Читать книгу The Malice - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 8

Thoughts come like the tide from a distant shore. They get closer, louder, more insistent. Gradually, they gain form, lifting through the fog, breaking the spell.

As awareness returns, Vesper finds herself leaning into the hole, hands hovering inches from a feathered hilt, perfectly aligned with the upturned wings, like partners before a dance.

The girl blinks, the sword does not.

It glares at her for a few moments, judgemental, then the eye closes with sudden disinterest. Apparently, she is not the one it wants.

She thinks of her father, standing in the same spot earlier that day, and she begins to understand why he was afraid.

It is tempting to repack the room and turn her back on it but she knows that won’t work. The sword will keep calling and wearing her father down. He is already tired, it will only be matter of time before he succumbs.

Something must be done.

She swallows, realising that she has come to a decision.

The sword has to go. She resolves to take it to Genner and let him deal with it. There are many knights after all. They will find one and give the sword to them. Afterwards she will come home and it will be safe again. Her father will be free.

She removes the sword from the storeroom to the kitchen and returns its box to the hole, covering it with floorboards. Then she replaces all of the boxes, trying her best to match their original positions. Finished, she shuts the door and blocks it as her father had earlier.

With luck, she thinks, he’ll never know what’s happened.

Only after she’s finished does she realise she’s still wearing the old coat. She gives a shrug, happy, deciding to keep it.

Vesper creeps back to her room and dresses in silence, quickly. She collects the sword last, wrapping it in an old plastic sheet. Scared it might wake again, she tries to make as little contact with it as possible, being especially careful to avoid the hilt and the eye twitching within.

When she opens the door a cold breeze touches her cheeks. She shivers and sets off, not noticing the small body curled by the front door. At the sound of her passing, the kid blinks awake, springing up. He looks round, sleep forgotten at the sight of his good mother, and follows.

Both forms are quickly swallowed by the night.

The sword is lighter than it looks, but still heavy for a young girl to carry. In the dark, familiar ground becomes strange, and Vesper stumbles down the hill, jolting her legs, the bundle bouncing in her arms. Despite plastic wrapping, its edge digs into forearms, painful.

She pauses halfway down, looks at the sword again, sure that under the four layers of plastic, it is looking back. She swallows, sniffs. Dust tickles nostrils and she wipes her nose on her sleeve, only to discover her new coat is filthy. Sneezes come.

Paranoia makes her look back towards the house. But instead of her father, watching from a window, she finds the kid at her heels.

Shifting the weight of the sword onto one arm, she points back up the hill with the other. ‘Go, off you go. You can’t come with me. Go home.’

A warm head butts against her hand.

‘No. You need to go back. You need to …’ Vesper trails off, finds herself stroking the kid. ‘I suppose we won’t be gone long, are you sure you want to come?’

The kid looks at her, eyes full of love, mouth full of hunger.

She sighs, returning to the house to grab a bottle of milk from the kitchen before hurrying back. ‘Come on then.’

Together, they continue, picking their way across uneven ground. More than once, she trips in the dark. ‘Stupid! Should’ve packed a torch.’

The kid bleats, hoping for food.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find our way.’

As if in answer a light winks into existence at the bottom of the hill, illuminating a man in dark uniform, the only decoration a badge of the winged eye at the collar. As girl and goat approach, the figure resolves into a familiar shape: Genner. He shines his light on them. ‘Vesper? What …? His light travels to the sword and back up to Vesper’s face. ‘What are you doing with a relic of The Seven?’

‘I’m sorry!’ she blurts. ‘I had to, I—’

Genner’s frown smoothes suddenly. ‘It chose you!’ he exclaims. ‘We expected it to call your father … but it’s you! You … you are the new bearer.’

Caught between trouble and truth, she nods, her eyes darting back towards the house with the lie.

He goes down on one knee, lowering his head. Ginger hair refuses to be sombre, springing from its tie like an angry bush. Words are intoned, soft, musical, their meaning lost on Vesper. Genner looks up. ‘Thank The Seven. Bearer, we must—’

‘Me?’ She stifles a laugh. ‘I’m not … I just thought, well, if my father doesn’t want to use the sword, I should take it to someone who did.’

‘Vesper, you don’t understand. The sword lets you carry it. It has chosen you.’

She remembers the way it looked at her and doesn’t believe him. ‘I suppose so.’ Vesper looks warily over her shoulder.

Behind Genner, the air shimmers as if struck by the summer suns. A beat later, the space is filled by a sky-ship. Vesper’s eyes widen, taking in the stars reflected in its surface, and the tapering wings where twin engines spin, murmuring.

