The Heretic Land Part 13

Even in the shadows, he could understand how unsettled this scenery was. Many of the trees were squat and deformed, unsure of which way to grow, as if they could not find the sun. Their limbs were half grown and ended in gnarled knots. Spindly bracken grew across the forest floor, and great swathes of it was browned with poor growth, crackling underfoot. It would die and fade back into the ground, and whatever descendants it might have seeded would possess the same faults.

The woodland slowed the shire, but still he rode through the night. He paused only when his bodily rhythms demanded it, and to eat food he'd brought with him. Several times the beast slowed and edged closer to the river to drink. Venden took the opportunity to rest. Clasping on tightly as he ran the animal was hard work, and as it drank its fill he relaxed on its back and looked out over the river.

It was narrower now, younger. From his studies he knew that its source was far to the north, way past whatever remained of Kellis Faults. He looked at the calm waters in the darkness, moon reflecting from the river in silvery shards, and wondered what it had seen. He knew that some amphys back on Alderia were adept at reading waters, but he had never seen the feat himself. He would have given anything now to be able to do so.

Through the night, when stars sparked the sky and the moon shifted its imperfect sphere, Venden kept his perception open and free. He felt the urgings of the remnant a encouragement from that great, fallen Aeon. He also felt the void deep inside him watching with interest. Somewhere before him lay Aeon's heart, and he was fated to find it.

As dawn's early light threw the woodland in the east into silhouette, he started seeing the first buildings.

Perhaps when they had been built and lived in the whole area had been open plain. The ruins were difficult to make out in the forest's undergrowth, and here and there trees seemed to have burst through the middle of what had once been a structure. Venden felt a chill each time he pa.s.sed such a place, as if the memories of what had happened there had found homes in the new, living things growing where others had once died.

Terrible deaths, he thought. He had read much forbidden writing about the Kolts' rampage across Skythe. The Ald claimed they were the product of corrupted Skythian science, but Venden knew the truth a that they had been forged by Aeon's destruction. Some rumours had it that the Kolts were corrupted souls who had never been born. Given to living bodies, they turned on family and friend, killing, raging on until they found others to kill. Strong and ferocious, virtually unstoppable, cannibalistic to fuel their rampage. Beyond human, and inhumane. Terrible deaths.

With each ruin he pa.s.sed, Venden wondered what history those tumbled blocks and shadowed innards might contain. But he had no time for archaeology. His was a more urgent intent, and, though a loud echo of the past, it more concerned the future.

The forests lessened once more, giving way to areas of open gra.s.sland. Venden continued following the course of the river, its timeless erosion providing the only real contours in this landscape a a shallow valley here and there, within which the river must twist and writhe like a snake over thousands of years. The plains were windswept and barren, and there were more ruins.

He thought perhaps they were burial mounds. Roughly pyramidal in shape, the mounds spotted the plains seemingly at random. Sometimes he pa.s.sed close by, but if he saw one in the distance he rarely diverted his course to investigate. None of them had an entrance, and whatever lay inside would remain untouched. They had a sense of eternity about them.

Around midday he came across another collection of ruins, much larger than any he had seen back in the forests. The settlement must have been home to thousands of Skythians. It spanned the river, and the remains of several bridges were evident on both sides of the waterway. And here were also the tallest ruins he had yet seen on Skythe, two structures reaching weathered fingers to the sky that were ten times his height. One was the wreck of a much larger, wider building; the other seemed to be the surviving wall of a tower. Their uses were unknowable.

As the afternoon wore on he pa.s.sed more remnants of Kellis Faults's satellite towns. They were all testament to that great civilisation's sudden and cataclysmic demise, and they were all deserted. No surviving Skythian lived there now. Perhaps their race memory was still too painful, or maybe they were simply different people, no longer needing whatever the ruins of their ancestors might offer. But though Venden considered the current Skythians to be barely an echo of what they once had been a a simple race, now, scratching at the ground to subsist from one year to the next a he found their absence troubling and unsettling.

Perhaps they knew something he did not.

