Black Halo

Thirty-Six

Dreadaeleon had begun to consider the theories behind the purifying quality of fire lately.

Of course, he didn’t believe any of the nonsense of fire burning away sins. Rather, he suspected the appeal was something far more practical in nature. Theoretically, any problem could be solved by fire. If two friends fought over, say, a piece of property, setting it on fire would immediately diminish its desirability. If they still fought afterwards, setting each other on fire would quickly take their minds off of their dispute.

People are only upset, he mused, until they can burn something. Then everything’s fine.

A shaky theory, he recognised, but if the sight of Togu’s hut licking a smoke-stained sky with orange tongues was any indication, his companions would serve as excellent evidence.

‘Explain to me the reasoning behind this again,’ Bralston said, watching the burning hut with intent.

‘It’s typically referred to as “Gevrauch’s Debt”,’ Dreadaeleon replied.

‘Named for the theoretical divine entity that governs the dead.’

‘Exactly. As you can probably deduce, it’s never anything pleasant. Adventurers typically use it as a means of drawing payment from employers who cannot or will not pay them for their services. Looting is frequently involved.’

‘And if the employer does not have anything of value?’

‘Burning.’

There was a loud cracking sound as the hut’s roof collapsed, sending embers flying into the air. Bralston sniffed, the faintest sign of a disapproving sneer on his face.

‘Barbaric.’

‘He deserves worse.’

Asper’s voice was barely audible over the crackling fire. She did not look at the two wizards, her expression blank as she stared into the flames.

‘He betrayed us,’ she said softly. ‘He should be in that hut.’

Perhaps you should ask her, he thought to himself. She hasn’t said anything about what happened, true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t. Is she simply waiting for someone to do so? Maybe that’s why she’s so moody and dark since she got back. No, wait, maybe you shouldn’t ask. Maybe she needs something more physical. Put your arm around her. Or kiss her? Probably not in front of the Librarian … then again, he might take one look at that and-

‘I’ve seen what the longface is capable of,’ Bralston said to her. ‘I’ve seen what he does.’

‘I don’t care what he does to your laws or your magic,’ she replied without looking at him.

‘The Venarium is concerned with the Laws only as they affect people. The longface was a deviant in more ways than one. His death was warranted.’

‘You said he might not be dead, though,’ Dreadaeleon put in.

Bralston whirled a glare upon him. The boy returned a baffled shrug.

‘Well, I mean, you did.’

‘Do you think he’s dead, Librarian?’ Asper asked.

‘Certainty with any kind of magic is difficult,’ he replied. ‘With renegade magic, especially.’

‘Well,’ Dreadaeleon interjected. ‘We brought down the ship. We sent it to the bottom with all his warriors. There’s at least a strong chance that he’s-’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t,’ she interrupted.

‘Well … I mean, he was quite powerful,’ Dreadaeleon replied, ‘and he cheated! He didn’t obey the-’

‘Nothing ever works out as it should, does it, Dread?’ she asked, her tone cold. ‘If gods can fail, so can everyone else.’

‘Well, yeah,’ Dreadaeleon said, ‘because they don’t exist.’

He had said such before to her. He anticipated righteous indignation, possibly a stern backhand, as he had received before. He hadn’t expected her to remain silent, merely staring into the fire without so much as blinking.

Huh, he thought, fighting back a grin. Got off easy there. Nice work, old man.

The smile became decidedly easier to beat down once Bralston shot him a sidelong glare. The Librarian said nothing more, though, his attention suddenly turning back to the fire with a rapt interest that hadn’t been present in his stare before. Asper’s gaze, too, became a little more intent at the tall figure emerging from behind the burning building.

He wasn’t quite sure what about Denaos either of them found so fascinating, but Dreadaeleon instantly decided he was against whatever it was.

The tall man paused, tilting the remnants of a bottle of whisky, pilfered from the hut, into his mouth and then tossing the liquor-stained vessel over his shoulder, ignoring the ensuing sputter of flame. His smile was long and liquid as he approached them, smacking his lips.

‘And with that,’ he said, ‘his debt is paid in full.’

‘He betrayed us,’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Violated our trust. There is no price to be put on that.’

Denaos shot the pyre an appraising glance. ‘I took a quick estimate when we went rifling through his stuff. I think trust is worth about a hundred and twelve gold coins. Maybe eighty-two in eastern nations.’

