The Fade

Feyn describes how each animal has armour or reflective skin, hibernation techniques or behaviour patterns that allows it to prosper in this merciless world. Most hunt at night and burrow or hide when the dawn comes. A few, like the gethra, can suffer the suns with impunity.

It's an undiscovered country, and yet I feel I've been here before. The echoes of my ancestors, resounding over thousands of generations. Were we really ever meant to live underground? Did these people have it right all along, refusing to yield to the suns? Was it an act of bravery that led the tribes of Eskara into the darkness, or was it cowardice?

Not my problem. I'm an assassin, not a historian.

We stop in a shallow dead-end canyon, where small, tough plants have taken hold around the edge of a scrubby dried-up water-hole. The caravan is broken down to form a barricade and enormous bales of feed are brought out for the gethra. The men circle restlessly and then ride away to hunt, leaving a few guards as before. The women busy themselves building up fires, mostly with materials from a storage-carriage.

I wish I was strong enough to go with the men, but I haven't fully recovered yet, and I don't much rate my chances of riding one of their mounts. So I'm left with the women, the elderly, and those like Feyn who earn their place in ways other than by their prowess in the hunt: the Loremasters, the Mystics, the Pathfinders and suchlike.

I'm surprised by how much these nomads bring with them; I always had the impression they would live entirely off the land. But as Feyn explains, in a barren world nobody can guarantee that resources will be there at every stop, so they stock up when things are abundant and use those stocks when they're not. Their carriages are mobile houses, stables, storerooms. I'm beginning to think of this as less of a caravan and more of a moving town.

We watch as the coterie's Mystic enacts the ceremony of drawing the water. He's bald and thin, with every visible inch of his skin covered in designs. He wears heavy robes that seem too large for his frame. The ceremony consists of him sitting cross-legged at the edge of the depression and burning various herbs in pots, making gestures and intoning words in the language of the SunChildren. The others treat it with great gravitas. It all seems a little unnecessary to me.

Still, there's no denying that it works. Water begins to pool at the bottom of the depression, seeping through the cracked mud, and before long the waterhole is filling again. As long as the Mystic keeps chanting, the water keeps rising; but it's a slow process, and after a while I get bored. It's not as miraculous as Feyn seems to think I'll find it. We have chthonomancers back home who can do stuff like this as a party trick, and without all the chanting. At least I've solved the mystery of who put the skinmark on my wrist.

Later, Feyn and I sit together on the porch of one of the carriages, drinking fruit juice. It's an expensive commodity down below because of the scarcity of fruit, but here they have it in abundance. Fruit grows in the low, sheltered places – the mist basins, the shaded canyons, in the mycora forests – and the SunChildren gather it as they desire.

'Why do they wear their suits at night?' I ask, motioning towards one of the scouts, who is prowling about on his mount nearby.

'Sometimes those who hunt are trapped by a large beast, or injured. Then they will not return before dawn. We are not careless where the suns are concerned.' He takes a sip from his cup. 'Also, they are our armour. Animals are dangerous here. Usually they stay away from gethra, but gethra are slow and they do not eat other creatures. Some, like the ki'kay, try to get into the camps.' He scratches his arm and makes a noise that indicates he never really thought about it much. 'It is tradition. Warriors wear sunsuits.'

'And you?'

'I am not a warrior.'

I study the scout. He's draped in a beige cloak and wearing a voluminous cowl. Beneath that he wears plates of rigid hide over a flexible undershirt and trousers, heavy boots and gloves, and a ceramic mask with a tinted glass slash for a visor and slits for breathing.

'How long can one of them survive in the sun?' I ask.

'Depends. On time of day, how strong the suns are. In your time… three hours, maybe. Four or five at best. Maybe two if both suns are high in the sky.'

But I've stopped listening. 'Three hours?'

He looks at me mildly. 'Yes.'

I'm stunned. I had no idea it was even possible. 'The best sunsuits we have give you one hour at most, and that's with armour so thick it's completely impractical.'

'Yes,' he replies. 'That is why many of my people think it is not good to mix with you. You would learn our ways, and you would learn them fast. And then you would come up here.'

'Your people are very wise,' I say, with not a little bitterness.

'But I think that the people below will come anyway. We should know you, and let you know us, and in that way we would both be ready. But we will not teach you our secrets. You would have to find them for yourself.'

'Some public-minded citizen would torture them out of you, I'm sure.'

'No. For we send only people like me, who do not know the secret of the crafting. And if just one of us was harmed, all of us would disappear. When you emerged we would be waiting for you. And not as friends.'

I'm silent for a time, until he adds: 'Others feel this way too. Not many, but some. With what I know I may be able to make it this way.'

'Don't trust us,' I say. 'Don't trust anyone. If you let us get stronger than you up here, if you let us take the advantage, it'll be over. We'll crush you.'

'We know this. Your kind are war-like. You need to fight or your society does not work.'

'Voids, that's a depressing thought,' I mutter. 'How the fuck did we come to that?'

'Civilisation is a stampede,' he says, looking away. 'Hard to steer. Impossible to stop. Destroying everything in its path.'

The hunters return soon after, dragging the corpses of several creatures with far too much scale and fang for my liking. The creatures, each twice as long as I am tall, are swiftly skinned and cleaned, then brought to the women to cook over the fire. The men are ebullient, laughing and celebrating. I move down to the fire with Feyn, and we sit silently in the warmth and the light, watching the life of the coterie.

Just for now, just for the short time I'm spending in the company of these curious people, there's no weight on me. It's the first time I can ever remember feeling this way. I'm not responsible for anyone here, and I'm beholden to none. Nobody knows where I am. My master and Clan probably think I'm dead. I'm floating, adrift, and it's wonderful.

I look up at the boundless sky, dense with stars. A dull grey moon, a sister to Callespa, is visible high above us. I don't know its name and I don't care to ask. Let it remain unknown.

Sometimes, that's the greatest gift you can give. We travel for several days more, our pace slow and steady, and I concentrate on regaining my strength and putting back the weight I've lost. I begin to work my way through chua-kin exercises in the carriage. The children sit and watch me, rapt, as I force myself to endure the punishing regime of movements and stances, while the old woman stitches torn clothes and the men play games of chance with Feyn.

At night, when I'm not sitting with the others, Feyn educates me about SunChild signs. I've given up trying to help the women with whatever they are doing; it only ends in me getting good-naturedly shooed away. I watch the men enviously each time they ride out on the hunt, wishing I had time to learn how to ride one of their skeletal mounts. But I don't, so I learn other things instead.