CHAPTER SIXTEEN
C HAPTER S IXTEEN
Ryon wakes long before he should, disconcerted. Beside him is the form of a person he does not recognise. A woman not his own, and then he remembers… Abertha.
The night before, he had returned to the camp and found Hector. Ryon had always thought the human scrawny, but no doubt stronger than he appears. Life on the Ledge would not have forged a man of meek temperament.
Still seething, Ryon had woken Hector who laid on his side, his front to Esra’s back.
“I need a favour,” Ryon had said in a low voice and waited for the man to find his feet.
“It is Dawsyn?” Hector had asked, rubbing the grit from his eyes with his equally gritty knuckles.
It should have set his teeth on edge, he thinks, to hear Hector enquire after her in that intimate tone. But Ryon has watched Dawsyn and Hector interact since they delivered him from the Ledge, and he knows their relationship is not, and has never been, romantic. It is something else entirely.
And by the way Hector gravitates toward Esra, Ryon needn’t hold further concern.
“Stay close to Dawsyn for me,” Ryon had said, nodding to the gloom due North, where Dawsyn surely still stood, seething as he did. “She is coughing more and more. Watch over her?”
Hector’s eyes had widened with worry. “I will.”
Ryon had given a stiff nod, then left in search of Abertha.
Now, sick dread pools in his belly to not have Dawsyn lying by him, and he regrets stalking off as he did, leaving her in the dark. If the blight worsened her in the night, he’ll curse himself.
Abertha breathes easily beside him, still asleep. The Chasm is still, quiet, despite the yellow river of light above them, signalling daybreak. It seems the longer they remain in this canyon, the more life it leeches from these people. Soon, Ryon thinks, they won’t rise at all.
Donning his sword sheaths across his shoulders, Ryon retrieves his unlit torch and stands. Each morning, he steals away. It is an easy thing to do in a black hole like this. He finds the wall, feeling along its sharp edges, putting distance between him and the others. Then he closes his eyes.
He rolls his shoulders, searching inward. He feels the place between bones where his wings nestle and stretches them carefully. It should feel as easy as stretching one’s legs; the muscles and tendons giving a dull but satisfying ache. Instead, Ryon’s eyes screw tightly shut. His wings spread reluctantly, sending a shock of pain down his spine from where the blade pierced his back. Had that knife been an inch closer to the centre, Ryon is sure he would not be able to walk, much less fly.
His wings shudder as they extend fully, but they do not vanish this time. It brings him a measure of relief. He is healing, if slowly. And it is far more than he could have hoped for.
Yet still, he thinks of Baltisse, who would have had him flying again within moments, had she not given her life to this ploy.
He sags. His friend, Baltisse. How desperately he wishes to confer with her now. No doubt the mage would bolster him, tell him to buck up and walk on. She would bring reason to whatever ailment plagues Dawsyn and the rest, curing them all. She would call Dawsyn a fool and rattle her until she saw sense.
But Baltisse is gone. Dead. Before he even had the chance to repay her for all the ways she fixed him, right from their very first meeting.
Gritting his teeth, Ryon raises his wings, as though he might lift his body from the ground. The pressure in his back is extraordinary, but he manages to hold the weight. His wings remain aloft until he cannot bear the strain, and he finally relents. They vanish, and he falls forward toward the Chasm wall, catching himself with his hands.
“Fuck,” he pants, feeling sweat drip down his chest. Dawsyn had accused him of wanting to fly away. If only she knew how impossible a feat it would be, even if he wanted to.
He recalls the look on her face. The shame and hurt, quickly veneered by her usual indifference, her slow-simmering ire. He wonders if he’ll ever truly see her with those layers stripped away, if she’ll ever fully reveal herself to him.
Or will he always trail after her, scratching the surface, hoping for a chance to see inside.
Last night, he had stared at the sky, and wished he could fly Dawsyn away. That desire still burns hotter than any other now. It is brighter than his irritation with her. Bigger than his fear. And yet, she still doubts his loyalty to her. His attachment.
