‘If this one goes up, Caulderon will cease to be,’ said Rix, his good mood fading, ‘and probably half of Hightspall.’
‘Look on the bright side. Cython won’t want to fight us for it any more.’
‘I see menace and doom everywhere, and all you can do is make jokes?’
‘If you really want to see my dark side, I’ll indulge you this once.’
While Tobry sometimes hinted about his family’s troubles, he had never spoken about them openly. Maybe he needed to. ‘I’m listening,’ said Rix.
‘Did I ever tell you what really brought down the House of Lagger, or the terrible part I played in it — when I was a boy of thirteen?’ Red flecks danced in Tobry’s eyes.
Rix could not bear to look into them. ‘Perhaps some other time,’ he said hastily, and twitched the reins. ‘C’m on, Leather.’
The great horse, black as the inside of a chimney and ferociously loyal, trotted to a rock platform that looked over the mountain chain encircling the fertile lands of central Hightspall, and towards the broad South Plains and the sea beyond.
He wished he had kept straight on. The strait between Hightspall and the long southern island of Suden was choked by icebergs, and that had never happened before.
Tobry came up beside him. ‘Until two hundred years ago, House Lagger’s richest estates were in Suden.’
‘And now?’ said Rix.
‘Buried under half a mile of ice. Everyone and everything lost.’
The wire-handled sword rattled in its scabbard. As Rix steadied it, an image flashed into his mind — a statue of a screaming man, rudely carved from a single piece of black opal, his arms and legs spread as though he was falling. Rix jerked his hand away and the image disappeared. He touched the hilt with a fingertip, but this time saw nothing.
He swallowed, looked where Tobry was pointing and goose pimples ran up his arms. ‘No wonder I dream about ice leviathans.’
The coastline of Suden was ice-locked as far as he could see, and to either side the cliffs of oceanic ice crept ever north, closing in on Hightspall from the south, west and east. The northern sea passages remained open, but for how long? Only the most reckless sea captains dared venture into the mazy pack ice these days, and few returned.
‘What’s to become of us, Tobe? Is Hightspall to die under endless ice?’
Tobry shrugged. ‘Or a fiery eruption.’
‘The chancellor has doubled the prize,’ said Rix. ‘To fifty thousand.’
‘What prize?’ Tobry was studying the strait with Rix’s telescope.
‘For anyone who can turn the ice sheets back. Mother says the chief magian has thirty assistants working on ice-wasting spells.’
Tobry swung the telescope towards the descending moon. ‘Gramarye can no more turn back the ice than stop the moon in its orbit.’ The dire thought seemed to cheer him up.
Rix took a swig of water but his throat felt just as arid afterwards. ‘Is this the end of the world, then?’
‘The world endures. But Hightspall may not.’
‘You’re not helping my mood,’ Rix muttered. ‘Let’s go hunting.’
After a few hundred yards, the path angled to the right around a finger-like rock. Slantwise to the left, in front of the monstrous bluff, lay the slot-like entrance of a narrow valley, still dark inside, whose bare walls rose steeply to east and west.
Further right, a red, triangular peak rose out of a stubble of pines like a pointed head. A round opening near its base resembled a yawning mouth. ‘Is that …?’
‘Catacombs of the Kings,’ said Tobry. ‘A sacred place in old Cythe. We’re not going there.’
‘Afraid of ghosts?’ Rix teased.
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘We should have torn the Catacombs down, like their other foul places.’
‘Take a closer look.’
Scanning along the base of the peak with his telescope, Rix made out a line of stone figures carved into the red stone on either side of the entrance. The effigies to the far left and right were no more than thirty feet tall, but they grew progressively taller until the pair framing the entrance — the first kings of Cythe — towered at least five hundred feet high.
‘Every king and ruling queen of Cythe for ten thousand years is represented there,’ said Tobry. ‘Save the last.’
‘Weird heads!’
Tobry gave Rix a sardonic glance.
He refocused on the statue to the left of the entrance. The red stone was crumbling, and ferns and small bushes had taken root in crevices here and there, but — ‘The head’s upside-down.’
‘After we won the war, Chancellor Nidry ordered the head of every king taken off and replaced upside-down.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a worse insult than pissing on their graves. Do you wonder that the Cythonians hate us so much?’
‘They started the war!’
‘Did they?’
Rix mentally inverted the head — an artist’s trick — and fitted it to the body. And stared. ‘But … it’s magnificent.’ He did the same for the others. ‘They’re masterpieces. The finest sculptures I’ve ever seen.’
‘Haven’t you seen their art before?’ said Tobry.
‘Didn’t know there was any left.’
‘There are a few pieces in private collections. It’s all like this.’
‘I was taught it was sentimental rubbish.’
‘I gather their art meant as much to them as yours does to you.’
Rix soaked up the figures, marvelling at the artistry of those aeons-dead sculptors. ‘But …’
‘Yes?’ said Tobry.
‘If what we were taught about their art is wrong … or a lie …?’
Tobry did not respond. Rix pulled his cloak around him, already regretting the mad impulse that had brought him here. Only ten days remained until the Honouring. If the portrait was not perfect by then it would be a public insult to his father and Lady Ricinus would be choleric. Rix would sooner have had his skin flayed off than suffer another minute of her scarifying tongue.
Lately she had been more unbearable than usual, but he was not game to ask what the matter was. You’re not of age, she would say coldly. How dare you question me?
Sometimes it seemed as though his mother was afraid, though that was preposterous. He had never known Lady Ricinus to be scared of anyone.
‘Nice day,’ Tobry said laconically.
‘What are you so happy about?’ Rix snapped.
‘I’m free, healthy and there’s that beautiful bottle in the saddlebags. What more could any man want?’
‘The moment I get something I want, all the pleasure dies inside me. What’s wrong with me, Tobe?’
Tobry opened his mouth, again closed it without speaking. He studied the rearing peaks to the right, the steep slope on their left. ‘Which way?’
The finger rock appeared to be beckoning. Rix drew his sword and his malaise vanished — he felt as though he owned the world. ‘Heroes must fight!’
Tobry stopped dead. ‘What?’
‘The rest of the inscription just came to me.’
‘That would only run halfway down the blade,’ said Tobry in a curiously flat voice. ‘Hold it out.’
Rix did so. Tobry ran his fingers along the inscription, subvocalising a revelation charm. Black letters appeared on the blade, then faded. He looked up sharply. ‘Heroes must fight to preserve the race.’
Rix shrugged. ‘So what?’
‘It’s a notorious quote from the Herovians’ Immortal Text.’
‘They’re just words, Tobe.’
‘Words that toppled a nation.’ Tobry reached out. ‘I need a closer look.’
Rix jerked the weapon away, irritated without knowing why. ‘When we get home you can look all you want.’
He rode to the rock, balanced the sword there and spun it. It stopped with its tip pointing to the entrance of the valley.
‘Not that way,’ said Tobry.
‘Why not?’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to go up to Precipitous Crag.’
‘Why not?’ Rix repeated tersely. Suddenly it was exactly where he wanted to go.