The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1) Page 2

  ‘Moreover, there’s not a trace of the Secret Art left on Santhenar, apart from my own. I’ve sought out all the old Arts, incorporated the best of them into the tears and destroyed the rest.’ Jal-Nish paused, then added, ‘And I’ve made sure no one can use them but me.’

  Nish tried to conceal his growing panic. It was hopeless. He was defeated before he began, so what was the point of trying? Indeed, what was the point of anything?

  Jal-Nish glanced to his left, towards a pedestal rough-sawn from black meteoritic iron. Above it, floating in the air like melon-sized balls of swirling, shimmering quicksilver, and emitting a low humming sound, were the tears that had been formed by the explosion of the node of power at Snizort twelve years ago. They were darker, more swirling, complex and ominous now, and Nish felt his gut tighten at the sight of them.

  The humming rose slightly in pitch. ‘The Profane Tears. I call the left-hand tear Gatherer,’ Jal-Nish went on, ‘for it’s set to gather every detail that my watchers, listeners and sniffers uncover; both the public ones and those that are hidden, secret, invisible. The right-hand tear is Reaper, which enforces my will in all things. Gatherer and Reaper are the perfect servants: ever watchful, utterly trustworthy, and they ask nothing of me. Can you hear the song of the tears, Cryl-Nish? One day Gatherer and Reaper could be calling to you.’

  Nish shivered. The teardrop-shaped globes were made of nihilium, the purest substance in the world, and one that held the print of the Art more tightly than any other. The Profane Tears had brought only ruin since the army-annihilating moment of their formation. Just days afterwards Jal-Nish had stolen them, slain everyone who knew of their existence and, at the end of the war, when every node on Santhenar had been destroyed, all the Secret Art became his. With the tears he held absolute power, and if no one else could use them he could never be beaten.

  ‘They’ve changed,’ said Nish, unable to tear his eyes away.

  ‘As I absorb the old Arts into the tears, they grow. And I’m close to achieving my ultimate goals, Cryl-Nish. So very close.’

  ‘What goals?’ Nish croaked.

  Jal-Nish just smiled. He could be lying, though his words had the ring of truth, and black, uncontrollable despair washed over Nish. He was all alone and there was no way out.

  Jal-Nish’s one-eyed gaze softened, an odd thing in itself, then he said gently, ‘My son, my only son, you’re all I have left. Why have you forsaken me?’

  Nish stared at him. His sister, who was two years older, had died in childbirth many years ago, but as far as he knew, his brothers were still alive. ‘What’s happened to my brothers?’

  His father’s jaw knotted. ‘Dar-Nish died of the flesh-wasting disease in the last days of the lyrinx war. Mun-Mun was slain by rebels seven years ago, and Vigg-Nish had an apoplexy last summer and never recovered. None of them gave me grandchildren, and I can no longer father children.’ Jal-Nish stared blankly at him, and Nish was astonished to see a tear in his eye, though it was swiftly drawn back in. ‘I have only you now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Nish said dully. He hadn’t been close to his brothers, who took after their father in all important ways, but nonetheless he felt the wrench, the emptiness.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to speak of it.’

  ‘And Mother?’ She had repudiated Jal-Nish after his maiming but Nish had always hoped she’d go back.

  ‘Never mention her name!’ Jal-Nish hissed. ‘She’s dead to us. She doesn’t exist!’

  ‘Dead?’ said Nish. ‘You haven’t …?’ The thought was so awful that he couldn’t follow it through.

  ‘She lives,’ grated his father. ‘She doesn’t deserve to, after the callous way she abandoned me when I needed her most, but I’ll allow no one to raise a finger against her.’ With an irritable gesture, he dismissed the topic.

  ‘What is your choice, Cryl-Nish? Will you bow before me, be my first lieutenant and do my will in all things, without question?’ His eye grew liquid with yearning. He’d treated his sons harshly but family was the one thing he’d cared about, and now only Nish remained. ‘Do so and I will give you wealth undreamed of, the most beautiful women in the world, and power second only to my own. Everything you wish for can be yours, and all you need do is say one word.’ Jal-Nish swallowed, then said softly, ‘I need you, Son. I’m so alone and I can’t fight on by myself forever.’