Perhaps, he thinks, a bitter taste cloying in his mouth, the attachment is one-sided.
Sometimes, it is an easy thing to believe – that she doesn’t need him, even if she wants him. But there are those other times, like when she seeks him out. He can feel it then – the tether between them. Those moments when she buries herself in his embrace and recedes within him. In those small seconds of surrender, he believes that they were meant to find one another. “This girl has the power to destroy you, Ry,” Baltisse had once told him. “Best weigh your choices carefully.”
“I think it might be too late for that,” Ryon had grunted, watching Dawsyn sleep on a narrow cot inside Salem’s inn. Baltisse closed Dawsyn’s wounds and brushed her hair back, still damp with river water. “Then Mother help you.”
Ryon had stared at the mage, asking her silent questions, letting her read his mind.
“I don’t tell fortunes,” she had said. “I do not know if it will work. I only know that the connection is… strong. Strangely so. Sometimes these things are better off left alone.”
“I can’t,” he had whispered, staring at Dawsyn’s blood red lips, darkened by the cold.
“Then stay with her,” Baltisse had said. “And brace yourself. She will not make it easy.”
Ryon shakes his head at the memory. “Pain in the arse,” he says again, looking upward.
One day, Dawsyn will finally lay down every tangible and intangible weapon before him, and he will say, See? Do you see now, how exactly right we are?
And until then, he will scratch. He will pull the hair from his scalp and curse the Holy Mother until there is no more resistance.
“Riv,” Ryon calls, finally finding the male. He has been searching each crevice of the Chasm for him.
Around them, people are gathering their meagre belongings, preparing for another endless trek. More than once, he hears the discontented murmurs – some angry, but mostly tired.
“What use is there walking onward?”
“She told us it would only take several days.”
The sixth day inside the Chasm dawns, and Ryon cannot shake the feeling that it may be their last, whether the end comes or not.
“Brother,” Rivdan says as Ryon approaches, nodding solemnly.
“How many?”
“I counted two,” he says in answer. “Tash found one other.”
Ryon sighs. Three more dead. “How?” he mutters quietly, carefully, aware of lingering ears.
“One tied a leather swath around his face. He was blue when I found him. Not certain about the others. Seems as though they died in their sleep. Many of them were already weak when we brought them here.”
Ryon nods. “I’ll tell Dawsyn.”
“Today, it is three. Tomorrow it may be ten.” Rivdan is quiet a moment. “It is odd,” he says, “these deaths.”
“Suicides,” Ryon corrects. “Though I do not think we could call it deliberate.”
Rivdan raises his eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” comes Tasheem’s voice. She joins their halo of light, brow furrowed.
“It’s this sickness spreading among them,” Ryon tells them. “I think it may be driving some to insanity. I’ve heard mentions of voices.”
“Voices?” Rivdan says, and then he falls quiet again.
Rivdan has always offered few words by nature, but his silence now alerts Ryon. He has known the male long enough to be able to discern the subtle differences in his quiet. The set of his lips, the distant stare; he can see the contemplation, some spark that has been ignited at the mention of hearing voices.
If there is one among them who knows tales of a contagion such as this, it is surely Rivdan, the storyteller.
Ryon grasps his shoulder. “Riv? Do you know any stories like this? Of people plagued by delusions? Possibly madness?”
Rivdan seems to chew on his tongue for a moment. “There is one .”
Dawsyn eyes Ryon warily when he finds her, but he doesn’t allow her time to speak before he grasps her upper arm and lifts her from the ground. “Come with me,” he says simply, ardently. “And for once, just do as I ask without arguing.”
Her eyes dilate, startled. He hauls her away without waiting for a response.
They wind their way back through the clusters of bodies, sitting and standing, until Ryon finds Tasheem and Rivdan again, waiting solemnly.
“What is it?” Dawsyn asks them all, her eyes flicking to each of them, but inevitably settling on Rivdan’s.
His are furtive. Unsettled.
“Rivdan may have some knowledge of… of a contagion. Just like the one spreading among us.”
