The Bell Between Worlds (46 page)

“It’s there! But I can’t see the face!” he cried.

“You must!” bellowed Paiscion over the boom of a wave striking the hull. “We must know who it is!”

Sylas groaned a little as the pain surged again through his wrist. He pulled it up to his chest, massaging it with his other hand.

“The band is telling you that your Glimmer is near!” cried the Magruman. “The pain will go! The face! You must see the face!”

“I’m trying!” snapped Sylas.

He rubbed his eyes. It was hopeless: all he could see was a blur and every time he shifted his eyes across to the other mirror it had moved to the other before his eyes reached it.

He closed his eyes and tried to think. There must be a way. He thought again of his conversation with Mr Zhi. “
You can see all that you are able to be
,” he had said. Now those words made more sense than ever. Mr Zhi had meant that he was able to see his whole self –
both parts
of himself... So why was it so difficult? There was something else. Sylas tried to remember the rest of the conversation about the Things and the mobile and the mirrors.

Then it dawned on him. They had been talking about his
imagination
… about how his
imagination
made these things possible.

He raised his eyes to the mirror and again drew a long breath. He could see the other reflection moving within the frame almost as though it was trying to attract his attention, but he ignored it and focused on his own image, shutting out the sounds of the ship creaking and the chains clanking and the surf crashing against the timbers. Then, apprehensively, he began to imagine. He imagined his face changing, the lines blurring and morphing into the face in the other mirror; he imagined their two faces becoming one, his own face slowly fading and that of his Glimmer taking its place.

And, as he imagined, everything in the room became distant.

He stared at his own reflection, his own dark brown eyes, dark hair, anxious face. He was so intent on his own image that he hardly noticed when the other reflection started to fade. Only when it entirely disappeared did he realise that something was happening.

The images were drawing together, in a single mirror.

At first Sylas thought it was simply the shifting light catching his hair, but as the moments passed, he saw that its very colour was morphing. It was becoming lighter. At the same time he became sure that it was changing shape: his untidy curls twisting and unfolding until they crept down around his face. It was a mass of blond hair. His face, too, started to change, becoming smaller, thinner. His eyes altered in shape and they too changed colour – changing from brown to green to blue; his very skin seemed to change in tone, becoming lighter and finer.

He was staring in astonishment at a face that he knew.

“I can see her,” he muttered through his teeth, frightened to move his face.

“
Her?
” repeated Simia, looking confused.

“Of course!” cried Paiscion excitedly.

“It
is
… it’s a girl!” repeated Sylas, still struggling to believe what he was seeing. “And I’ve seen her before…”

Simia wrestled free of Paiscion and stepped forward.

“Where?” she demanded.

“In my dreams…” he murmured.
The silvered glimmer on the lake… the sun-streaked shadow
… his thoughts flew to his hazy, indistinct memories of his dreams. Dreams of the figure walking through the forest and beside the lake… the face peering back at him… the face he knew.

Not his mother, but this girl – his Glimmer!

Paiscion clapped his hands and cried out triumphantly: “Oh, but of course!”

Sylas barely heard him. He was staring into the girl’s eyes and he had the strangest sense that she was staring straight back.

He found her face magnetic: her blue eyes radiant and warm; her fine, narrow features somehow familiar and safe. And although she was a girl, although she was quite clearly different, he saw
himself
in her. He saw it in the way she tilted her head, in the curl of her mouth and in the rise of her cheek; but most of all he saw it in her expression of fear and wonder. He leaned forward a little in his seat and, in the same instant, so did she. He stopped and frowned and so did she. He drew a sharp breath and her lips parted.

He leaned in still further and, as he expected, she moved nearer. But while he smiled, her expression was different. Suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his arm and in the same instant panic passed over her face. He opened his mouth to speak to her, but suddenly she turned sharply and peered over her shoulder into the darkness.

Then she was gone.