Dreadaeleon’s glance flitted down to the man’s wrist and the wrapped leather gauntlet that hadn’t been there before. He caught a glimpse of Bralston’s eyes, narrowed to irate scrutiny, upon the glove.

‘The spoils?’ he asked.

‘This?’ Denaos held it up, admiring it. ‘I prefer to call it an honest day’s pay for an honest night’s work.’

‘Hardly anything honest about it,’ Dreadaeleon said. ‘You never once stepped out to help us on the deck. You didn’t even give us the signal that you were safe.’

‘And you sank the ship without making certain we were safe,’ Denaos said, shrugging. ‘I figure we’re even. Everyone made it out unscathed, anyway.’

‘Not Lenk,’ Asper pointed out.

They fell silent at that.

It was only when they had returned to the shore, the ship long since sank, that anyone noticed the absence of their silver-haired companion. Bralston and Dreadaeleon had met up with Denaos standing over a blanket-wrapped Asper. Togu, having been picked up by Hongwe, stood beside the Gonwa nearby. Gariath and Kataria came to join them, without a word from either of them, only a few moments later. They collected their clothes from the offering to Sheraptus and left in silence.

Lenk hadn’t emerged until early the following morning.

No one had searched for him.

Dreadaeleon told himself now, as he had then, that it was not his fault. Searching for Lenk would have been pointless in dark water, if it was even an option. It was only when they had all stood upon the beach that he realised he had left Lenk behind. He suspected, if their sunken expressions were any indication, the others also shared similar guilts.

Yet, he didn’t ask. Nor did anyone ask him. There had been no words exchanged between them. Each companion’s expression suggested that even the meagerest of sounds would be agony. And so they had parted, the sight of each other suddenly too much to bear, without even asking about their lost companion.

And then, Lenk had come crawling back into the village the next morning, without a word, without a sword, and with a heavy gash in his shoulder. He sat himself before Asper, whose shock was abolished long enough to stitch up his wound.

After that, he had staggered to Togu’s hut, where his companions and the chieftain stood assembled. He, like the others, didn’t think to ask how Togu had survived after being hurled bound into the ocean. Instead, he stared for an eternity into bulbous yellow eyes that refused to meet his own before he looked up at the creature’s hut and uttered the words.

‘Gevrauch’s debt.’

They had taken to the task with varying amounts of enthusiasm. Yet even Asper did it without complaint or scorn, helping herself to what medicine Togu had stockpiled. Kataria had taken arrows; Lenk had taken a shirt of mail; Dreadaeleon had taken a new pair of boots; Denaos had taken everything else. Gariath acknowledged that his grudge against Togu wasn’t as great as theirs, so he contented himself with urinating on the lizardman’s throne.

When the torch had come out, it was Hongwe who had protested and it was Togu who had gently silenced him. Perhaps the weight of his guilt demanded the resignation, or perhaps he was pleased that the companions limited their revenge to looting and burning. The lizardman had stared at his house burning until Lenk had whispered a few unheard words and stalked off.

Togu had said only ten words.

‘All that grows on Teji,’ he whispered, ‘once grew in that house.’

And he had sighed and he had shuffled down the stone circles as the last fragrances of flowers were consumed by fire.

Granted, there were a few odd glances shot in the direction of their beloved leader’s smouldering hut. The Owauku had yet to ask a question as to why it was burning. Of course, Dreadaeleon acknowledged, they had yet to come within fifteen feet of the companions, let alone ask anything.

‘Any idea where Lenk went?’ Dreadaeleon asked.

‘No clue, no cares,’ Denaos replied. ‘Maybe he wanted to try on that armour he picked up. It looked nice. Might keep him from getting cut up again.’

‘That’s a concern amongst you?’

Bralston spoke with a sudden depth to his voice that none had heard before. The question commanded their attentions instantly.

‘Cutting?’ the Librarian pressed, his hard stare never leaving Denaos.

‘Hazard of the job,’ Denaos replied coolly.

‘Adventuring is not considered a job,’ Bralston said. ‘It is long thought to be the last haven of scum, criminals and murderers.’

It wasn’t the first time those three words had been used to describe the profession. And by Dreadaeleon’s count, that was around the sixty-fifth time those three words had been used to describe Denaos specifically. The rogue had never had anything for the accusation beyond smiles and snidery.

The sixty-sixth time, however, he merely stared back at the Librarian.

‘From Cier’Djaal?’ he asked.

