The Crimson Skew (11 page)

S
OPHIA COULD HEAR
Calixta and Wren arguing in the neighboring compartment. Wren, who had never before lost his temper in their presence, was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Do you think they will be deterred when they find themselves in possession of the wrong man? No! They will just keep hounding us as we travel north, putting all of you in danger!”

Calixta remained completely unfazed. “You underestimate Burr,” she told Wren yet again—she had been saying as much
for the last fifteen minutes. “Calm yourself. The Morrises do not give up their own, and you are one of ours. Burr has this well in hand.”

“Listen to you!” Wren raged. “
‘One of ours'?
I am
not
a hapless urchin who made his way onto the
Swan
to beg for scraps
.
I have made decisions that must be answered for by me and me alone! The two of you are far too used to having your own way. Goldenrod, Errol, and I—not to mention Sophia!—have indulged your domineering tendencies because they are mostly harmless and often amusing. But this time you've gone too far!”

“None of our crew are ‘hapless urchins.' Well,” Calixta amended, “unless you count me and Burr. Orphans, and all that. But hardly hapless.”

“You're missing the point. You can't make this kind of decision for others. You
cannot.
I'm going to get off at the next station and return to New Orleans.”

“If you do that, you will ruin everything Burr has done for you up to now.”

There was a pause. Wren's energy was clearly flagging. “I could probably think my way out of this,” he groaned, evidently in pain, “if you hadn't bashed in my skull.”

“That wasn't my fault!” Calixta countered cheerfully.

Wren did not reply. A palpable exasperation hung in the silence. “I'm through with this conversation,” he finally said. Sophia heard the compartment door being thrown open.

“Don't go too far,” Calixta called as Wren's unsteady footsteps sounded in the corridor.

“I'm only looking for Errol,” he grumbled, “so I can talk to someone with more than a shred of common sense. No need to knock me out again.”

Sophia sat at the edge of her seat, her hands clasped anxiously. She searched Goldenrod's face for reassurance. But Goldenrod was staring out through the window, her expression distant and preoccupied. “This doesn't feel right,” Sophia said.

“No—it does not,” Goldenrod murmured, without taking her eyes from the landscape beyond the window.

“What is it?” Sophia asked, realizing that Goldenrod was referring to something else. Outside, the dank yellow clouds hung low, seeming almost to brush the treetops. “The clouds?”

Instead of answering, the Eerie threw open the window and leaned out as they slowed in anticipation of a passing train. She let the wind rush over her face, her eyes fixed on the middle distance, her expression intent and listening.

Goldenrod drew her head back inside just as Errol and Wren appeared at the compartment door. “Goldenrod,” Wren said as they stepped into the compartment, “I've consulted with Errol, and he agrees—”

“It's not speaking, Richard,” Goldenrod said, in agitation.

Wren stopped, his mouth open, the sudden shock draining him of color. “What do you mean?” His voice was barely audible.

“There's nothing.” She swallowed hard. “There wasn't in New Orleans, either, but I thought it was because we were in the city.”

Wren dropped onto the seat beside Sophia.

“Can you explain?” Errol shut the compartment door behind him.

“Yes,” Goldenrod said, taking his hand. Sophia felt more unsettled by this than anything she had seen yet. She was used to the affectionate gestures between them, but now Goldenrod was taking Errol's hand for comfort and strength. Her own was trembling. “I have told Errol and Sophia of the old ones,” she explained to Wren. “It was necessary, to follow Sophia's Ausentinian map.”

He nodded, still in shock.

“As you know,” Goldenrod said to Sophia and Errol, “Richard and I met many years ago, when he was traveling near the Eerie Sea.”

“Yes, you said you were on an expedition there,” Sophia said to Wren.

“He was,” Goldenrod answered for him. “An expedition to persuade us, the Elodeans, to join the League of Encephalon Ages.”

Errol raised his eyebrows. “Then Elodeans are of the future?”

“Our origin is disputed,” Goldenrod said. “But the year of one's Age alone is not what warrants membership in the League. Many pockets of the Baldlands are from the future, and the League has no interest in them. It was interested in us because we have part of the knowledge that the League protects.”

Sophia felt her pulse quicken. This was it. They would finally learn the secret that the League was concealing. Time and
again, Wren had avoided speaking of it, but now, it seemed, the moment had at last arrived. “What is it?” she whispered.

“It has to do with the old ones,” Wren said hoarsely, “as Goldenrod calls them. The Climes. In the Encephalon Ages . . .” He paused. For a moment he stared at his hands. Then he looked at Goldenrod. “I don't know how to explain.”

“Let me,” she said quietly. “The Encephalon Ages know what we Elodeans know—that Ages are sentient.”

“You told us,” Sophia replied eagerly. “And that people such as the Eerie might even be able to persuade them to do things—like the weirwinds.”

“That is one consequence,” Goldenrod assented. “But it is more complicated. Elodeans hold this knowledge as a kind of intuitive faculty. But in the Encephalon Ages, the ability to speak with and ultimately influence the old ones emerged as a form of defense.”

“Defense against what?” Errol asked.

“A defense against their influence upon us.”

Sophia caught her breath. “They influ—but how?”

