brain within the corrupted flesh counted each hour, each day, until time could be laid down forever in the bone pits to be eaten by the fliers.
And then a calm came, a calm more terrible in its cold quiet than the frantic horror that had gone before. She went down into the pit and raised up all the workers who were there, a small pitful. Thirty-five or forty, perhaps. She led them away, chanting them along the road, her mirrored staff casting a glittering warning before her in the rays of cold sun. ‘Rejoice,’ she gargled. ‘Work awaits you.’ Her voice was a mockery. ‘Work awaits you.’
It was very early. No one saw her go. She led the workers away from the city, away from the Tower, north into the forested lands where they could not be seen, then farther still, farther than she had ever gone before among the endless trees of the roadless wilderness, using the blood and Tears for distance only, not for labor. She went in wild ways,guided only by the pale sun, leading a tangled, shambling line that stumbled in its witless wandering through the day, into the evening, into violet dusk. She found a chasm at last, a rocky place, deep and solidly ranked about with high-piled edges of balanced stone. The workers had begun to stumble, but she had driven them on with the last few drops in her flask and then by her voice alone, a harsh cawing, like one of the carrion fliers. She led them onto the sparse brush and hard stone of the chasm, and there she let them drop. There she let Delia fall as well.
When she raised the hood, Delia’s eyelids lifted to give her one look of terrible intelligence before they closed once more. Pamra told herself it had been the final look, the last awareness.
‘It’s over,’ she whispered. ‘Over. Done. Soon the dark. Soon the silence. The forgiving silence. Soon the true peace, Delia. Delia. Forgive me.’
Then dark surrounded them, the sound of night fliers, the rustle of small living things, the dim ghostlight of Abricor, the silver radiance of Viranel, the red looming power of Potipur, gathered together to stare down at her as she stared up, daring them to strike at her. In their light she raised the hoods, leaving them up to see whether any still looked at her or whether they were only dead. She could not tell, for the moonlight shifted and threw strange shadows on the faces. From the top of the chasm wall she levered the loose rimrock until it tumbled in a thundering avalanche across them, a growl of stone that piled above the pathetic bodies and shook the silent fabric of the wilderness.
It ended in a shivering cascade of gravel, a roil of dust that hung for long moments in the still evening, moving as though it were sentient. She dropped onto the rimrock, choking on the dirty air.
Where had the stubborn naivete come from that had kept her enthralled with myth long after those around her knew the truth? Where had her blindness come from? Had it been willful? A way of getting even with them all?
Slowly, so slowly that she did not know if she truly saw itor only imagined it, a line of fliers moved across the face of Potipur toward her, bent and moved as though a lip had moved upon that face, mouthing a word. Was it ‘Go’? Or perhaps ‘Good’? Or ‘God’? Fliers. Investigating the sound of the falling stone.
‘A lie,’ she said defiantly. It made no difference what the Servants of Abricor said. It was all a lie.
She broke her mirrored staff and threw the shattered pieces into the pit. Her hands went to her hair to remove the identifying braids. When it hung loose as any market-woman’s locks, she remembered she had never seen an Awakener die. Had never seen one dead. Perhaps there had been many come beneath her hands, their hair unbraided hidden behind the canvas hoods.
After a time she climbed down from the high rimwall and began to walk through the dark trees into the west. She would pass through the workers’ pit on the westward boundary and come to Shabber.
What
And then a calm came, a calm more terrible in its cold quiet than the frantic horror that had gone before. She went down into the pit and raised up all the workers who were there, a small pitful. Thirty-five or forty, perhaps. She led them away, chanting them along the road, her mirrored staff casting a glittering warning before her in the rays of cold sun. ‘Rejoice,’ she gargled. ‘Work awaits you.’ Her voice was a mockery. ‘Work awaits you.’
It was very early. No one saw her go. She led the workers away from the city, away from the Tower, north into the forested lands where they could not be seen, then farther still, farther than she had ever gone before among the endless trees of the roadless wilderness, using the blood and Tears for distance only, not for labor. She went in wild ways,guided only by the pale sun, leading a tangled, shambling line that stumbled in its witless wandering through the day, into the evening, into violet dusk. She found a chasm at last, a rocky place, deep and solidly ranked about with high-piled edges of balanced stone. The workers had begun to stumble, but she had driven them on with the last few drops in her flask and then by her voice alone, a harsh cawing, like one of the carrion fliers. She led them onto the sparse brush and hard stone of the chasm, and there she let them drop. There she let Delia fall as well.
When she raised the hood, Delia’s eyelids lifted to give her one look of terrible intelligence before they closed once more. Pamra told herself it had been the final look, the last awareness.
‘It’s over,’ she whispered. ‘Over. Done. Soon the dark. Soon the silence. The forgiving silence. Soon the true peace, Delia. Delia. Forgive me.’
Then dark surrounded them, the sound of night fliers, the rustle of small living things, the dim ghostlight of Abricor, the silver radiance of Viranel, the red looming power of Potipur, gathered together to stare down at her as she stared up, daring them to strike at her. In their light she raised the hoods, leaving them up to see whether any still looked at her or whether they were only dead. She could not tell, for the moonlight shifted and threw strange shadows on the faces. From the top of the chasm wall she levered the loose rimrock until it tumbled in a thundering avalanche across them, a growl of stone that piled above the pathetic bodies and shook the silent fabric of the wilderness.
It ended in a shivering cascade of gravel, a roil of dust that hung for long moments in the still evening, moving as though it were sentient. She dropped onto the rimrock, choking on the dirty air.
Where had the stubborn naivete come from that had kept her enthralled with myth long after those around her knew the truth? Where had her blindness come from? Had it been willful? A way of getting even with them all?
Slowly, so slowly that she did not know if she truly saw itor only imagined it, a line of fliers moved across the face of Potipur toward her, bent and moved as though a lip had moved upon that face, mouthing a word. Was it ‘Go’? Or perhaps ‘Good’? Or ‘God’? Fliers. Investigating the sound of the falling stone.
‘A lie,’ she said defiantly. It made no difference what the Servants of Abricor said. It was all a lie.
She broke her mirrored staff and threw the shattered pieces into the pit. Her hands went to her hair to remove the identifying braids. When it hung loose as any market-woman’s locks, she remembered she had never seen an Awakener die. Had never seen one dead. Perhaps there had been many come beneath her hands, their hair unbraided hidden behind the canvas hoods.
After a time she climbed down from the high rimwall and began to walk through the dark trees into the west. She would pass through the workers’ pit on the westward boundary and come to Shabber.
What
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