Nights of Villjamur

FIFTEEN

Verain pulled up the hood of her fuligin cape to escape the cold wind that channelled through the passageways of Villjamur as if it was chasing her, haunting her like a relentless ghost.

As she continued on her way, old men leered at her from hidden doorways, called out to her with degrading suggestions. Some were so drunk they were falling against the walls, yet even then they were requesting sexual favours. She had half a mind to use a relic to castrate them – at least that ought to cut short their fantasies. She merely flashed a short sword by their faces as she passed, but their voices continued to pursue her long after she had gone. Otherwise there were only the cats infesting the alleyways, but she actually appreciated their company.

She felt so isolated now. She was going to betray her lover.

For that’s how Dartun would see it, there was no hiding from the truth. He would scarcely care if she left him for another man. He scarcely ever had sex with her, certainly never bought her gifts. It wasn’t as though she wanted much, just some vague show of affection – was that too much to ask? But that wasn’t the reason she was about to betray him.

Over the past year, she had seen him become obsessed with his projects, even down to little things that kept him from interacting with others for days. Somehow he had retreated into his mind, and was becoming totally self-obsessed with his plans to step across the threshold of the world. He was going to tamper with the very nature of reality by opening a gate to another realm and stepping through it.

Dartun frightened her with his ambitions.

These were things that ought not to be decided by one man alone. Others should be warned, and if she – his lover – suspected it was immoral to proceed in such a way, then she should at least find a way of opening it to debate, shouldn’t she? It was after all a decision that could affect her home.

She passionately loved Villjamur, with its antiquated buildings that leaned on each other through neglect and decay. Amid architecture that often contrasted violently in places, centuries of history was jammed in together, tens of thousands of diverse inhabitants criss-crossed in a mosaic that made up the daily life of the city. Without a family to now call her own, the city represented that familiar link to her childhood, her anchor, something she could always turn to in comfort. No one in her order liked her due to her proximity to Dartun. All she had in her life was the city. She would often walk across the bridges alone, looking down at the hundreds of citizens surging past, lost in their own thoughts. Nothing should be allowed to threaten their world. Orphaned at a young age, she had been passed between people she did not know, never feeling settled, never appreciating the love or guidance of a mother or father, or those gestures that defined who you were. Villjamur alone gave her context. It was while growing up on the streets of the city that she became involved with the cultists. It was in Villjamur that she learned about right and wrong. The place had taught her who people really were, no matter what strata of life they inhabited. And Villjamur had taught her that most fundamental truth – that most people were the same, because of experiencing similar sufferings, pains and pleasures of existence. In the end they were all of them equal.

She asked Dartun what if something came through the doors that he would open into new worlds? And he had told her, quite simply, that if something escaped into this world, if something contaminated the islands and then Villjamur, so be it. His life and the importance of furthering knowledge were more important.

So torn between her lover and her city, she had chosen Villjamur. That was not because she loved him less, but because she had to weigh up the happiness of more than one person. Here, she told herself, was a whole city to potentially protect.

Verain’s destination was a featureless stone building, located somewhere off the usual avenues. She knocked on the door and a hatch slid open. To the questioning face behind it, she displayed her cultist medallion. She hoped that the mathematical equal symbol would be enough to declare the importance of the matter.

‘What?’ the face asked.

‘I need to see Papus, Gydja of the Order of the Dawnir. It’s urgent.’

‘Wait there a moment.’

Minutes later the door opened, and three cloaked and hooded figures stepped out into the darkness of the street. ‘We’ll need to search you before you can enter,’ one of them explained.

Verain nodded, handing over her blade. Three pairs of arms worked her over, prodding at her in vaguely abusive ways, but, eventually, when they were satisfied she carried no relics, she was led inside. She was made to sit on a simple stool in a bare, wood-panelled room, the only light coming through the open door from a lantern hanging on the wall. Since there was no fire, she watched her clouded breath catch this dim light.

Nearly half an hour passed before a silhouette appeared in the doorway. It paused, clearly examining her, then demanded, ‘Why are you here?’

‘Who wants to know?’ Verain stood up.

‘I do,’ the figure replied sternly. ‘I’m Papus.’ She carried a candle into the room and began to light others until eventually Verain could see her face clearly.

What Dartun had told her about Papus had not been complimentary, but then he would say such things, because apparently she was a strict woman with so many ethics and morals that even her own sect feared her. There were stories though of her connections to those high up in the Empire, so she clearly was the right person to approach. And she was a powerful cultist: perhaps second only to Dartun. She would know how to process the coming information.

‘My name’s Verain Dulera, from the Order of the Equinox.’ She followed Papus as she placed the final candlestick on an empty shelf on the wall.

As the woman turned to face her, Verain was surprised by her masculine features.

‘I know who you are,’ Papus said.