The hills started rising again, the ruins more elaborate and ringing with a greater history. On one low hilltop stood a solid stone tower, broken high from the ground so that whatever might once have topped it was now lost. Plants grew around its base, creepers clawed across its grey sides, but nothing could hide it from view.

Across another hillside marched a line of immense stone arches. A few had half fallen, but most remained impressively upright, their curves a natural defence against the ravages of time. Venden remained in the valley and examined them from below, a.s.sessing that at their highest points they were perhaps twenty times as high as the ruined Skythian homes he had seen elsewhere. There was nothing behind them but hillside a no tunnels, no welcome doorways to somewhere special a and he found that looking through them gave him a chill. Their size was astounding, and he could not help but imagine what they might have been built to allow through. If they were decorative or symbolic, that was impressive enough. If they had been built for a practical reason, then that reason was long lost. Were he to climb and pa.s.s through them, he dreaded to think where he might go.

The river narrowed drastically, and he heard the waterfalls long before he saw them. They were wide and low, but meant that he would have to climb the shallow hillside beside them to proceed. It looked steeper than it probably was, and was scattered with rocks and the remains of buildings. There were also long, low walls that he thought had probably been built to terrace the entire hillside, either for farming and irrigation, or perhaps for more obscure reasons.

'It's not high,' he said to the shire. 'It's not steep.' He had not spoken since sun-up, and his own voice startled him. He was in the beyond now, way further north than he had heard of anyone venturing, and these were probably the first words of any language spoken here in centuries.

The shire was tired and hungry, continuously pausing to dip its head down to take gra.s.s or berries. But the afternoon was moving on, and Venden was beginning to sense that he was drawing close. He urged the beast on. He forced himself on, fighting exhaustion, denying the pain in his limbs and body from the long ride.

The hill was higher than it had looked from below, and scattered with more obstacles. The falls were higher also, and louder, and their roar accompanied Venden as he urged the shire onward, over fallen walls and trampling ground untrodden by man for centuries. By the time he reached the top he was as exhausted as the shire. He fell from the creature, legs refusing to hold him upright. The gra.s.s was long and damp from constant spray from the waterfalls. A stone wall stood surprisingly free of plant growth and mosses, especially this close to water, and there were several vague, shadowy shapes blasted onto its surface. Limbs twisted, heads thrown back, Venden found the outlines of tortured humanity in the darkened stones.

When he rose unsteadily to his feet, he looked north. A wide, shallow valley was bordered by a range of six hills, and within their protective influence lay what remained of the ma.s.sive city of Kellis Faults. Skythe's capital sat untouched by all but the slow, insidious caress of time. Vegetation meant it belonged to the land once more, yet the city's layout was still obvious in many areas, its streets, parks and squares a green-blurred map of what had been. Crumbled stonework rose from the forested carpet. Towers pointed fractured fingers at the sky, some of them solid and seemingly decorative, others bearing windows, balconies and separate turrets, now home to birds and other flying things. Many had tumbled, some had not. Over time perhaps they too would fall, but now they stood as testament to the proud civilisation that had once existed here.

At the city's centre stood the remains of a statue, so vast that he could make it out even here, perhaps a mile or more away. Its arms had fallen and its features were abraded by the seasons' onward march, but its Skythian form was obvious, and defiant.

Venden gasped in shock, and with a sense of invading some private place, an open mausoleum to a dead world.

And walking towards him uphill from that shattered city, four tall figures carried something amazing between them.

'Who are you?' Venden asked as they drew closer. He realised that, in his shock, he had spoken in Alderian, and the people seemed not to have heard. So he asked again, in the regressed language Skythian had become. 'Who are you?'

His heart sprinted, faster than it had done following the shire's anguished hill climb. The presence he had always carried inside him stirred, becoming alert and ... excited. A wolf sniffing food.

They came closer, heading directly at him as if he had always been their intent. They carried an object on a wooden stretcher, a heavy blanket covering it and hanging over the sides, dragging through the gra.s.s, edges darkened with moisture. The object was small but seemed heavy. They took a corner each.