  The pleading tone, and the admission of weakness, shocked Nish. ‘What do you mean, “fight on”?’ he said sceptically.

  ‘Don’t judge me. You have no idea of the vicious creatures that lurk in the eternal void between the worlds, desperate to get out, but I do. I’ve seen them with the tears, and every one of them hungers for the prize: the jewel of worlds that is Santhenar. They can only be kept at bay by a strong leader with the whole world united behind him. The least hint of rebellion and they’ll swarm over us.’

  Nish did know of those perils, better than most, and it gave him pause. Santhenar had been troubled by the void before. Several of the mighty Charon had come here in ancient times, and Santhenar had been invaded some two hundred and twenty years ago, when the Way between the Worlds had been opened. Thranx and lorrsk had briefly terrorised the world before being exterminated, but the huge winged lyrinx had thrived in remote corners of the globe and, once their numbers had increased, begun the war for Santhenar which had lasted for a hundred and fifty years.

  They were gone now, to bring order to the beautiful world of Tallallame, and Nish found it hard to believe that Santhenar was again under threat. It wasn’t easy to escape the void, and his father’s claim had the ring of self-justification. The assertion was easily made and impossible to disprove. Yet Nish clung to the hope that he’d been right and his father wasn’t irredeemable. That there might still be some good left in him, and that he, Nish, could save his father from himself.

  ‘How do you know, Father?’ Jal-Nish was happy for the world to see him as a black-hearted monster, but he needed his one surviving son to know that he’d acted in a noble cause.

  ‘I’m not mad or deluded, whatever you think. The tears told me.’

  ‘Told you?’

  ‘Gatherer can see far beyond the boundaries of the world; and out in the void a terrible threat is growing.’

  Nish’s scepticism must have shown on his face, for Jal-Nish’s eye grew hard. ‘If I must fight alone, I will. Deny me and you’ll rot in your stinking cell for another ten wasted years, but nothing will change. No one else can use the tears – save you, Cryl-Nish, if you prove yourself. With their power I don’t weaken and I’ll never grow old.’ Nish saw a faint hesitation there, a shadow in his father’s eye as if the inevitable decline into old age bothered him. ‘Rather, my wits and strength increase every day – unlike yours.’

  Nish glanced in the mirror and involuntarily clenched his fists. He couldn’t endure ten more years of such degradation, but he was coming to think that his plan had been self-delusion. His father was a monster who could not be shaken by the darkness in his soul, for he knew it already. That left Nish with only one alternative.

  Yet how could he betray all he held dear by swearing to his father? He felt that temptation more strongly now than ever. Nish had always been ambitious; as a young man he’d dreamed about making something of himself, having the world look up to him, and pleasing his demanding father too. And even now, after all Jal-Nish had done to him, Nish still felt that urge. He didn’t think he would ever be free of it. As Jal-Nish’s lieutenant he’d have power, wealth and, most of all, respect. He’d been respected after his heroic deeds at the end of the lyrinx wars, but no one could see him as he was now and feel anything but contempt. He was the lowest of the low, and Nish so desperately wanted to rise again.

  But at what price? There was always a price, with his father. What cruelty, what evil, what brutalities would he require Nish to carry out to prove his loyalty, or just for Jal-Nish’s own amusement?

  ‘You haven’t had a decent meal, a flask of wine, or
a woman in ten years,’ said Jal-Nish softly. ‘You always were a man of strong appetites, Cryl-Nish. I know how much your lusts mean to you, for I was like that too, before the tears burned all that out of me. Just say the word, my son.’

  Nish squeezed his eyes shut, for they were burning and his mouth had flooded with saliva. He was overcome by the mere thought of good food. He ached, he yearned for it, but he fought down the urge as he’d done so often.

  He would not become a disciple of his father, which left only one choice, to attack, even though there could be only one outcome – utter ruin. The temptation eased and Nish tried to form a new plan. Could he lie convincingly to Jal-Nish, the world’s greatest liar, then get close enough to snatch the tears and cut his father off from their power? He didn’t have much hope for this plan either, for he wasn’t sure he could use the tears if he got them, but he had to try.