“It is not malicious,” Goldenrod said earnestly, as if responding to an accusation that she was used to hearing. “The old ones are never manipulative or malicious. It is simply not in their nature. And they cannot direct our actions outright. They only guide and suggest. You have both undoubtedly felt it—you experience it constantly. You simply do not recognize it for what it is.” She leaned forward, her hand still clasping Errol's, her expression passionate. “Consider arriving at the edge of a
forest and feeling a sense of foreboding that you cannot place. Or when you see a fork in the road and something irresistible suggests you go in one direction. Or when you feel compelled to climb to the next hill, even though you have done more than enough walking.”

“Only in the wilderness, then,” Errol said.

Goldenrod shook her head. “The same would be true in a village or town. Although the denser the concentration of beings, the less powerfully we hear the old one's voice. In cities, it can be near impossible. But surely you have walked by some dwelling and thought to yourself, ‘I never want to cross that threshold.' The intuitive sense of dread or delight, the inspired pursuit of certain paths and roads, the certainty that we sometimes carry about where we are headed—these are all the influences of the old ones.”

“I have certainly felt such inclinations,” agreed Errol.

“So have I,” Sophia said. “I thought it was . . . instinct.”

“It is, in a way,” Goldenrod replied. “The old ones never influence us in ways counter to our nature, our will.”

“But nevertheless,” Wren broke in, his voice aggrieved, “in the Encephalon Ages, this influence was feared. And arts—the Ars—were developed to speak back. To keep the Climes from shaping our actions—and more, to shape them in return. It should never have happened that way, and it is a terrible way to live.”

Sophia could not make sense of any of it. “Why? What is it like?”

Wren shook his head. “How to explain?” he said helplessly. “Consider this—the Encephalon Ages can never be reached by those from other Ages, because they control the old ones so closely. Every approaching ship will encounter a storm. Every expedition will be lost in a blizzard. And in the Encephalon Ages, these manipulations abound for other purposes, not only for protection—every human intention for good or evil that you can imagine finds expression in the manipulation of the Climes.”

Sophia tried to imagine a world of human actions on such a scale.

“But this is not all,” Goldenrod said. “As I learned from Wren only weeks ago, as we sailed to Hispaniola . . .” She took a deep breath. “The League's secrets are deeper than I had imagined.”

“In the early years after the Disruption,” Wren continued, his face still pale, “those who sought to control the Climes would gladly have stretched their reach to pre-Encephalon Ages who were ignorant of this knowledge. Until—” He looked at Goldenrod.

“One of the old ones stopped speaking.”

“It stopped doing anything,” Wren said. “It was still there—but only in body, and not in soul. It was a shell. A corpse.”

Sophia gasped. “The Climes can
die
?”

“Perhaps. We do not know. For all their advanced arts, the Encephalon Ages do not understand what happened. They only observe it. Whatever sense of spirit was in the Clime no longer existed. It was inert, without consciousness. Every living thing upon it withered and died. And so the League was
formed,” he concluded, “out of the realization that, if human beings had only partial knowledge, the old ones might be irreparably damaged.”

“But then,” Sophia said, remembering what had begun the conversation, “is that happening here?”

Goldenrod and Wren looked at one another. “I don't know,” she said. “When I encountered the Dark Age in the heart of the Papal States, I was baffled by a Clime that seemed to have no consciousness. But I did not know then what I know now. And moreover, this is different. I've never . . .”

“Tell us what you perceived,” Errol prompted.

“I have been listening since we arrived at the harbor, and I could hear nothing. I assumed it was because of New Orleans—such a crowded place. Full of so much human life. But now, away from the city, I should be able to hear. And there is only . . . silence.”

Sophia's mind reeled at the possible implications. “Has this ever happened before in New Occident?”

Goldenrod shook her head. “Never. Remember, this old one is known to me—it is my home. I have spoken to it since I was born. It has never met me with silence.” She turned away, hiding her expression, to look out the window.

The others followed her gaze. The open, unvaried landscape of northern New Akan seemed flattened by the ever-present anvil clouds. There was a slow, rolling movement within them, accompanied by a shifting patch of darkness, as if a giant serpent were tunneling through.

“What does Seneca say?” Errol asked, breaking the silence.

Goldenrod abruptly straightened, her eyes lit with hope. “I have not asked him!”

Without another word, Errol rose to retrieve Seneca, whom he had left hooded in the neighboring compartment. The three travelers waited, and moments later Errol returned with the falcon. Seneca peered at them unhappily, but perched on Goldenrod's arm without complaint.

Goldenrod murmured quietly to the falcon, who made no sound but shifted his head back and forth, as if considering a question. Errol, Wren, and Sophia watched expectantly. Suddenly, Goldenrod's face cleared. “Seneca can hear it.”

Wren let out a sigh of relief. “What does it say?”

“Nothing. It does not speak, but Seneca can sense something. A knot of fear, deep in its heart. The silence is intentional.”

“But surely that does not bode well?” wondered Errol.

“Much better than the alternative,” Wren said.

“It is deeply concerning.” Goldenrod stroked Seneca's smooth feathers. “I cannot imagine what would provoke such fear that the old one would refuse to speak. But I agree with Wren—better silent than senseless.”

“Is this fear about something in particular?” Sophia asked.

“It is about a place. Seneca cannot say where—somewhere in the distant north.”