They were not the Skythians he had come to know.

'Some of you survived?' he said, glancing past them at the remains of the once-great city. Perhaps down there, buried in the ruins, dug deep and hidden away, a whole society had moved onward without outside interference and without betraying themselves. The idea was incredible, wonderful. Impossible.

This city was as dead a place as he had ever witnessed. And there was something strange about these Skythians.

They came closer up the slope, and Venden began to make out how they were different. They did not seem to be panting, or even breathing hard, though the slope was steep. They walked without expression, steering around rocks, stepping over cracks in the hillside, finding the easiest route up to him without seeming aware of quite where they were. There was something mechanical about their movement, not natural.

'What are you bringing me?' he asked, and something inside him shifted. His gut fell, sickness rose. He went slowly to his knees, careful not to strike a pose of worshipfulness, his shaking legs barely letting him kneel gently.

The shire stomped its hooves, kicking up clods of mud and shredded gra.s.s. Its mane hung across its face, and when Venden glanced its way, its eyes were wide with fear rather than defiance.

The tall figures came, fifty steps away, thirty. The stretcher remained completely level between them, whatever the lie of the land. Venden could not make out their s.e.xes. They had long hair, long limbs, narrow bodies that somehow exuded strength. Their clothes were old and holed. Their eyes were dead.

He tried to stand, back away, but his limbs would not obey. The idea that they were not bringing something to him, but were intending to take him away, struck him a blow to the head, and he leaned to his left in a half-faint. But the thing inside squeezed him awake again, stabbing him in the side and insisting that he watch.

When they were five paces away the figures halted. They were Skythian, Venden was sure, but unlike any he had seen, either in the flesh or in old books and parchments of the past. And when they lowered the stretcher and each lifted a corner of the blanket a exposing what it carried without flourish or ceremony a he began to understand.

His heart stopped as he laid eyes on the heart of Aeon.

Venden went away. He retreated into memory, carried there unwillingly, subjected to his past and having to submit because there was little else for him to do. He was not in control. He saw his mother leaning over him and smiling sadly, and it was a memory older than any he had ever experienced before. He lay in his crib, baby hands fisted before him as he examined them, and his mother's smile filled his vision and his heart. Her eyes were distant and wet, the smile one of gentle mourning rather than motherly love. She did love me, Venden thought, and though that was true there was something more. He saw his mother again later, when he was old enough to run and she was older than her years. His father ran with him, trying to launch a kite from one of the hills outside Sefton Breaks, laughing as the wind whipped the kite from his hands and flung it to the ground. The cross-brace was broken, he remembered, but his father would fix it later that day and make a successful launch. By then his mother would have returned home.

I know where this is going, Venden thought, but he could not fight his memories' impetus. He was being shown rather than reliving, and the part of him that had never been his own rejoiced.

They ate as a family and discussed their trip to New Kotrugam, where Venden might view the Museum of Inventors and perhaps gain some ideas. He was already a clever boy, and his creations using wood, moulded metal and steam pods were impressing his teachers. You can make something to be pleased about, his father said. You can make us proud.

Their journey, New Kotrugam, the staggering size of the city that went up from the land as well as across it, metal bridges, steam ships fogging up and down the river, towers of wood and metal- And after the Museum of Inventors when they were climbing Aesa's Tower to see where that famous architect had completed his most celebrated work, his mother grabbed his hand and pulled him close. His father was ahead, ascending the curving staircase and chattering with delight as he related facts and stories about Aesa and his theories. I've always served you, his mother said, and even then Venden was not sure who she was talking to. Her son, or her son's inside. His shadow. His future.

She stepped through the narrow doorway onto a metal balcony, and without looking back tipped over the railing. Venden rushed onto the balcony in time to hear the impact from the street below, and then the screams. And though young and painfully uncertain of himself, he reached the railing and looked down, down at the circle of people gathered around- Venden screamed himself back into the present. The shire shifted slightly, but its main source of fear was not the screaming, crying man kneeling beside it.