Bowe’s passage from unconsciousness was slow and torturous. His mind was lost in a great darkness, a constant, throbbing pain that gathered about him like great black clouds. He was aware of trying to reach the surface, striving for the light, but he felt heavy, as though his limbs were being dragged down, sinking down, down, into the deep.

And so, when the light did come, it was a surprise, a relief. It appeared to him like sun breaking through the pendulous clouds, like an end to a long and silent storm. But what emerged from behind the clouds were not the dazzling rays for which he so yearned, but a dull and flickering glow. And, as the clouds rolled back, he saw not an open sky, but a vast horizon, a landscape of sand and scrub. Near at hand, a great stone circle rose majestically from the dust, high and proud, casting dark shadows at its feet. At its centre was another circle, but not of stone: it was twelve figures in long robes, their hands joined, their hooded heads cast to the heavens.

His eyes flicked open and he blinked.

The image of the circle of priests remained, suspended in front of him. He raised his throbbing head, biting his lip as a pain shot through his bleeding temple. He saw at once that he was lying on a great stone table, his hands and feet held tightly in manacles and chains. He lowered his head gently on to the cold surface and the scene appeared once again. It was not in front of him, but suspended high above. It was a huge intricate mural, painted on the ceiling of this great chamber, bordered on all sides by an ornate golden frame. Beyond, he could make out more paintings, each depicting historical scenes of magic and wonder.

But he took little interest, for as he became more wakeful, the pain raged through his body: in his ankles and wrists where the manacles cut into his skin; in his shoulders and arms, which had been wrenched high above his head; in his skull, which ached with the blow he had received in the passageway. He tried to move, to ease the pain.

One of the chains slipped. It rattled noisily on to the stone. Bowe held his breath as the sound echoed around the chamber.

A bolt was drawn back somewhere behind him, across the chamber, and a gentle breeze flowed through the room. The air was not fresh but sweet and putrid. It only took him a moment to place: it was the scent he had come to know on the field of battle, a scent that made him retch. It was death. The unmistakable aroma of rotting flesh.

But he was aware of it for only a moment, for suddenly his Scryer’s mind was assailed by a devastating calamity of colour, form and motion: torrents of black and grey, mountainous waves of purple and blue, great fires of red and orange, all surging through his consciousness with unstoppable force, ripping through his thoughts, overthrowing his senses.

He strained against his chains and screamed and screamed and screamed.

A voice seared through his brain and burned in his chest. It sounded not like one, but a legion of voices: male, female, young, old, deep and shrill, all speaking together, forming one overwhelming sound.

“And
this
, the father of greatness?”

“Despite all perils we must find the Lost Chronicle.
In
the name of truth
, we must find it.”

T
HEIR EYES WERE FIXED
on Paiscion, who in turn stared at Sylas with wide eyes. They filled the lenses of his spectacles, moving slowly, painstakingly over Sylas’s face, tracing every line and shape, every curve and feature. His expression was stern and solemn, but his eyes gleamed brightly in the Bow Room’s faint, shifting light.

“I should have seen it,” he said quietly. “I should have seen it before – as soon as I met you.
Blue
eyes, you say?”

Sylas was still rubbing his aching wrist. He nodded. “Yes, but there’s something about her that… well... looks like me.”

Paiscion continued to gaze at him wistfully. “I know,” he said, deep in thought. Suddenly he sucked a breath through his teeth: “Sylas, I believe I know who she is.”

Outwardly Sylas paled, but inwardly he felt a new surge of adrenalin and his heart quickened.

Simia started to bounce up and down on her toes and finally she was unable to contain herself any longer.

“
Who?
”

Paiscion leaned down to meet Sylas’s eyes, addressing his answer solely to him.

“Her name is Naeo.”

Instantly Sylas felt a sharp pain shoot through his wrist. He winced.

“You
know
her?” he asked, turning the Merisi Band in an attempt to ease the discomfort.