Dawsyn raises her eyebrows. “Does he now?”
Rivdan locks eyes with Dawsyn for a moment, and then looks quickly away. “There is a story. Though I do not know how accurate.”
“All stories are born from seeds of truth,” Ryon says. “Is this not your belief?”
“It is,” Rivdan allows. “Though the story often travels a long way from its origin.”
“Tell it anyway,” Ryon bids. “It may help us.”
Rivdan exhales, once more trading that curious glance with Dawsyn. And then he speaks, the timbre of his voice easing into that of someone far older, worldly. It is why he was monikered the storyteller in the Colony – the way his voice drew in his listeners and subtly ensnared them.
“Glacia was not yet a true nation when they were first tested by the Mother’s greatest weapon. The Glacian numbers were small and vulnerable when an affliction threatened to annihilate them. Yerdos had risen from the Chasm.”
“Yerdos,” Dawsyn mumbles. “The hawk ?”
Rivdan frowns. “No. The creature of the Chasm,” he corrects.
“You mean the saint ,” says a new voice.
Ryon turns at the sound. Salem stands just beyond his shoulder, his face only partially illuminated by the glow of firelight. “Yerdos,” Salem reiterates. “The patron saint o’ the mountain. The first Terrsaw saint.”
As one, they stare at Salem, bewildered.
Salem’s expression, however, is stricken with growing alarm, as though some new understanding has formed within his mind.
Rivdan continues, though his frown remains. “I know nothing of Terrsaw saints. The Yerdos of our stories was a spirit who rose from her prison in the Chasm, maddened and vengeful. Her touch wound its way first into the lungs of the Glacians, and then into their ears. They grew sick. Weak. But these symptoms were the very least of Yerdos’ torments. Her madness, they say, was catching. Soon, Glacians were surrendering to the call of Yerdos – she beckoned them into the Chasm’s depths. They walked to the edge and dived, fell on their swords, or cut their throats. The Glacians believed they would soon all be overcome by Yerdos’ voice. Her sickness.
“It was Vasteel who saved the remaining Glacians,” Rivdan tells them. “Or so he says. He called to Yerdos and tried to make a deal with her. ‘Let us live,’ he told her, ‘and we will help you seek revenge on that which banished you to this Chasm in the first place.’” Rivdan pauses, and as he looks to each of them, Ryon realises they have all leaned closer by increments. “But Yerdos refused. ‘It was the cold that banished me,’ she said. ‘I will not seek deals from the cold’s creatures.’”
“This was an admission not missed by Vasteel, and in it, he found Yerdos’ weakness. He filled his body with iskra, and when next he called Yerdos from the Chasm, it was to display the full force of his Glacian power. Vasteel’s blood turned icy, his breaths were the winds of the hostile season, and in him, Yerdos saw that she had met her match.
“The other Glacians feasted from the pool, and soon they were filled enough to fend off the affliction that ailed them. Their bloodstreams burned with the cold of iskra, and Yerdos’ affliction retreated. Unable to call them into the Chasm, she returned to its depths, forgoing her revenge on the cold.”
Rivdan’s voice dissipates as he reaches the story’s end, dispelling to nothing. The others stare with blank expressions, mouths slightly agape.
Two paths, Ryon thinks, his chest constricting. Both are filled. He looks to Dawsyn with renewed understanding. “Stories are born from seeds of truth.”
But Salem is shaking his head vehemently. “No,” he says, his tone belligerent. “Yerdos were a Queen . Blessed by the Holy Mother!”
The others share looks of astonishment at the conviction in his voice.
“She died by the devil’s infection, not by the hand’s o’ that ruddy bat, ” he continues, spitting to the ground. “Can never remember the old language word fer it. Deevilsh? Denvish?”
“Dyvolsh,” Tasheem, Rivdan and Ryon say together. Devil .
“That’s the one,” Salem nods. “The Dyvolsh infection.”
Death and Dyvolsh, Yennes had said to Ryon, just days ago.
“I’ve not heard of it,” Dawsyn says, shaking her head.