The Skythians were retreating. As they backed away from what they had brought, they changed. They lost their threatening aura, though Venden was not sure why a because they had placed down the heart, perhaps, or maybe because they were moving away from him now, not towards. And they began to lessen. As they stepped away they also shrank, in his vision and his regard. Their skin sagged towards the ground, their shoulders drooped. Their long, strong legs bowed beneath their weight, though that weight seemed to be decreasing. From dangerous to wretched, when at last they turned their backs on Venden to walk away they were even less than the Skythians he sometimes dealt with now. And then, only a little more than ghosts.

He hauled himself to his feet to watch them go, leaning on the shire for support. The creature was shivering.

'I don't think they were what was left,' he said. 'I'm not even sure they were what once was.' As Venden saw those four figures drifting down the hillside and merging with spidery shadows, his attention was snapped back to the stretcher. It was suddenly the focus of everything. His mother's final words. .h.i.t him again, and he could only wonder why.

'They brought it to me,' he said, the hillside whispering a breeze that might have been agreement, or wonder.

The heart of Aeon was the size of Venden's head. Grey and purple, motionless, unremarkable looking and yet the most amazing thing, still it bled. The blood oozed, but did not drip. The stretcher was unstained. The heart vented itself and then reabsorbed, blood emerging and then running deep. Almost as if it had no desire to touch this world.

'I have you,' Venden whispered. The object did not respond. His own heart hammered, and for a time he simply stood and watched, expecting Aeon's heart to start doing the same. But it was aloof and unconcerned.

He sat and breathed deeply, allowing himself to regain strength and come to terms with what was before him. Aeon allowed this pause. Venden drifted off, and when he awoke it was dusk, and ghost lights haunted the great, dead city.

When Milian Mu first heard the noise she was convinced she could actually feel it vibrating up into her feet, a roar whose promise she could not understand. She had never heard anything like it. She hid. She was exhausted from her long walk, and the sound set her nerves jangling.

Since fleeing the families and the man who had tried to love her, she had walked non-stop in a southerly direction, heading for Alderia's capital city. He will be there, she thought several times during her journey, the words bearing that peculiar sense of coming partly from her, and partly from somewhere deeper. And then the growling rumbling sound in the air, and the ground shaking beneath her feet.

There were a thousand places to hide on the hillside. Rocky outcroppings were numerous, as were holes in the ground, as if something had scooped and dumped great ma.s.ses of soil and rock and left the wounds to fade with time and weather. The depressions were alive with ma.s.ses of bright red flowers, the colour of blood and scented with a heady perfume that should calm her, had her mood been more even. The landscape appeared man-made, but Milian could make out no purpose. Things of long ago were often like this. She hid in a dip almost clear of the red flowers, a mound of rocks above and between her and the valley floor, and closed her eyes to sleep.

But sleep did not come. Tiredness urged her down but she remained awake. She thought it might be an earthquake, or the rumble of something huge turning over deep beneath the land, or even the impact of dreadful weather a hundred miles distant. The shard kept her sharp, and eventually urged her back out to face the source of the noise.

She had to walk almost down to the valley floor, such was the profusion of rock piles and flowering holes. The noise increased and became more complex, and when she peered from behind one of the last rock piles she saw its cause.

The wagon train stretched from left to right as far as she could see, snaking along the undulating plain between her hillside and the next, miles in the distance. It was so far away and so large that it barely seemed to move. But as her attention was drawn inward from the train's flexing ma.s.s, so she began to make out individual details.

There were hundreds of wagons of all shapes and sizes. Some were small enough to be family caravans, pulled by shire-like creatures with longer legs and faces. Others were much larger, running on multiple wheels and driven by steaming motors, gasping clouds behind them that drifted across the plain towards Milian with the breeze. The clear steam exhalations were interrupted now and then by darker, dirtier clouds. Their upper structures were a chaotic collection of storage and pa.s.senger compartments, some flying family colours, others dark and perhaps abandoned. It was like nothing she had ever seen before, but she kept her wonder restrained. She was in a foreign land, and the world had moved on while she slept.

