“He took his iron staff with him and, uh, things happened like, when he walked through the Thousand Lake country near Konen Feyy the ground was muddy, and his staff end left holes in the ground that filled up with water, and that’s how the lakes got there. And up in a crater on top of a mountain he found True Fire at last.
“He courted her, and they became lovers. And they wanted to have children, but she—well, she was True Fire, see? So he made children for her, instead, out of red gold. And she touched them with holy fire and they became alive. Perfect mechanisms that could do anything other children could do, including grow up and have children themselves. And they were the ancestors.”
“Some of your ancestors, Willowspear, on your mother’s side,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “Isn’t that an odd thought?”
“And … True Fire made islands rise up out of the sea, and the Children of the Sun lived on them,” said Smith. “Those were the first cities.”
He threw down the rag and squinted up at the sky. “We should get moving again,” he said. “Make sail and weigh anchor!”
The demons, who had been sprawled out in sated repose, clambered to their feet. Two set to with the capstan bars and the anchor jumped up from the depths like a fishhook, while two mounted into the dangerously creaking shrouds.
“There’s more to the story, though, isn’t there, Smith?” said Lord Ermenwyr.
“Yes,” said Smith, taking the helm. “All right, you lot, remember where the anchor goes? Right. Coil the hawser like I showed you.”
“Clever lads!” Lord Ermenwyr called out. “But Smith can’t sail away from the story. Pay close attention, Willowspear, because this is where it all went wrong. If the Children of the Sun had stayed on their islands, all would have been well for the rest of us. Unfortunately, they were clever little clockwork toys and invented all this ship business. Halyards, lanyards, jibs, and whatnot. Which enabled them to spread out and colonize other people’s lands.”
“That was ages before the Yendri even came here, so you can’t blame—”
“The demons were here, though. They matter too.”
“We travel because our Mother travels,” said Smith. “That’s what the stories say. That’s why we’re always moving, the way She moves across the sky.”
“Yes, but you don’t exactly bring us light, do you?” said Lord Ermenwyr.
At the wheel Smith narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as he guided the ship out of the bay.
“Burnbright is the light of my world,” said Willowspear. “They are capable of great love, my lord.”
“And that’s the other problem!” said Lord Ermenwyr. “They breed like rabbits. Even their own legends say that soon there were so many of them running about the world that the other personified abstract archetypes got upset that their own children were being crowded out, so they went to the Smith god and complained.”
“There was a council of the gods,” said Smith. “They told the Father he had to do something. So he made … so he is supposed to have made this Key of Unmaking.”
“The opposite of a key that winds mechanisms up, you see, Willowspear?” said Lord Ermenwyr.
“No,” said Willowspear.
“It shuts us off, all right?” said Smith. “Or it’s supposed to. It’s only a myth, anyway. The stories say that the gods used it to bring on calamities. The first time they used it was when the Gray Plague came. Everybody died but a handful of pregnant women hiding in a cave, that’s what the story says. And then everything was all right for ages, and the cities came back.
“And then… Lord Salt is supposed to have used it when he burnt the granaries of Troon, and famine came, and the Four Wars broke out at once. In the end there was just a handful of fishing villages along the coast, because inland the ghosts massed on the plains like armies, there were so many angry dead. Nobody could live there for generations.
“And people say…” Smith’s voice trailed off.
“What people say” said Lord Ermenwyr, “is that one day the Key of Unmaking will be used for the third time, if the Children of the Sun can’t learn from their mistakes, and there will be no survivors.”
“But it’s just a story,” said Smith stubbornly.
“I have news for you,” said Lord Ermenwyr, taking out his smoking tube and tapping loose the cold ash. “It’s real.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I beg to differ. What’s the Book of Fire say about it? Let’s see what I can recall… (Mother made us study comparative religions, and Daddy always said they were good for a laugh, so I applied myself to the subject)… ‘The Father-Smith sorrowing sore, on the Anvil of the World, Forged his fell Unmaking Key, Deep in the bones he hid it there, Till Doomsday should dredge it up. Frostfire guards what Witchlight hides.’ ”
“It’s a metaphor,” said Smith.
“How can you disbelieve your own Scripture?” Willowspear asked him, dismayed.
“It’s different for you,” Smith replied. “Your history is still happening, isn’t it? His mother is still writing letters to her disciples and running the shop, isn’t she? If you have a question of faith, you can just go to her and ask her.”
“Though Mother says nobody listens to her anyway,” said Lord Ermenwyr parenthetically.
“But Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches will still be sacred though a thousand years pass, and the White Ship will still have put forth from its shores. The passage of time can’t make truth less true,” argued Willowspear.
“You’re missing the point, my friend,” said Lord Ermenwyr. “It doesn’t matter whether Smith believes in the Key of Unmaking or not. Other people do, and they feel it’s high time it was used again.”
“What kind of people?” asked Smith, feeling a chill.
“Oh … certain demons have felt that way about your race for years,” said Lord Ermenwyr, with an evasive wave of his hand. “But that’s never been much of a threat, because no two demons can agree on the color of the sky, let alone a plan of action. I’m afraid this whole Smallbrass Estates affair has made things worse, though.”
Smith shuddered. But, “So what?” he said. “There isn’t actually any real literal Key.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Lord Ermenwyr said. “If you don’t think there’s any real danger, Smith, why should we greenies worry?”
He leaned back in his chair and gazed out at the bright sea sparkling.
“I’m getting a headache from all this glare,” he said after a moment. “Willowspear, fetch me a parasol. And perhaps my spectacles with the black emerald lenses.”
The third day out dawned clear and bright, but far to the south was a glacier wall of fog, purple in the morning sun, blinding white at noon. By afternoon they had come close, and it loomed across half the world. Under it the blue sea faded to steel color and green, with a pattern like watered silk, and distance became confused. Rocks and islets swam into view, indistinct in the gloom.
Smith struck sails and proceeded with caution, relinquishing the helm to Willowspear every few minutes to take soundings from the chains. He sighed with relief when he spotted a marker buoy, a hollow ball of tin painted red and yellow, and ran aft to the wheel.
“We’re at the mouth of the Rethestlin,” he told the others. “And the tide’s with us. This is where we go inland, right?”
“Yes! Turn left here,” said Lord Ermenwyr. He shivered. “Chilly, all this damned mist, isn’t it? Cutt, I want my black cloak with the fur collar.”
“Yes, Master.” Cutt went clumping down the companion-way.
“The water has changed color,” observed Willowspear, looking over the side.