The Bell Between Worlds (47 page)

He took a long breath. “It was an act of greatness,” he added, “for few have come so close to harming the last of the Priests of Souls. And the fact remains that, in those few moments, Naeo saved many lives.”

He turned his tired eyes to Sylas. “And she is your Glimmer.”

Sylas had listened with growing awe. This girl seemed more strange and distant than ever, and yet he felt curiously proud, as though her triumph was in part his own.

“How did she do it?” he asked.

Paiscion shrugged. “How did you open a chasm in the riverbed? It seems that there is something special about you both, something that makes you gifted in the arts of Essenfayle. And why should it
not
come to you naturally? After all, Essenfayle draws upon the most natural of all powers – the energy that flows through us and between us; an energy that is everywhere, in everything. All it needs to show itself is someone who understands it, senses it,
feels
it. Like a great composer feels the song of the flute, the yearning of the horn, the thunder of the drums, and from those things creates a symphony.”

Sylas looked at him blankly. “But I really don’t feel
any
of those things,” he protested.

“It is in you, Sylas, just as it is in Naeo,” said Paiscion, with a resolve that left the matter beyond doubt. “You felt it when you summoned the life in the river at the bridge and when you defeated the Ghor on the Barrens; you felt it when you ran at night through the dried streams of Salsimaine and when Naeo spoke to you in your dreams. You felt it when she summoned you with the Passing Bell.”

Simia had been scrutinising Mr Zhi’s piece of paper, absentmindedly twirling a lock of her hair round a finger, but she now blinked and looked up. “I thought only Merimaat and the elders knew how to use the bell?”

“That’s what we thought,” said Paiscion with a shrug. “But Naeo has surprised us before – why should she not do so again? Sylas knew nothing of Essenfayle three days ago, and yet the very next day he defeated a company of the Ghor!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What if Sylas and Naeo have a power the like of which no one has ever known? What if they – together – are all that Essenfayle promises to be? Two parts of a magnificent whole!”

Sylas shook his head and looked appealingly at Simia, but she had turned back to Mr Zhi’s message, holding it reverently between her hands.

He wanted to change the topic. “What happened after the Reckoning?” he asked. “What happened to Naeo?”

Paiscion lowered his eyes to the creaking deck. “Ah well, there lies the problem,” he said. “I’m afraid Naeo had made herself far too conspicuous and Thoth had no intention of letting her get away. He sent a legion of Ghor to find her and – despite Espasian’s efforts to protect her – they were both eventually taken. I was far across the bay by then, trying to help the few survivors to escape, but I heard reports that they fought even as they were carried away. When he was finally captured, Espasian was limp and lifeless – we assumed that he was dead.”

“If only,” mumbled Simia without raising her eyes from Mr Zhi’s note. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her notepad and began scribbling.

“So where do you think she is now?” asked Sylas, feeling once again that he already knew the answer.

Paiscion dropped his head. “There is only one place she can be,” he said reluctantly. “The Dirgheon.”

“Of course,” muttered Sylas, shaking his head. “How do we get to her in
there
?”

The Magruman sat up straight and looked surprised. “My dear Sylas,” he exclaimed, “I think the real question is how is Thoth going to keep you apart?”

Sylas looked unconvinced.

“You are clearly
destined
to come together!” exclaimed Paiscion, getting to his feet. “Can’t you see that? Now is the time! Now, when the people of Essenfayle are defeated, when our nation – Naeo’s nation – lies in ruins, when Thoth threatens to consume us all! This is Nature’s balance! Nature’s hand reaching out to set things straight. She is working through Naeo, through you both!”

Sylas shook his head, struggling to comprehend.

“Hey!” shouted Simia, staring wide-eyed at her notebook.

“You must have faith in the gifts you have been given!” said Paiscion, placing a hand on Sylas’s shoulder. “You have to see beyond…”

“I said,
hey
!” cried Simia, raising her head. “I’ve found something!”

