This was no ordinary outing, no swift assault upon the slums. It was a quiet, well-planned exodus.
Then there were new sounds: the grating of metal wheels against stone, the clatter of harnesses, the snap of reins and soon a dazzling medley of red and gold passed between the giant doors: a beautiful chariot constructed of ornamental armour, riding on massive, heavy wheels of solid oak. And there, standing resplendent at the reins, was Scarpia, her hood thrown back to reveal her strange, disfigured beauty and her teeth flashing white as she snarled at her newborn horde.
But although she was clearly in command, she was not alone. She seemed to be leaning away from something strange and unearthly at her side, something transparent and ghost-like. The structure of the chariot behind it was still clearly visible and yet it seemed to draw the light, creating an amorphous blur, like a trick of the eye. But what made its presence certain, its being beyond doubt, was its shape. It had all the proportions of a man, standing tall and still at Scarpia’s side.
Then, just for a moment, the light of the moon played across it, tracing its edges in silver. And in that moment the dancing light picked out a face wrapped in rotten rags. The face was flat, revealing no sign of a nose, and its eyes were but empty voids, staring blackly over the city. The wide gash of a mouth lolled open, swinging loose between threadbare bandages.
A Ray Reaper.
Scarpia turned and eyed it with something between fear and distaste, and when it turned towards her she quickly averted her gaze.
Behind came a humbler crowd: men carrying boxes and bags, sleeping rolls and tents, and with them, the lesser beasts – pack-horses and mules, livestock to eat.
As Scarpia’s chariot reached the brink of the steps, she paused. She gazed out over the city – across the huddling pyramids of rooftops, over the cowering slums, through the gathering palls of smoke. She peered beyond, out into the wasteland, into the expanses of the Barrens, to where she knew it lay.
The Circle of Salsimaine: gateway to another world.
She threw her head back and let out a half-human cry that became a wail. As her legion surged ahead, she flicked her tail and the chariot leapt forward, clattering down the steps and careering into the streets below.
It was not so much a chorus as a symphony. Birds of every kind sang to the top of their lungs, each adding a joyous strain to the cacophony of chirps, tweets, squawks and trills. The sound moved in waves across the lake, ebbing and flowing, as though the two sides were vying with one another to raise the more glorious song.
Paiscion closed his eyes and listened, letting it wash over him. To his ears, it was the most beautiful music of all: Nature’s music – the song of life and light. How long it had been since he had heard it, and how it now restored his spirits. He took deep draughts of it, letting it fill him to the core.
So lost was he in the dawn chorus that he did not notice Filimaya coming to sit down on the fallen tree, at his side. She was there for some moments, just enjoying being there with him, until finally she placed a hand on his. He knew her touch at once. He simply turned his hand over and slid his fingers between hers. They sat like that for a while longer, knowing that they may not have many more moments like this. That things were changing. That the Glimmer Myth was finally coming to pass.
That here, in this place, they would make their final stand.
Filimaya gazed at the Windrush, moored against the bank just a few paces away. She looked at its shattered decks, broken hull and shredded rigging and suddenly felt an overwhelming affection. This poor, benighted hulk wore all the scars of her people – all their pain and indignity, their wounds and losses. The Windrush had seen the worst of their horrors, been there on the darkest of days. And despite all her strength and craft and valour, the ship showed it. The woes of the Suhl were etched into her timbers and written on her sails.
“What will you do with her now?” asked Filimaya, breaking their silence.
Paiscion drew a long breath. “I shall make her all she can be.”
She smiled. “Prepare her well, my love. She will be our Ark.”
Suddenly she drew her hair from over her shoulder and ran it through her fingers until she came to the purple braid woven tightly into the silver strands. She began picking at it, unravelling the coloured threads.
Paiscion looked across and frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you something.”
He shook his head. “No, they’re yours to—”
“They mustn’t be hidden away any longer, they should be flown high for all to see.” She pulled them carefully out of her hair. “They will be the first threads of a brave new flag – a flag for our people, for what is to come.”
Paiscion gave her a tender smile. “What do you have in mind?”
Filimaya pointed to the broken ship. “The standard of the Windrush!”
Even as Sylas and Simia stepped out from their tree house, the forest felt different. There was a hush, an expectation, a sense that they were being watched. And of course, they were. Hundreds of eyes peered between branches and through leaves, trying to catch their first glimpse of the travellers. Children sat fearlessly on the boughs, their feet dangling as they pointed and whispered. Many of them looked on enviously, wishing perhaps that they too were allowed to join the adventure, to travel to the great city of Gheroth – perhaps even to meet Isia herself. Most of the adults were quieter and more thoughtful, gazing down with worried expressions at these two tiny children upon whom rested so much.
Triste was leaning up against a tree puffing on his pipe, just as he was the day before, but today he was wearing a heavy coat and as they approached he hoisted a large pack on to his shoulder. He nodded impassively as they approached.
“Are you … coming with us?” asked Simia, completely failing to hide her disappointment.
Triste regarded her through tired, sunken eyes. “I am. Didn’t Paiscion tell you?”
“No,” she said, bluntly. “He just said someone would be coming along.”
Triste shrugged. “Well, it’s me. They thought you might need a Scryer.”
“Sure,” she said, walking past him and on, into the forest.
Sylas watched her go, shaking his head, then turned and grinned. “She’ll warm up. She was like that with me at first.”
“It’s OK,” said Triste, setting off after her. “I see more than you think.”
Sylas frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He sighed, adjusted his own pack on his shoulder and walked after them.
The further they walked, the more faces they saw peering down at them from the canopy, and they began to realise that the entire community had turned out to see them go. Simia threw back her shoulders, drew her huge coat about her and walked as tall as she could, enjoying her place in the lead. Sylas nodded politely to the many children who waved and adults who bowed as they passed. He was struck again by the warmth of these people: the kindness and generosity in their faces, the open innocence of their features. And yet he also saw in them something darker: the sadness and resignation of a people who knew that, for better or worse, their time was drawing near.
He was so busy looking about him that he almost stumbled into Filimaya and Paiscion as they stepped from the trees.
“Morning!” cried Paiscion. “And what an exciting morning it is!”
Filimaya