The train of vehicles followed a scar carved across the landscape. Nomads, miners, hunters, farmers, whatever these people were, they had a history of moving in this way. They were heading south towards New Kotrugam, and that was the direction Milian needed to take.

She made sure she was well wrapped in the clothing given to her by the travellers, then started out across the plain. She moved at an angle to intercept the tail end of the wagon train, and long before she reached it there were riders, and running children, and pet wolves frolicking in the long gra.s.ses.

All of them made her welcome, despite the fact that she could only speak a few words of their language. They called her an Outer a foreigner, she a.s.sumed a and that suited her well. It seemed mostly not to lower her in their estimations. Using a mixture of signing and basic language, some offered her food and water, others pointed towards where she might find accommodation and work. Milian Mu nodded her thanks. Inside, the shard was quiet and content.

Every man she met might have been the one, and she examined them all with frank, hungry eyes.

The wagon train took two days to reach New Kotrugam. In that time Milian learned that it was comprised of a variety of people, she applied herself to learning more of their language and she caught a glimpse of the man who might be the one.

A surge of heat flushed through her when she saw him. Him, a voice said. Her voice, but not her thoughts. Him. It might be him. Watch and learn. But he was gone as quickly as he had come, disappearing into the shadowy maze of corridors and rooms in the heart of the big wagon.

The smaller wagons generally belonged to families or groups of friends, so Milian settled on one of the huge steam-driven structures. There were cabins to let, and though barely large enough to lie down in, the one she was allocated suited her perfectly. Having no money to pay her rent, she was directed to one of the several huge engine rooms, given a shovel and instructed to shovel coal.

This she did for much of the first day. The exercise was exhilarating and freeing, and she glanced at the other stokers, looking for him. He won't be here, she thought. He was learned, an academic. Strong. Not physically, perhaps, but she had seen the strength in his eyes, and the books and parchments he carried. The shard observed from the background, neither feeding nor detracting from her thoughts about the man. It seemed content that he had been seen, and would be seen again. Of that, Milian was certain.

She would see the man again.

The train stopped for the night, and a large proportion of pa.s.sengers disembarked to make camp, start fires, hunt and cook meat and sing songs. Milian wandered the length of the train, drinking from a wine bottle she had been given by the engine room's foreman as part payment for her day's work. Her muscles ached pleasantly, the wine imparted a calming haze. She felt good about herself for the first time since emerging from that cave on the beach.

Out in the open, the full breadth of the wagon train's inhabitants became obvious. There were fishermen here, their families busy fixing nets and rods, the fishermen talking amongst themselves about catches they had made and others that had got away. Milian drifted close to one group and listened for a while, gleaning what she could from a language still mostly alien to her. She recognised the tones, the sharp peaks and soft slopes of the words, and she found herself quickly learning more, and more. The fishermen had been working the lakes to the north, not the sea itself. None of them even mentioned the sea. It was as if the ocean between Alderia and what had become of Skythe did not exist.

She moved on, drinking and observing and in her silence remaining un.o.bserved. Hunters butchered and hung their kills, smoking meat and stretching hides. Mystics washed stones and crystals, beaded necklaces, drew shapes in the soil, and chanted over fires turned purple by the addition of powdered minerals. Several soldiers gathered together away from the crowds, sitting around their own fire and talking in hushed tones about their own secret plans. If they knew who I was, Milian thought. If they knew what dwelled within me. She hurried on in case such thoughts betrayed her.

She saw families gathered protectively around nurseries of playing children, lonely people staring into firelight, even lonelier people lying back and looking to the stars. There were printers transcribing writing onto ink pads, herb sellers packing their wares, and some families cooked and sold food from huge iron pots. It smelled wonderful, and Milian drifted close to one group until they waved her over, handing her a free flatbread sandwich when they realised she had little language and believed her to be an Outer. Such treatment for someone so different, she thought, and a tang of bitterness soured her smile. They asked her to stay and she walked away, because her memories of before were suddenly blood-soaked by these people's ancestors. Their bloodline had come to Skythe with Engines to channel magic, and caused the deaths of everyone Milian had known.