“What?” snapped Paiscion irritably.

“Something… really, really strange.”

“What is it?”

Simia looked back at the piece of paper. “I was just reading this,” she said breathlessly, “the secret message... you know… ‘So at last we may be one’…”

“Yes, yes, we’ve talked about that!”

“I know
you
have,” snapped Simia, glaring up at Paiscion. “But you missed something. Something really important.”

Paiscion’s eyes suddenly dropped to the paper on Simia’s lap and a look of interest passed over his face.

“It seemed strange to me that the message wasn’t quite the same as the poem,” she said excitedly, holding up her notebook. “You see? It says ‘
So
at last’ instead of ‘
For then
at last’. Well, you wouldn’t expect Mr Zhi to make a mistake, so I started thinking that maybe there was a reason. Maybe the letters themselves are important. I started playing around with them – you know – mixing them up, reading them out of order, as if they were Ravel Runes or something…”

“Yes, yes,” said Paiscion impatiently. “What did you find?”

Simia crossed her arms and looked at him steadily. “I found the word
Naeo
,” she said, “and her father’s name,
Bowe.
As in Naeo, daughter of Bowe.”

Paiscion looked unimpressed. “I don’t see how that—”

“You will in a minute,” continued Simia defiantly. “When you take those letters away, only a few are left… an S… a Y… an L… an A…” She grinned as she saw a look of astonishment pass over their faces. With a flourish, she turned her notebook around so they could see her workings.

Sylas’s eyes moved rapidly over Simia’s scrawled letters.

Impossible.

“Our names…” he muttered.

“You see!” cried Simia. “The letters in ‘
So at last we may be one
’... they spell ‘Naeo Bowe’ and ‘Sylas Tate’!”

Sylas glanced from Simia to Paiscion.

“So your very names are a message!” exclaimed Paiscion excitedly, rushing over to grasp the piece of paper. His quick eyes flew across Mr Zhi’s message and he mouthed the names under his breath. “Yes! Yes, of course!” he exclaimed, the corners of his mouth twitching with excitement.

“Oh,” muttered Simia, poring over her notebook. “I think I made a mistake...”

The smile fell from Paiscion’s face. “Why?”

“Because there’s an ‘M’ left over. The ‘M’ in ‘may’.”

Paiscion thought for a moment and then slowly the smile returned. “Oh, this really is TOO perfect!” he exclaimed, looking reverently at Mr Zhi’s message. “Yes, that’s it! You see, over the years the Merisi have sent the Suhl many messages, some in the Samarok, some in letters, some in codes parchments or encrypted texts. There have been many authors too: Mr Zhi, the Bringers, other elders of the Merisi. But one thing always remains the same...”

“What?” probed Simia impatiently.

“They sign their messages with a single letter... ‘M’!”

Simia frowned, but slowly her face filled with wonder.

Sylas grew pale. “So you’re saying that my name is just part of a message?”

“Not just your name, and not just any message,” said the Magruman, his voice quivering with excitement. “You yourself are part of the ultimate message! The message we have all been waiting for since Merisu wrote his poem! The ancients – at least the ancients of our world – believed that the soul had five parts: the shadow, the essence, the spirit, the soul and, very importantly, the
name
, the Ren as they called it. They believed that the name was more than just a label, much more. It defines you. It makes you who you are.”

“But hold on a minute...” muttered Sylas, rubbing his temple. “That’s… that’s the name my
mum
gave me,” he said.

“Well indeed, and there’s only one explanation!” cried Paiscion. “She must have
known
about all this, all along.”

“She
couldn’t
have…”

“Why shouldn’t she have known?” said Simia, her cheeks now flushed with excitement. “We already know that she knew the Merisi – her Glimmer even! She might have known them since before you were born! And if she did, she’d definitely know Merisu’s poem!”

Sylas shook his head and stared at the deck. “But
why
? Why would she?” he exclaimed. “It’s my
name
!”