‘It is with pride that I confirm that,’ Bralston replied.

‘Nice city,’ the rogue said.

‘It once was.’

It was there for an instant, the briefest twitches across their faces, perfectly synchronised. Dreadaeleon watched their reactions with a quirked brow, as unsure as to what had just happened between them as he was unsure why Denaos turned and stalked off towards the forest.

‘What was that about?’ Dreadaeleon asked the Librarian.

‘I don’t like the look of that man,’ Bralston replied, following the rogue’s shrinking form.

‘I think that’s intentional on his part.’

‘You are mistaken.’ Bralston’s voice and eyes carried an edge. ‘That is a man too comfortable in masks. What we see is what he wants us to see. What he doesn’t want us to see is what lurks beneath. A coward … a predator.’ He looked to the forest and his voice became a spiteful razor. ‘A murderer.’

Dreadaeleon suspected absently he should speak up in defence of his companion. He did not, though; mostly because he had often thought the same thing about the rogue. Besides, before he could open his mouth, someone else beat him to it.

‘And what would you know of predators?’ For the first time, Asper turned to them. Even if her eyes had left the fire, however, the angry flames had not left her eyes. ‘What would you know of him?’

‘I have …’ Bralston hesitated, apparently taken aback by the outburst, ‘seen his type before.’

‘And there is no lack of types to be used in deciding who is who, is there, Librarian?’ she pressed, stepping towards him.

Dreadaeleon felt vaguely astonished at the audacity. Even if she weren’t facing a man who had aptly proven his penchant for and ability to turn things into ash, he was still a powerful physical specimen, standing nearly as tall as Gariath. Beyond that, he was a Librarian, an agent of the Venarium charged with destroying all threats to the Laws of Venarie and with extreme leeway in what he deemed threatening.

‘Asper,’ he said softly, ‘he didn’t mean-’

‘No, you great thinkers of the Venarium just have the answer to everything, don’t you? You can just look at a man and decide what he is, using those gigantic fat heads of yours to summarise an entire person in a few words.’ She scowled up at him. ‘Such as the type of person who, with the kind of power that makes him feel entitled enough to look down on another person, leaves other people to suffer in some ship’s cabin when he could just as easily lift a finger and help, but that’s just not fiery enough, is it?’

He blinked, glancing from her to a shrugging Dreadaeleon, then back.

‘Granted,’ she said coldly, ‘I could sum up that type of man in a single word.’ She shoved past him, stalking off and muttering under her breath. ‘But I’m far too polite.’

Bralston’s gaze lingered on her with equal intent as it had on Denaos as she skulked away. Dreadaeleon, too, followed her with a different sort of intent on his face and a different thought in his head.

Something’s wrong, he thought, immediately scolding himself. Well, obviously, you moron. She was held captive for how long? And you didn’t move to help her? Well, you stuck to the plan. Denaos was supposed to help her …

But you’re the wizard. You’ve got the power. It should have been you to help her. You could have done something … right? Right. You were feeling strong, then. Incredibly so. You didn’t even need the stone, or anything else. You recovered. But how?

She glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a pained expression. His eyes widened as the realisation struck him fiercely across the face.

Of course. It was her. It was all for her, wasn’t it? That’s what you’ve been doing wrong. You keep thinking of power for power’s sake, for the Laws, for the Venarium, for yourself, and all it’s gotten you is flaming urine and acid vomit. Those were pretty impressive, of course, but they weren’t power. You did something for her, though, and you recovered.

Purpose. That’s what’s been missing, of course! It’s not nearly as mystical as it sounds, either. A focus is often used in magical exercises, why not in magical practice? Why couldn’t another person lend a wizard their strength, theoretically, just by existing? By focusing on them, everything could come so much easier. This is brilliant! You’ve got tell Bralston! Better yet, tell …

He emerged from his own thoughts to find a long, barren stretch of sand.

‘Where’d she go?’ he asked, frowning.

‘To tend to her own wounds, I suspect,’ Bralston said, sighing. ‘Women frequently do so in privacy.’

‘But … she wasn’t hurt. Denaos got her out unscathed.’

Bralston turned to regard Dreadaeleon with a look that, in the few brief hours he had known the Librarian he had learned to dread. It was a cautious, cold scrutiny, better used on items lining a merchant’s stall than a person. And as though Bralston were appraising merchandise, Dreadaeleon got the very ominous feeling that the Librarian was considering if he was worth the price.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. He swallowed hard, fighting his nerves’ insistence that he would feel better once he vomited on himself. He’s staring at you again. Quick, say something to throw him off!

