The stone surface suddenly buckled and swayed, and this movement was followed by a deep explosion from below. Purple light rose up on either side of him.
He sprinted but it seemed too late: he could feel the ground beneath his feet fractionally more distant, as if he was walking on air. Keep going, fucker, he told himself. His thighs pounded, pushing himself harder than he had ever done.
Twenty feet away from the end he paused, seeing Tane waiting with an open stance. He hauled the child back and threw him over to Tane. The kid screamed as he was launched through the air.
Magic raged up around Vuldon. The platform disintegrated. Tane — leaping high — caught the child before collapsing to the ground with grace.
Vuldon sighed his relief — and then tumbled alongside the crumbling masonry.
*
Lan mounted the walls on a row of tall terraced houses, Ulryk on her back. He might have been old, but he was still bloody heavy. She had to skip sideways along a couple of rows of houses, facing the sky, since Ulryk constantly pulled her towards the ground and she couldn’t walk with the weight pulling her on one side.
Eventually they reached a rooftop covered in ice, and she slipped forwards, sending Ulryk tumbling over her head.
She pushed herself upright, ‘Sorry — I couldn’t help it — are you OK?'
Ulryk, as resilient as a boar, pushed himself up from the flat roof and rubbed his scalp. ‘Indeed, I believe I am.’ He instinctively checked his satchel, which contained the books.
From their position they could see more of the city, and the Astronomer’s Glass Tower, which stood a few hundred yards away. In between them and the structure, the civil war on the streets of Villjamur was reaching something of a stand-off. Imperial troops had garrisoned themselves in one of the major taverns, extending a makeshift barricade of assorted city detritus, blocking off the route. Behind it, about a hundred soldiers were poised with crossbows, waiting for any anarchist surge.
The anarchists were less well organized and were hiding in buildings a few streets further along: she could see snipers leaning out of windows, waiting to fire at any passing military patrols.
Tension hung thickly in the air. After the initial set-tos, no one wanted to commit to a manoeuvre. The Empire soldiers were outnumbered, that was obvious, but the anarchists were not able to get the better of the highly trained men and women.
All of this lay between Lan and Ulryk and the glass tower.
‘Are you sure you can’t do the ritual here?’ Lan asked.
‘I suppose,’ Ulryk breathed, ‘I can try.’ He rubbed his hands and reached into his satchel to withdraw the books. He walked to the centre of the roof and carefully sat down. There, he opened the books on various pages.
Lan strolled over to see what he planned. ‘Are the books the same?’
Ulryk shook his head. ‘They differ, many of the sketches and occasional tracts of script are dissimilar — deliberately so.’
He showed her two drawings of the same castle, which to her appeared to be identical. But he pointed out that figures were standing in the window of one drawing, and not the other. Ulryk suggested it was the equivalent of a prison. On another open page, there were different drawings entirely: one showed a small animal she’d never seen, another of a plant. ‘This tract of text,’ he explained, pointing to one edition, ‘discusses the history of the islands and how they came to be. The other, well… this is a panicked note explaining that the Jorsalir were attempting to have these works destroyed.’
‘Why would the editions differ?’
‘In case one got lost or destroyed. In one there are codes to explain what happened — a letter to a future generation.’
‘That’s some forward thinking,’ Lan said.
‘I am ready to attempt the summoning,’ Ulryk announced.
Lan moved away, watching him rearrange the books before him. Ulryk brought out his own journal and began flicking through it until he discovered the correct page of notes. Cross-legged, hunching over the books, he closed his eyes.
Lan turned away to watch the streets again. Long shadows clawed their way over the city; sides of buildings were shrouded in darkness. Above, the clouds were clearing and she could see the red sun approaching the horizon. It was going to be a cold night.
Ulryk seemed to be in a trance now. His fingers were pressed down on certain pages but his eyes were closed, his head tilted up towards the heavens as if seeking extra help from above. He chanted things in tongues that didn’t sound natural, let alone from the Archipelago.
The most important thing to note was that nothing happened. Eventually Ulryk looked up, not exactly disappointed. He gathered the books into the satchel and stood up.
Lan walked across the roof towards him. ‘The Astronomer’s Tower?’
Ulryk nodded, with an air of serenity about him.
THIRTY-FOUR
Their vessel approached the east coast of Jokull. The familiar snow-covered hills extended into the distance, and rocky outcrops of granite rose towards the cloud base, occasionally losing themselves within its mass. Gulls and terns screeched as they carved through the air in startling numbers; their presence was deeply comforting to Verain — they were home, there was life here. Trees littered the hills with their evergreen shadows, and stone walls marked the occasional — and probably abandoned — farm. Small plumes of smoke could be seen, originating from somewhere out of sight — probably from members of the Aes tribe who miraculously still survived in these extremes. When she saw them, she felt a yearning to join their primitive ranks and leave her situation behind.
For a moment, Dartun joined her on the quarterdeck, looking around as they passed along their home island. His cloak flailed in the strong coastal breeze. Where he had been injured on their arduous journey, tiny metallic patches were showing through. More than ever, he had the appearance of an artificial construction, as if made from relics and skin pasted half-heartedly on top. He said nothing, she said nothing — and this seemed to please them both. If he held answers, she no longer wanted to hear them.
They sailed for some time seeking an inlet, but couldn’t find one. Eventually, frustrated with their search, they worked the sails, turned the ship toward the rocky shore and ploughed through the shallows.
The ship juddered and rocked: they had run aground, leaving a gap perhaps of twenty feet of water to the land. No one wasted any time. They took what little belongings they had gathered on their journey and jumped overboard.
Verain plunged into the icy water, which nearly took her breath from her body and froze her blood in an instant. The water only reached up to her thighs and, with her possessions above her head, she waded to the shore before collapsing on the rocky beach along with the others, some of whom were laughing like madmen. The young man, Todi, was shivering, rubbing his arms vigorously, and his breath was clouding before his face. Dartun stepped along beside him and placed his hands on Todi’s shoulders: the young cultist relaxed suddenly, as if the chills had vanished.
Dartun then stepped behind Verain, repeating the gesture, and she felt warmth suddenly flow through her body. She shuddered. Dartun smiled impassively in return before moving on to the others.
*
The farmhouse they had spotted from the ship was indeed abandoned. It was a simple white stone cottage, surrounded by a scrub of trees and bushes that had died in the cold. Inside, a few pots and pans were sitting on the kitchen table covered in mould, suggesting that the owners had long since left.
After Todi and Tuung had gathered wood and started a fire in the hearth, the place felt like a home again. Verain changed into drier clothes. She sat by the fire, exhausted, relieved, empty. She wanted to stay there for ever.