank and came to rest just inches from the foul grey waters.

“Bowe!” cried Fathray, straining against one of the other guards.

Bowe groaned and looked up. He saw all too well what was about to happen. Fellfith and Hinksaff were already in motion, using the disturbance as a distraction to step clear of the column of prisoners, gather their thoughts and begin.

Hinksaff turned his freckled, youthful face to the skies, casting his arms up into the air as if praying to some god. And he seemed to receive an answer, for instantly the clouds began to boil and swirl, heave and shift. Some began to fall from the skies, others twisted and turned, while others still folded in upon themselves, exposing the blue sky above. Shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom, sending welcome beams on to the riverbank, over the watching crowd, into the eyes of the Ghor. They darted and wove, flashed and subsided, disappearing here only to reappear somewhere else, brighter and more intense. The effect was utter confusion, a bewildering muddle of light and dark, motion and form: an effect that was only compounded when the falling clouds swooped over the river, descended over the barge, the Slithen, the unsuspecting Ghor.

But that was not all: Fellfith was at his friend’s side, his arms extended towards the river, sweeping in wide arcs over its surface. As if answering his call, the waters began to swell and churn, the surface boiling and frothing as though heated by the sun’s rays. But it was not the sun that made the sickly waters bubble: it was what lay within. Suddenly a great surge of life erupted from the deep: great shoals of leaping, grey-flanked fish; writhing hordes of eels; troops of scampering crabs; armies of wriggling worms; and scurrying legions of insects all closed in upon the bank, filling the barge, clambering over the Slithen, scuttling between foot, fin and claw.