‘So …’ Dreadaeleon said, grinning meekly. ‘Did … did you want a loincloth?’

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

‘You concern me, concomitant,’ Bralston replied.

‘Well, it’s just that it’s sort of the common style around here, and we were offered, or rather forced when we-’

‘Believe it or not, your crippling lack of vocal judgement is not the issue,’ the Librarian said. He turned on his heel and began walking down towards the village, his very posture demanding that Dreadaeleon follow. ‘You have been amongst these … adventurers for how long, concomitant?’

‘Roughly a year.’

‘And you can still recall the lessons that enabled the practice of your studies?’

‘My master taught me much before I left him.’

‘Ah, so you are tutored instead of academy-trained.’ Bralston sniffed. ‘There are few like you anymore. Tell me, did your master teach you the Pillars?’

‘Of course. We covered them the moment I set foot in his study: Fire, Cold, Electricity, Force …’

‘Those are the Four Noble Schools,’ Bralston replied, ‘the ends of what the Pillars are taught to control and use properly.’

‘Aren’t … aren’t they the same thing?’

Bralston paused, fixing that scrutinising stare upon Dreadaeleon.

‘This is the problem,’ he said, the despair evident in his voice, if not his eyes. ‘Venarie is a subject of law. Law is a matter of discipline. Discipline is made possible by the Pillars.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Rationality, Judgement and …’

There was a long pause before Dreadaeleon realised he was awaiting an answer. The boy shook his head and Bralston’s eyes narrowed.

‘Perception, concomitant. Rationality grants us the clarity to recognise threats and potential alike. Judgement is what permits us to act as we must in the name of the Laws. Perception bridges the two, acting as recognition of the situation and rationalisation of the proper response.’

‘How can my perception be called into doubt?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Did you see what I did last night? Who else would have thought to destroy a heretic by bringing a giant sea snake down on him?’

While Dreadaeleon couldn’t see the childishly eager smile spreading across his face, he was made instantly aware of it by Bralston’s quickly deepening frown.

‘It’s not about spitting ice and hurling fire,’ the Librarian said. ‘The difference between using them as a means of enforcing the Laws and using them as means in themselves is-’

‘Perception?’

‘The difference between a member of the Venarium and a heretic,’ Bralston corrected. ‘Your time amongst these adventurers is what concerns me. How much have you done to enforce the Laws?’

‘I’ve … I’ve been enforcing them.’ Dreadaeleon rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I was the first one to encounter the longfaces.’

‘And yet you continued on with your companions instead of notifying the Venarium of their violation instantly?’

‘There wasn’t enough time.’

‘Time is a hindrance of the unenlightened. Wizards cannot claim the handicap.’

‘But I’ve done so much. The tome we’re chasing is-’

‘This tome,’ Bralston replied. ‘You say a priest sent you after it?’

‘Well, he hired us to-’

‘Gold is for the unenlightened, as is religious zealotry. We are concerned with higher matters. Venarie is as vast as it is ever changing. In exchange for the gifts we have, we dedicate our lives to furthering knowledge, to understanding how we, as vessels, relate to this. How have you done that, concomitant?’

‘I would argue that we can only understand how it relates to us by understanding how we, as vessels, relate to others. In fact, just last night I discovered-’

‘Any discovery made in the company of these vagrants is irredeemably tainted by-’

‘Stop interrupting me.’

Bralston’s eyes narrowed at the boy, but Dreadaeleon, for the first time, did not look away, back down or so much as flinch. He met the Librarian’s stare with a searching scowl of his own, sweeping over the man’s dark face.

‘This is far too insignificant a point for a Librarian to harp on,’ Dreadaeleon said firmly. ‘I’m hardly the first wizard to extend his studies through adventuring and I’m sure I won’t be the last, yet you act as though I’m committing some grievous breach of law just by being in these people’s company.’

Bralston’s eyebrow rose a little at that, his lip twitching as if to speak. Dreadaeleon, forcing himself not to dwell on the stupidity of the act, held up a hand to halt him.

‘You have another motive, Librarian.’

‘You are certain?’ Bralston asked, a sliver of spite in his voice.

‘I am more perceptive than you suspect.’