“It was, oh, a thousand years ago. More , probably. Folks thought they were sickened by the devil. Convinced ’em to do mad things. Wiped out a good half o’ the population – Queen Yerdos included. She became a saint after that. Legend has it, she were a woman of some strange magic. Connected to the land. Folks still pray to her fer good weather, rain, fertile soil an’ the like. I never believe in tha’ brand o’ nonsense though. Complete horse shit if yeh were to ask me my opin–”
“What was the Dyvolsh infection?” Dawsyn interrupts, her tone blunt.
“Same as what Riv described,” Salem answers. “Or so they say. Somethin’ that drove ’em all to their deaths.”
“The two stories don’t make sense,” Dawsyn shakes her head. “Yerdos cannot be a martyr and a vengeful spirit both.”
“You said she was a hawk?” Ryon adds, his mind whirring through the tangle of story. “What did you mean?”
Dawsyn sighs, then says, “It was a legend my grandmother would tell my sister and I on the Ledge. There is no knowing if it was anything more than a child’s tale.”
“Tell it anyway,” Ryon presses, and awaits the third fable of Yerdos to begin.
“Ach, some folks get carried away with their tales,” Salem barks. “Said tha’ Queen Yerdos became a hawk after she died, flappin’ all o’er the mountain. Protectin’ it. That’s where she came from, see? King Kladerstaff found her up on the mountain by herself an’–”
“ Salem! Let Dawsyn speak, man,” Ryon growls.
“Oh. Pardon me, lass.”
Dawsyn only frowns, her head cocked to the side at Salem’s rambling, but she gives it a shake and begins. “My grandmother told us of Yerdos, who took the shape of a great hawk, as big as a man. She was the keeper of the mountain before Moroz came.”
“Moroz?” Ryon questions.
“The cold,” Dawsyn explains. “The cold is not alive, but at one time, people believed it was.”
“Moroz,” Salem mutters, turning the word over, as though it were familiar. “Now, where’ve I heard tha’?”
“Continue,” Ryon ushers Dawsyn, his eyes glued to her.
“Moroz came to the mountain and froze the ground. It shrouded everything in snow, chased the animals from the slopes, and Yerdos could do nothing to stop it. So, she flew to the peak of the mountain, where no mortal can reach, and consulted the Mother.
“The Mother only laughed at Yerdos. She would not lift her mighty hand to stay the frost that had smothered the mountain. Enraged, Yerdos sought to destroy the mountain all together. She soared from the mountain’s peak, diving until her indestructible beak collided with rock. When it finally did, the mountain split in two. A great chasm was formed, and Yerdos descended into its depths, where she became its keeper instead.”
All are silent as they listen to the final ringing notes of Dawsyn’s story, reverberating back to them, courtesy of the very Chasm she spoke of.
“Terrsaw legends,” Salem mutters, his head shaking. “Fuckin’ drivel.”
“If you’re talking of me again, old man,” comes the raised voice of Esra as he joins the circle, “I shall have to tell everyone about the bouquet of roses you have tattooed betwixt your nipples. And I seem to recall you threatening my life should I reveal a secret so intimate, so–”
“ESRA!”
“Tit for tat, old man. Or two tits for tat, in this case.”
“We was talkin’ about Saint Yerdos, yeh fuckin’ knuckle-brained, arse-mouthed–”
“Oh! I do love the exchange of ancient legend.”
Ryon pinches the bridge of his nose. “How unfortunate you missed it then.”
“Did you tell the tale right, Salem? Of Queen Yerdos? And her revenge plague?”
A beat of silences passes. “What?” Ryon utters.
Esra smacks Salem heartily in the belly, making the other man double over. “Should have known you wouldn’t have told it right!”
“I told it like yer ’sposed to, yeh lech. Stop hittin’ me!”
“Shut up, both of you,” Dawsyn snaps, and miraculously, the might of her stare seems to quell them. “What did you mean, Es, when you spoke of a revenge plague?”