“We all do,” replied Paiscion. “All of the Magrumen, though I know her family rather better than the others. I fought with her father during the war – an extraordinary man – a Scryer of exceptional talent.” He smiled reflectively. “He gave himself utterly to the practice of his art. He even resurrected the ancient tradition of his forbears, shaving his head and tattooing each of the mystical symbols of Scrying into his scalp—”

“Bowe?!”
exclaimed Sylas and Simia in unison.

Paiscion blinked through his spectacles. “You know him?”

“Yes, of course,” said Simia, glancing at Sylas. “He’s a friend. He was at the mill!”

The Magruman’s face brightened. “Well, how extraordinary! What a relief to know that he is alive and well! But then if anyone was sure to survive all that has happened—”

“He was taken,” interjected Simia reluctantly. “When we were leaving the mill – he and Fathray were together.”

Some of the familiar weariness returned to Paiscion’s face.

“Ah,” he said. He was silent for some moments, then he murmured:
“
I’ve never seen such a gift for Scrying. Not before, and not since. He had such insight, such
feeling
… he would tell me not only where the enemy legions were, but who led them, where they would attack, whether they were resolute or undecided, whether the men were loyal or rebellious. Envoys and scouts arrived to find that Bowe had given me their message hours before. And traitors and liars… well, they gained no quarter when Bowe was at hand…”

“That sounds like him,” said Simia, smiling sadly.

Paiscion nodded. “And now it seems that he is again lost to us. In truth I thought we had lost him at the Reckoning, like so many thousands of others.”

He drew a deep breath and glanced over at the mirrors.

“That was the day that his daughter, Naeo, came of age.”

“How do you mean?”

“At the battle...” said Paiscion rather absently as his mind drifted back. “She... she was magnificent.”

“Naeo was there? At the battle?”

“More than that,” said Paiscion solemnly, “she very nearly changed the course of it. The battle and perhaps even the history of our people.”

He moved past Sylas and sat down in the chair, then stared at each of the mirrors in turn as if trying to catch a last glimpse of the young girl.

“After the fall of the Circle of Salsimaine she and Bowe travelled by night to join those of us who sought escape upon the sand flats. Of course, Bowe was much needed and he joined our ranks, but Naeo must have been told to wait, because she found herself a little spot high on the rocks, overlooking the bay. And there she watched. She looked on as Thoth appeared upon the headland and our army began to panic; she watched as the sky was filled with fire and the beach became a boiling morass. She saw the caves give way and she watched her people sinking beneath the sands. Finally she looked on as mighty waves rose from the depths of the sea, their foaming peaks clawing at the sky before tumbling towards the shore, bearing away all who remained.”

“And where was Bowe?” asked Sylas.

“Until now I thought he was among those who were lost,” said Paiscion. “And I’m certain that Naeo thought the same.”

Simia put her hands to her face. “How could she bear it…?”

“She couldn’t,” said Paiscion. “At that most horrifying moment, she found something in the very darkest, the most hidden parts of her soul. For, even as the first of the waves threatened to bear her father away, she was seen standing fearlessly, high upon some rocks. She held her arms aloft, stretched out across the bay, and she glared defiantly at the passing waves.

“At first her gestures seemed futile: the seas continued on their devastating path, pounding the cliffs and hurling legions of men to their deaths. But then an onlooker called out, and soon there was an entire chorus of hopeful cries. Espasian and I turned to see an astonishing, glorious sight. The waves were turning. Instead of crashing into the few survivors they slewed to one side, collapsing under their own weight, falling on one edge and rising to impossible heights on the other, banking sharply away from our brethren. They began to travel across the bay, away from the rocks on which she stood. Every new wave that Thoth sent to crush the survivors instead fed a mounting surge of water that careered directly towards the headland. Before he was able to rally, a monstrous mountain of water was bearing down on him, threatening to sweep him from the clifftop. For some moments – some blessed seconds – we all dared to believe that this tiny girl – this great natural force of Essenfayle – might just succeed, that she might strike him down. But alas, the crest of the wave was not quite high enough. It struck the cliff face on the headland with a thunderous clap and sent a sheet of water high into the sky. When it fell, Thoth remained.”