For all the ire he had been holding in his stare alone, for all the disappointment and despair he had seen in the boy, it was only at that moment that Bralston’s shoulders sank with a sigh, only at that moment that he looked at the boy with something more than scrutiny.

‘Perceptive enough,’ he whispered, ‘to know you’ve contracted the Decay?’

With a single word, Dreadaeleon felt the resolve flood out of him, taking everything else within him with it and leaving him nothing to stand on but quivering legs that strained to support him.

‘I don’t have it,’ he replied.

‘You do,’ Bralston insisted.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No, I don’t have it.’

‘I can sense it. I can smell your blood burning and hear your bones splitting. I followed it last night. That’s how I found it. Surely, you can sense it. Surely, you know.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Dreadaeleon said.

‘Concomitant, if I can track you across an ocean through it, it is certainly not nothing. In fact, to even sense it at all, symptoms must be forming by now. Fluctuating temperatures? Loss of consciousness? Instantaneous mutation?’

‘Flaming urine,’ Dreadaeleon said, looking down.

‘The Decay,’ Bralston confirmed.

It was unthinkable, Dreadaeleon told himself. Or perhaps, he simply hadn’t wanted to think about it. He still didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to hear the word, yet it was burned into his brain.

Decay.

The indefinable disease that ravaged wizards, that unknown alteration inside their body that broke down the unseen wall that separated Venarie from body, turning a humble vessel into a twisted, tainted amalgamation of errant magic and bodily function.

It was that which turned men and women into living infernos, turned flesh to snowflakes, caused brains to cook in their own electric currents. It was the killer of wizards, the vice of heretics, the consequence for disregarding the Laws.

And he had it.

He didn’t question Bralston’s diagnosis, didn’t so much as feel the need to deny it anymore. It all made too much sense now: his sudden weakness, his use of the red stones, his altered bodily state.

But then … how did you recover last night?

A fluke, perhaps. Such things would not be unheard-of. In fact, Decay’s fluctuating effects on magic often resulted in sudden, sporadic enhancements. It all made too much sense, followed too cold a logic, too perfect an irony for him to deny it anymore.

‘What …?’ he said with a weak voice. ‘What now? What happens?’

‘Your master told you, I am sure.’

Dreadaeleon nodded weakly. ‘The Decayed report back to the Venarium for …’ He swallowed. ‘Harvesting.’

‘We are wizards. Nothing can be wasted.’

‘I understand.’

Bralston frowned, shaking his head.

‘My duties require a survey of the ocean,’ Bralston said, ‘to scan for any signs of the heretic. After that, I shall return to Cier’Djaal. You will return with me.’

Dreadaeleon nodded weakly. A pained grimace flashed across Bralston’s face.

‘It’s … it’s not so bad, really,’ Bralston said. ‘At the academy in Cier’Djaal, you’ll still be useful to the Venarium. You’ll be able to provide services in research, even after you’re gone. And until then, you’ll be cared for by people who understand you for however long you last.’

Dreadaeleon nodded again.

‘Until then …’ Bralston sought for words and, finding nothing, sighed. ‘Try to rest. It will be a difficult journey back.’

He left, disappearing into the village, and Dreadaeleon allowed himself to fall to his knees. Funny, he thought, how the very indication of a disease, the knowledge that life must end, made one suddenly feel as though it were already over.

Ridiculous, he told himself. As though you didn’t already know you’ll have to die sometime. Hell, you’ve been with adventurers. You knew death was inevitable, right? Right. At least this way, you’ll do your duty. You’ll serve the cause. You’ll enforce the Laws. You’ll further knowledge. Harvesting … well, that’s just what happens. You can’t begrudge them that. You use merroskrit. Someday, your bones and skin will be used by another wizard. Everything is balanced. Everything is a circle.

He stared down at his hands: hands that had hurled, hands that had held, hands that had touched. He estimated each one would yield about half a page, one full length of merroskrit when stitched together. He studied his hands, confirmed this guess.

And then he wept.

Lenk’s first memory of this forest had been one of silver.

That night, long ago, even as his body had been racked with pain and his mind seared with fever, the forest had been something living, something full of light and life alike. The leaves were ablaze with moonlight, as though each one had been dipped in silver. The song of birds and the chatter of beasts had rung off the trees, each branch a chime that amplified the noise and sent it echoing in his ears.