“To
speak
to us, Sylas,” said Paiscion, with a solemn expression. “To tell us beyond any doubt that you and Naeo are those foretold by Merisu and our whispered myths. That you are meant to be here, that you are meant to find Naeo. That together you will do the unthinkable.”

Sylas raised his eyes and stared out of the nearest porthole, trying to gather his thoughts. A grey wave crashed against the glass and fell away to reveal a wild, churning expanse of water stretching as far as he could see. How could any of this be true? Just days ago he had been forgotten and alone in a dusty corner of Gabblety Row, and now he was supposed to believe that he had some kind of special destiny? It was ridiculous.

Aware that the room had fallen silent he glanced at Simia. “I just can’t make sense of it,” he said, for once hoping that his strong-minded companion had something to say.

Simia leaned forward. “It’s
your
name, Sylas,” she said. “Maybe it’s also your mother’s message to you. She’d have known that you wouldn’t believe any of this – how could you? And what better way to tell you that she knew who you really are? That this is what she knew you had to do.”

Sylas looked through the porthole on to the ceaseless motion of the waves and tried to think. Maybe this was what she had intended. But even if it was, how would it bring him any closer to finding her? And yet surely she wouldn’t knowingly do anything to keep them apart?

“If it
is
a message for me, what do I do with it?”

“Start by believing it,” said Paiscion, patting him on the shoulder as he strode across the room. When he reached the door, he whirled about. “Come! To the deck!”

“What for?”

“To compose a symphony!” cried the Magruman.

“The name!” raged the mercurial voice, possessing Bowe’s mind, ravaging his thoughts. “The name of her mother!”

Tears poured down Bowe’s cheeks as he strained against his bonds, his glistening body twisting on the stone table, his teeth drawing blood from his lips. His mind had almost given up its battle, overwhelmed by the forces that assailed it. He was lost in a vast unending torrent of emotion and thought. Now more than ever he cursed his gift, cursed all that made him the Scryer that he was, for here, in the presence of Thoth, he felt as though all the hate, love, joy, despair, anger, all the gathered feelings of mankind, were flowing through him, possessing him, forcing from him all sense of himself. He felt flayed, empty, exhausted.

And yet, still, he refused to speak. He shook his bleeding head.

A roar of unimaginable horrors sounded in his ears, a chorus of raucous screams and soulless wails, smashing his head against the stone, tearing through his mind. He felt his ears begin to bleed.

“No!” he cried. “Kill me if you will! I WILL NOT tell you.”

He felt a terrible chill pass over his whole body. Something icy and damp crept around his skull. The stench of rotting flesh filled his nostrils with new intensity. He felt his head grasped by cold, deathly fingers, then turned sharply to one side.

“Do you see her?”

He gasped and strained against his bonds. Bound to a chair on the other side of the chamber was a girl. Her face was white and drawn, her frightened eyes streaming with tears.

An overwhelming sob rose in his chest.

“Naeo!” he cried, reaching out to her with a manacled hand.

Once again the chilling, resonant voices of many filled the chamber.

“I will not kill you, I will kill her.”

“What exquisite
song
must
nature
sing?”

T
HE SKY WAS DARK
and the low-hanging clouds seemed almost to brush the tops of the shattered rigging. The dank grey estuary extended as far as the eye could see, its vast expanse making the broken carcass of the
Windrush
seem even more hapless and frail. Everything was in motion: the great tempest of waves that buffeted the creaking timbers; the low fog that muddled the horizon; the drapery of frayed ropes and torn sails that flapped and fluttered in the wind. A powerful scent of salt and seaweed filled the thick sea air, which resonated with the low rumble of waves crashing against a distant shore.

Sylas and Simia sat hunched against the elements on a pile of damp wood and canvas, sipping from large glasses of water, staring out at the great tumult of surf and cloud. Neither knew quite what to say.

“Where do you think he’s gone?” asked Simia after a long silence.