  ‘Father,’ Nish said, and the words were so bitter in his mouth that it took every ounce of control to say them without vomiting in self-disgust, ‘I will bow before you and do your bidding in all things, without question.’

  Again Jal-Nish’s cheek twitched, but before Nish could move, his father held up his right hand. ‘Forgive me, beloved son, but you’ll understand that I must test your word. I trust you, of course, yet faithless men with black hearts have sworn to me before.’

  ‘Test me?’ said Nish. A chill spread through him. His father knew everything; he couldn’t possibly deceive him.

  ‘It’s the smallest trifle,’ said Jal-Nish. ‘Just look upon this image as you swear to serve me.’

  He reached out towards the right-hand tear, whereupon Reaper pulsed and swelled until a filament streamed out of it, to hang in the air before Nish. It slowly formed into one of his starvation-induced hallucinations, only far more real. This one showed his beautiful Irisis on her knees, gazing lovingly up at him, but before he could look away the executioner’s blade flashed down, ending her life and his dreams. He saw the horror of it, over and over and over, and though he fought harder to contain himself than he’d ever fought before, to ignore the provocation, Nish snapped.

  ‘I’ll never bow to you!’ he screamed, propelling himself forwards so violently that he took Jal-Nish by surprise. Leaping onto the table, he hurled himself at his father. ‘I curse you and all you stand for, and I’m going to tear your evil world down.’

  He got so very close. He had his hands around Jal-Nish’s throat, below the platinum mask, before Jal-Nish could move. But as Nish’s hands closed on something hot and inflamed, his clearsight saw right though the mask to the horror that lay beneath and which, for all his father’s power, he hadn’t been able to repair. As Nish’s fingers tightened, Jal-Nish shrieked. Involuntarily, Nish’s grip relaxed and the instant it did, he was lost. It wasn’t in him to harm his father and Jal-Nish now knew it.

  He tore free, knocked Nish onto the table and stood over him, breathing heavily, the mask askew. But again Jal-Nish hesitated. He must care!

  ‘You little fool. I did everything for you.’

  ‘You had me whipped!’ Nish choked. ‘You killed Irisis. You sent me to the most degraded prison in the world –’

  ‘You were weak; a prisoner of your feelings for others.’ Jal-Nish spat the word at him. ‘What I’ve put you through has made you strong, as all I’ve suffered has made me what I am. I’ve given you the strength to become the man you’ve always wanted to be – a leader like me.’

  ‘I despise everything you stand for. I’ll never –’

  Jal-Nish didn’t hesitate now. He thrust one finger towards Reaper, which brightened and grew. As the song of the tears rose to a shrill wail, pain such as Nish had never felt sheared through his skull. It was an agony so complete that he couldn’t think, couldn’t act, couldn’t even stand up. He rolled off the table onto the floor, curled up into a tight shuddering ball.

  Dimly, Nish saw his father wipe his throat fastidiously with a silk cloth and adjust the mask. ‘Traitorous son! Once more you betray me, as your mother did, and everyone I’ve ever trusted, and most of all, her.’

  He stabbed his forefinger towards a hanging curtain, which slid out of the way. A crystalline coffin stood behind it, its walls and lid as clear as if they were made from frozen tears. The coffin drifted towards them, stopped an arm’s length away and stood on end.

  Nish looked through the lid and screamed. Inside lay the perfectly preserved body of his beautiful Irisis, unchanged from when he’d last seen her alive. Unmarred save for the thread-like red seam where her head had been cunningly rejoined to her body. Her eyes were looking right at him and he imagined that her pupils dilated, though that had to be another of his father’s torments. She had gone where no living man could follow.

  ‘I was wrong about you, Son. You still don’t have the strength to take what you’ve always wanted. Before you can be reforged, you must go back to the furnace. Ten more years,’ said Jal-Nish, and walked away without a backwards glance.

  TWO

  Maelys shivered, turned the page, moved her cushion closer to the embers, then closer still. Books burned hot but unfortunately not for long, and once the last of her clan’s ancient library was gone, the creeping mountain cold would surely freeze them solid.