Genner smirks. ‘That’s exactly what I said when I first saw one.’

The kid is less impressed, diving for cover behind Vesper’s legs.

‘Are you ready, bearer?’

On the side of the sky-ship a door opens, swinging upward on a hinge. ‘This way,’ Genner says, gesturing to the door. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

Vesper allows herself to be led aboard, hesitating briefly as thoughts of her parents flare, worried faces, words of disappointment, and that frown.

The kid panics. Before he can make a decision, the girl and the man have climbed inside. With a cry, the kid dashes after them.

The door shuts before he gets there.

The kid cries out again.

The engines spin faster, light building, taking the weight of the sky-ship, preparing to leap towards heaven.

The door opens again and Vesper’s head appears. ‘Come on then!’

This time the kid doesn’t hesitate.

As soon as he has leapt inside, the door closes again. Light pulses, pushing down, and grass sprays outward. The frame of the vehicle trembles, the air around it becoming opaque.

A moment later, the sky-ship is gone.

The first of the suns begins to rise, charging the air gold. Its light picks up a house on top of a hill. The house is quiet, full of tension. The door opens and a man steps out. He limps quickly across to the smaller house and looks inside.

Dark eyes glare at him.

He ignores them and goes back into the other house. Minutes pass and he appears again, this time with a hand-carved staff. The wood is worn with use, much like the man that carries it. He sets out quickly, wincing as he goes, amber eyes hunting the grasses.

Harm steps out soon after, moving slowly. He also carries a stick but, rather than leaning on it, he lets it brush the earth by his feet, bouncing lightly, testing for bumps.

‘Any sign of her?’

Vesper’s father doesn’t answer, continuing his study of the ground.

Irregular footprints are easily found in the dirt. Nodding grimly, he follows.

The red glow of the second sun tints the clouds as he reaches the bottom of the hill.

He stops, frowning at the carnage inflicted on the ground. Powerful forces have churned earth here, eating the trail. His frown deepens. No tracks appear on the other side.

He looks up, shielding his eyes from the light.

Nothing.

Eventually, Harm’s hand finds his shoulder. He allows himself to be turned round, takes a breath to speak but, instead of words, tears fall.

For a long time they stand, two men joined in sadness, their shadows circling, the suns slow-dancing across the sky.

*

Away from the hustle and bustle of the imperial port, three figures haggle. Waves lap the rocks. Gossip and insults fly back and forth, changing hands faster than goods. Underneath gruff exteriors a strange affection lies. Each has survived long enough to weather the distaste of the other. Each has a secret.

One is a woman who fled from the south years ago. As her companions fell around her, she found the strength to move forward, fuelled by their failure. Sometimes she dreams of those days, waking with the taste of raw meat on her lips.

One is a man who steals goods from others, passing them off as his own.

One is neither woman nor man. Appearing to mortal eyes they appear as a woman of middling years. Perhaps her hair is a little lank, her skin a little pale, but this is hardly uncommon for those forced to live beyond the Shining City’s border.

The three hide their true natures, keeping well clear of the Winged Eye’s agents, skulking in the fringes.

As they continue their haggling and grumblings, a sky-ship passes overhead, quick, invisible.

Two of the figures do not notice. The third looks up sharply, as if a wasp has stung her on the crown.

‘You alright there, Nell?’

She pauses. The others cannot see the essence flow around her. Normally, the First keeps each of its fragments buried deep within mortal shells, to protect them from the rage of the world. However, a link between them remains, faint, a spiderweb drawn in watercolour, more memory than substance, an echo. And while each is distinct, evolved slightly away from the original, they can, for a moment, become one again.

The First takes the moment. Experiences jar together, jumbling, confusing, multiple timelines jostling, arranging themselves, finding order. Briefly, the First breathes easily, unconstrained.

Then the burning starts and it is over.

Lines of essence fade and consciousness divides, shrinking down.

In total, the pause is little more than the heartbeat of a hummingbird, but that is all it takes for the information to pass unseen across the ocean.

Such exertions cause the First terrible pain but impulses are easily controlled. In a dozen different places, faces twitch, stammer and reset to normal.

‘Can’t complain, Jacky,’ replies Nell. ‘Reckon we might be havin’ a storm soon though.’

‘You reckon?’

Nell looks up at the apparently empty sky and scratches at her belly, making the action appear spontaneous. ‘Feel it in my bones so I do. It’s a storm alright. A big one.’