A large group of people sat listening to a Fade priest. Some of them smiled, some of them cried. Milian could have told them about a G.o.d, and the shard bristled at such an idea. Her hands clawed, and the wine bottle in her left hand cracked beneath the pressure. Smothered by loud prayer, no one heard the sound of breaking gla.s.s.

And then she saw him again, pa.s.sing not ten steps from her with a bag over one shoulder and a heavy roll of wrapped parchments beneath his arm.

There he is, she thought, and the shard exuded those words at the same time. They matched so perfectly that she and the shard might have been one.

She followed, and practised what she might say.

He was tall, with long hair bound and clipped with metal ties, a heavy leather jacket hanging open to display a rough cotton shirt, and a wild blond beard. He walked with his head up, looking around but with an air of detachment that Milian found compelling. He did not feel like part of this wagon train. Other people seemed either to fit in, or were content to belong at least until the journey was over. Even those on their own were incorporated in some way, identifiable by their clothing, manner, or belongings as part of a whole. But this man walked alone, and she knew that he was very far away.

She followed him from the camp, out onto the plain and away from the influence of the dozens of large campfires. She stayed far enough back so that he did not see her shadow thrown before him, but the further they went the longer their shadows became. When he paused and looked down at the ground beside him, she too halted.

'I've seen you,' he said. The words were not familiar, but their meaning filtered through, given weight and sense as the shard repeated them. The seed of Aeon she carried was allowing her to hear.

'I'm sorry,' Milian said. 'I saw you and ...' And what? And you are the one?

He turned around and stared past her back at the wagon train. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught her breath, because she had missed out on its beauty. Fires burned, lights blazed, people cooked and laughed, played music and danced.

'You don't want to be there?' he asked.

'I want to be here.' She walked closer to him, and something pa.s.sed between them. She saw that he felt it too as his eyes opened wider, pinp.r.i.c.k pupils dilating as he shifted focus from the wagon train to her, and her alone.

Milian had not felt the true warmth of another human being for so long.

'Cold,' she said.

'I was just about to build a fire.' He retained his grip on the rolled and wrapped parchments, but dropped the shoulder bag and squatted beside it, inviting her to join him.

'But you have ...' She nodded at the parchments, and when he put them down she saw that there were two books folded in there as well, rolls of bookbinding string, and a pocket of pens and ink.

'I study Skythe, but it will wait,' he said. He watched her as he said it, examining her for any reaction.

'An amazing place,' she said. She was not surprised at his interest in her old home. In the darkness between blinks she lived a hundred memories, and her vision blurred.

'They're conducting a Fade ma.s.s back there.' He nodded past her at the wagon train.

She shrugged, dismissive. Testing me, she thought. He scratched his bristly cheek. She sensed his doubt, but not suspicion.

'Let me help you with the fire,' she said.

'I've seen you,' he replied, repeating himself. 'Yesterday, on the big wagon.' He said no more, but his silence spoke volumes. He's seen me and noticed me, and he is the one, and surely there's more than chance to that?

The shard remained silent, heavy with intent.

'My name is Milian Mu,' she said.

'An Outer name, I a.s.sume. I knew by your accent, and your ... way with words. As if they're new to you.'

'New,' she said, nodding and smiling. She helped him set the fire. 'What's your name?'

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'how impolite of me. Bon. I'm Bon Ugane.'

'I am happy to meet you, Bon Ugane.'

'And I you.'

He is the one, Milian thought, and the shard agreed. This was a man who was destined to discover truths and eventually act upon them. Any child of his a and hers a would take on the precious shard, and strive to know the secrets of Aeon. Perhaps, in time, this child might act upon those secrets, and find what remained of that murdered G.o.d.

The fire made an island of their first meeting, and she and Bon sat together and talked until dawn.