“Well,” Esra says, his expression animated. He squares his shoulders as though he were a stage man addressing an audience. “Terrsaw is rather divided on the history of Queen Yerdos, you see. Most believe she was a benevolent saint. Our dear Baltisse used to say she was stark raving mad. If you ask me, I think she was simply misunderstood. And then there is a certain subclass of people who rather think she was a nasty bitch with a chip on her shoulder.”
“She was touched by the Holy Mother , yeh imbecile!”
“She was touched in the head , Salem. You can kiss the feet of every statue erected in her name, but it won’t change the facts.”
“Do you think he’ll actually relay the facts anytime soon?” Tasheem asks of Ryon, her brow furrowed. “Or should I choke it out of him?”
“Unfortunately for you, queen of the bat people, I only invite that brand of bed play in fellow gentlemen.”
“Esra!”
“Right.” Esra clears his throat. “There are plenty of ancient journals that recount a rather different course of events during the Dyvolsh infection. Journals of noblemen, servants, even Yerdos herself. The real tale begins with King Kladerstaff, who ruled Terrsaw a fucking long time ago. He took long explorations over the sacred mountain, back when it wasn’t a frozen bloody wasteland, obviously. It was during one of these treks that he came across a tribe of mages living peaceably on the slopes. Amongst their small number was Yerdos. It seemed that Kladerstaff had grown bored of all the flesh afforded to him by the women of Terrsaw, because he had the tribe slaughtered, and took Yerdos for himself.”
“Rubbish!” Salem barks. But he is silenced by the resounding glares of the others.
Esra smiles sweetly at Salem, then continues. “Yerdos was taken captive and made to marry Kladerstaff, a man far older than she. He stripped her from her home on the mountain and forced her to use her powers to his benefit. I’d imagine his subjects were rather thrilled with him, procuring a magical wife who could manipulate the weather and ensure plentiful crops.
“But Yerdos did what all women ought to when tied down and forced to yield. She set a plague on the whole sorry lot of them. Turned them all into raving lunatics. And when Kladerstaff finally realised what she had done, he killed Yerdos himself, slicing her throat. Now, that’s where the old journals fall short. Of course, no one knows what happens to one’s soul once they perish, but I’d rather think a woman like that would return to the place she was taken from.” At this, Esra looks pointedly to Dawsyn. “And let hell reign down upon those who try to take her away again.”
Ryon hears his own breath fall heavily in the silence that follows. Dawsyn’s eyes are scrunched closed. In confusion, perhaps. “A mage,” he thinks she is saying.
“This version of the story makes better sense,” Rivdan says. “A vengeful mage, turned malevolent spirit.”
“What Yerdos was, and whether she cast the infection matters little,” Ryon says, his heartbeat beginning to race again. “We need only know that the same infection spreads among us now.” He looks to Dawsyn as he says it, and even in the dim, he can see the impending panic in her eyes.
“Moroz,” Salem is muttering. “Swear I’ve heard tha’ somewhere.”
“Moroz?” parrots Esra, his voice obtrusively loud for this glib discussion. “Baltisse’s spell?”
Ryon’s breath stutters. Dawsyn’s eyes have darted to Esra. “Baltisse?”
“She used it to cool my burns after the fire,” Esra tells them, looking down at his arm unconsciously. Beneath the layers he wears, Ryon knows the new skin remains mottled and scarred, despite Baltisse’s best efforts to heal him entirely.
“A cooling spell,” Dawsyn utters, her breath coming faster.
“Made my veins feel like they might freeze over,” Esra nods. “Didn’t Baltisse aid you with it once before, Salem? Something about burning urine?”
“I will kill yeh as yeh sleep, Es.”
“Riv,” Dawsyn interrupts. “You said that the Glacians drank iskra to cure themselves of Yerdos’ madness?”
“Yes,” Rivdan nods.
“Moroz,” Dawsyn says under her breath. She flips her hands and looks upon her palms. They glow dully, pulsing softly. Even Ryon can feel the sudden eagerness of her magic.
When she looks up, it is his gaze she finds. “The cold is alive after all,” she says.