  Unwilling to think about matters she was helpless to change, she went back to the story, trying to memorise every word before her precious, forbidden book of tales ended up in the fire. Tiaan and the Lyrinx was a wonderful tale but, because of the way her mother and aunts were muttering around the cooking brazier, Maelys was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. They were always chattering, though lately their talk had grown urgent, calculating. They were plotting something and she knew she wasn’t going to like it. Bent over the fuming brazier with their lank hair hanging across their faces, they looked just like the three evil witches in Snittiloe’s scurrilous tale.

  Maelys’s little sister, Fyllis, who was playing with some carved animals in the corner, sat up suddenly, head to one side. Maelys jumped, for she knew that look. Not again!

  Her hand crept towards the egg-shaped taphloid hanging on its chain between her breasts, well hidden there, even from her family. Though only the size of a chicken’s egg, it was heavy. Its surface was smooth yellow metal, neither gold nor brass. Pressing hard on the round end opened it to reveal the dial of a clockwork moon-calendar.

  The taphloid had been a secret gift from her father when she’d turned twelve, but it never needed winding, and that was strange. Equally strange were the other little numbered and lettered faces that only appeared rarely and fleetingly. She had no idea what they were for, but it was the only treasure she had left and Maelys felt safe whilever she wore it. Her father had warned her never to let anyone see it, and never to take it off.

  The women stood bolt upright, three staring statues carved out of gnarled root wood, then Maelys’s mother, Lyma, jerked her head. Maelys darted to the door, pulled the hanging blanket down so not a glimmer of light could escape, then eased the door open to look out into the ruins.

  A pang struck her at what the God-Emperor had done to their beautiful home. Her ancestors had dwelt here for thirty generations, carefully managing their alpine orchards, tending their flocks and forests, and extending Nifferlin Manor whenever the rowdy clan grew too large for it. When Maelys had been little she’d had the run of a dozen halls, a hundred rooms, and had been welcome everywhere. With twenty-eight young cousins to play with it had been a carefree time, despite the war and the loss of so many uncles and older male cousins. But when the war ended, instead of the peace everyone so longed for, the God-Emperor had come to power, and in a few brief years Clan Nifferlin had lost everything.

  Now the menfolk were dead or in prison, the women and children scattered or enslaved. The manor had been ransacked a dozen times, its walls torn down to the foundations. Anything that couldn’t be carried away had been smashed. All that remained were these three rooms, and only the one Maelys and her family cowered in had a com
plete roof.

  Something skittered across the sky; the little hairs on her arms stood up, then she heard gravel crunch on the road. ‘They’re coming!’ she hissed. Maelys slipped inside and bolted the door, not that it could hold out the God-Emperor’s troops. Nothing could.

  ‘Fyllis?’ said their mother urgently.

  Fyllis was staring at the door. She winced at the first shout outside, winced again as a sledge-hammer smashed into the wall of the next room. Putting her hands to her temples, she began to hum under her breath and the room blurred as if fog had drifted under the door.

  It wasn’t fog, but a subtle shifting of reality. Too subtle, for now hammers were thudding all around, sections of plaster and gilt ceiling smashing on rubble, pieces of wall collapsing. Their orders must be to bring down every last remnant of Nifferlin Manor. How they’d crow when they found the cowering women, the girl and the child cringing here, and gloat over the reward.

  ‘Hey,’ said a soldier’s voice just outside. ‘There’s a door here.’

  ‘Can’t be, or we’d have seen it last time,’ said a more distant voice.

  The latch was rattled, then a hammer thudded against the timber. The bolt held, though the door couldn’t take many such blows. ‘Hoy! Lantern-bearer,’ yelled the first soldier.

  ‘Fyllis!’ hissed Lyma.

  Fyllis glanced at her mother, took a deep breath, squeezed her head between her hands and the fog thickened until all Maelys could make out was a faint glow from the fire.

  ‘Don’t see no door nor wall,’ said the second soldier. ‘You’re imagining things. It’s just old magic lingering in the ruins.’ His voice went squeaky as he said ‘old magic’, then he continued, ‘Give us a hand to knock down this chimney. Seneschal Vomix wants the place razed.’

  ‘I definitely saw something and I’m not going to the torture pits because we didn’t find it. I’m calling in the wisp-watcher. Hoy, scrier – over here!’