That night, a week ago, he himself had barely had a drop of life left in him, the rest of his body filled with pain and desperation. That night, every time he fell, he could barely pull himself up again. That night, he had struggled to hold on: to life, to light, to anything.

This day, he stood tall. Despite the fresh stitches in his shoulder, he felt scarcely any pain. Despite the night before, he found his body light, easily carried by legs that should have been weaker. Despite everything, he found himself with nothing to hold on to.

And in the unrelenting brightness of midmorning, the forest was a tomb.

Mournful trees gathered together to drop a funeral shroud over the forest floor, each branch and leaf trying its hardest to block any trace of light from desecrating the perfect darkness. Life was gone, the forest so silent as to suggest it had never even been there, and the only sound that Lenk could hear was the wind singing wordless dirges through the leaves.

Had life been a hallucination?

It was not a hostile darkness that consumed the forest, but a hallowed one. It did not threaten him with its shadows, but invited him in. It whispered through the branches, commented on how tired he looked, how awful it was that his friends had abandoned him and let him wander out here all alone, mused aloud just how nice it would be to sit down and rest for a while, rest forever.

And he found himself inclined to agree with the procession of trees. A week ago, when it had been brimming with life, he had fought so hard to draw into himself, to survive for a bit longer. Now, as he stood, relatively healthy and free of disease, he felt like collapsing and letting the dark shroud fall upon him.

What had changed? he wondered.

‘Reasons, mostly.’

He nodded. The voice rang clearer here. Perhaps because of the silence, perhaps because he wasn’t fighting it anymore. Perhaps because he recognised the worthiness of its freezing words.

‘Go on.’

‘Consider your motives between then and now. You clung to belief, then; a strong force, admittedly, but ultimately insubstantial. You desperately wished to believe that your companions were alive.’

‘They were, though. That kept me alive.’

‘We kept you alive,’ the voice corrected, without reproach. ‘Our determination, our will, our knowledge that duty must be upheld. That did not come from anyone else.’

‘It was the thought of them, though …’

‘It was the thought of her.’

‘And she …’

‘Lied to us, as did the forest.’

Perhaps it had, Lenk thought. Perhaps there had never been any life here. Perhaps it was always dead and dusky. The other voice, Ulbecetonth’s voice, had been with him, even back then, he realised. She was the fever in his mind, the hallucination in his eye, the will to surrender that pervaded him.

And she had bid him to seek the truth, to follow the ice.

The brook that coursed through the forest floor remained largely unchanged, its babble reduced to a quiet murmur, respectful of the darkness. He knelt and stared into it, saw empty eyes staring back at him.

‘She might have been lying.’

‘Possibly.’

‘She did infect my thoughts.’

‘She did.’

‘But then, she also said she was trying to protect me. It’s probably safe to say that I’m no longer considered worthy of protection by her anymore.’

‘We did kill a few of her children.’

‘Right. So … do I believe her?’

The voice said nothing. He merely sighed. It was a response customary enough not to warrant any greater reaction.

He stared into the water, uncertain as to what he would find. It flowed, clear and straight, as if to tell him that were answer enough. He frowned in disagreement. The last time he had stared into this river, it had frozen over, spoken in words that he heard in harsh, jagged cracks inside his head, a voice altogether different than the one that usually dwelt there.

Or had he even heard it, then? Ulbecetonth’s feverish talons were inside his skull at that point, telling him terrible things, making him see wicked things. Perhaps the voice in the ice was just one more hallucination, one more reason to give up.

But it had spoken so clearly, telling him things in a language he knew by heart and had never heard before. It had whispered to him, told him of fate, of betrayal, of duty, of … of what? He bit his teeth, furrowed his brow, forcing the memory up through his mind like a spike. And when it rose, it drained the haze from his mind, left his sight clear.

Hope.

It had bidden him to survive.

And, at that thought, the forest’s funeral ended and became death. The wind stopped. The last remnants of light vanished from above. The air became freezing cold. And with a cracking sound, the brook froze.

He looked down in it. Eyes that were not his own, nor had ever been in his head, looked back at him. They shifted, glancing farther down the river, and he followed their gaze. The ice crept up on spindly legs, gliding down the water, vanishing into the depths of the dead forest.

‘It wants me to follow,’ he said.

‘It does,’ the voice said. ‘You won’t like what you find.’

‘I know.’

But he rose and he followed, regardless, going deeper into the forest where nothing lived.

Because in the forest where nothing lived, something called to him.