Turn back.
That was all Ruin said to Brightling, as she walked down the stairs.
Turn back.
She was unsure how long she had been in this place. Her memories felt strange, at times: out of her reach. She forgot why she was here, in this darkness. She had to grasp for it, searching through the muddy waters of her mind. The Machinery, she told herself. I am going to the Machinery.
Ruin is in the Machinery. Ruin will die.
An image rose in her mind, and all her confusion disappeared. It was a picture of a young woman, pale-skinned and black-haired. Katrina. I will destroy the thing inside her, and I will bring her home to me. The mask burned against her skin, when these thoughts came. She had worn it since she had come here; it showed her the way through the darkness, down the never-ending stairs. It had such power, this thing. I have power when I wear it. I will use it to destroy my enemies: the enemies of mankind.
But she did not know how.
Turn back.
Ruin was afraid of her. This creature, feared by the world, Overland and Underland, was frightened. She could sense it, in his voice. She could always sense fear: even the fear of a god.
She caught herself. A god? Is that what we call them now?
Turn back.
Yes. A god. What else were they but gods, and what manner of mask was this, to strike fear into one of them? Jandell had fashioned it from a shard of a defeated enemy, in times long past, and he had given it to her. The Absence. A mask like no other: a mask that could carve someone’s memories into little bits. The Absence was dead, now, but somehow, this little thing still thrummed with a dark power. It loved her. She could feel it. It did not wish to cause her pain. But it still hurt her. It licked its fiery tongue around her memories and longed to burn them away.
Turn back.
Each time Ruin said those words, she heard a noise behind, back from where she had come: a door creaking open. When she continued on her way, the door would close, only to reopen when Ruin spoke again.
Ruin did not speak for a long time. When he did, this time his words were different.
You will not turn back, Brightling.
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. Her voice sounded so small, here, and she despised herself for all her weaknesses.
There came a great sigh.
You have always been special, Amyllia.
The use of her first name made her stop.
I know you very well. I have watched you for so many years.
Brightling took another step. She knew what Ruin was doing. The doomed tried all sorts of tricks to stave off the inevitable. Don’t ever listen to the dead, went an old Watcher saying. The dead are full of lies.
But she could not ignore Ruin. Not in this place.
I see everything that has been and gone. I remember the first time you appeared as … someone of promise .
Brightling turned another corner of the twisting staircase. The steps were wider, here, the walls further apart. There was a door, to her left. It was slightly ajar, its edge glowing with a thin line of golden light. She reached out a hand, before quickly snapping it back.
‘What is in there?’
What else? A memory.
Brightling heard a voice, muttering beyond the door. It was her voice; the voice she had as a girl. Warmth. Contentment.
I have all your memories before me, Amyllia. Tell me where you would like to go, and what you would like to see again.
Brightling turned away and looked once more down the dark staircase, through the eyes of her terrible mask.
‘No,’ she said.
The mask tightened on Brightling’s face. It wants to swallow me up. She hesitated for a heartbeat, before removing it. She turned it over in her hands, running her fingers along its edges. Each mask was a wonderful thing, fitting its owner perfectly. A second skin. They were all different: some of them reached up over the head, some of them covered it entirely, others were just a thin piece of material. This one, though, was so very different to any other, flitting between man and woman, old and young, anger or happiness, all with that same sense of nothingness. She could not see its expression, now. She wondered what it looked like. She hoped it was wreathed with a terrible fury, and that Ruin saw it, and was afraid.
You are a strange mixture.
She put the mask on. The world around her was once again visible, glowing with a strange, green light.
‘What do you mean?’ Perhaps she could steer this thing, this Ruin, in a useful direction.
You are cold. You are focused . You once thought of nothing but the Machinery. Now it is gone, and I have taken its place in your mind. You are devoted to my destruction.
‘I will destroy you.’
There have been others, over the millennia, who were just as focused as you – many of them. No, it is not your focus that makes you curious. Nor is it your coldness.
‘Go on then. Let me have it.’
You have another quality. It is unusual in one like you, so most people do not see it. You are nurturing . There have been people throughout your life who you turned into your children. Aran Fal was one.
Brightling leaned against the wall, as the image of a blond-haired boy rose before her mind’s eye.
You changed him. I saw it happening. You took him, and when you were done, he was something else. Changed so subtly, yet with terrible finality. Aran Fal into Aranfal. A boy become a torturer. The torturer. A dark creature, yet he still has a little sparkle. I can see it in him.
‘So he is alive, then, wherever he is,’ Brightling said.
Perhaps, perhaps. Everyone is alive to me, Brightling, because all memories are here. All of them, from the beginning of everything. I have seen them all . I have touched them all.
‘You must have seen a lot, then.’
Ruin laughed.