Verain pulled back her hood.

Papus said, ‘And I see Dartun likes pretty ones.’

Verain was suddenly conscious of her own attractiveness. Not that Papus herself was ugly, but Verain had learned from other women that beauty was something everyone reacted to differently. ‘It’s because of Dartun that I’m here, actually,’ Verain said, crossing her arms in front of her defensively. ‘I’ve got some news I must give you.’

‘And I’m expected to trust this news from a rival sect? Furthermore, news about the least trustworthy man who ever handled a relic?’

‘Please listen to me,’ Verain said. ‘If he knew I was here then my life would be in danger.’

Papus gestured her to silence. ‘I know plenty of things regarding Dartun Súr, many you wouldn’t want to know. I doubt what news you have will change my opinions of him. But what information could you possibly have that would make me detest your lover even more than I do already?’

Verain explained to her Dartun’s plans to open a door to another world.

Papus snorted with laughter. ‘And you yourself believe that he will actually find these doors?’

‘He’s had a long time to find out about these things.’ Verain wilted internally, having hoped that this woman would appear more receptive and reassuring.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Papus demanded, propping her chin on her hands with her elbows on her knees, producing a defeated kind of body language.

How could she relate that she was scared of someone she loved. ‘Because I care for him,’ Verain replied. She didn’t think Papus would understand, so she went on to explain. ‘I care for him a great deal, despite the way he is to me, or rather isn’t. Dartun may seem languid to these matters, but he’s not cruel or anything. I’m starting to think a lot of other men are the same as he is – just too caught up in his own world.’

‘I think you’ll find,’ Papus said, ‘that most people are rather caught up in their own world. Men and women, rumel and human, that way they can escape the real one.’

‘I just wanted someone else to know, who could do something about the situation if something came through into this world. And since yours is the biggest order, you’re obviously the most influential.’

‘Apparently so.’ Papus sighed. ‘Thank you for reassuring me.’

Dartun hunched in one of his special chambers. There were several lock mechanisms to pass through, with complex codes. He needed sanctuary at times, a place in which he could retreat, a place that more importantly offered somewhere for him to work in peace. No one knew of this place, and they would not have been able to find it. It was where he kept his more important relics. This small, dark metal-lined room was it, deep underground in his order’s headquarters. He lit a candle and set about his search.

He was looking for the uphiminn-kyrr. It was a relic pioneered initially by one of the legendary underground cultists, the ones who worked alone without a sect but were skilful and elusive. Feltok Dupre was sometimes thought to be more a rumour than a person, a cultist who was said to have taken to alcohol and operated now in Villiren for coin to get by. The uphiminn-kyrr was his development, and he had sold the designs to a handful of cultists. Dartun was one, and he had been able to construct the device himself from complex plans that he thought initially were impossible to work with, written in old text and with root words he could barely understand. It took several years before he realized he had not in fact been conned.

Where is it? For a moment he leaned against the wall, pressure suddenly escalating in his head. It hit him just how much he wanted to do this, to find a new world, and to find a cure for mortality again. Why did people have to die? Why did their own worlds have to end? He fought back an urge to cry, something he wasn’t used to. What had become of him? The lump in his throat seemed unmovable. What would Verain think of him, like this? Well, perhaps she would see that he was normal, after all, a quality it was often obvious she craved from him. He just couldn’t be the man she wanted him to be. He wanted to discover things, didn’t he, to push the boundaries of what was known, not to settle for something quiet. Yet she was the only girl who had affected him in recent memory. He knew that, often escaping into her company, her tender affections. Only last month they shared drinks in the corner of a bistro, just like a normal couple, shrouded in that anonymous darkness brought by their fuligin cloaks, and they talked of things that didn’t matter, things that he never knew about her. That she never wanted to be a mother, even though she loved children – because of her own orphaned upbringing. That she disliked sweet foods – something he surely should have noticed. That she feared ever being imprisoned, and would suffer nightmares about it periodically.

It seemed there were worlds to discover in her, too.

She meant something to him, but his new-found situation of losing his immortality had changed the context in which he lived – and he could not let her know she was important to him, not if he was going to die. If only he had just a few more guaranteed years, some time to discover more about these islands that lay under the red sun, about what everything meant, about where their civilization had come from. Such a history had always been there to discover, somewhere. If only he had more time.

If only…

There it was, the uphiminn-kyrr, a hexagonal box constructed from some metal that he could not identify. It was certain there was no known current stock of this ore. It possessed a sheen similar to steel, but the properties and structure were different. Glass dials indicated the points of a compass, with marks indicating degrees of trajectory. He took the box to his chest and left the chamber.

Later, early evening, up on one of the bridges, staring blankly into the wind like he was doing so much these days. If he had so little time left alive, why was he spending much of it experiencing such existential crises? A laugh snapped him out of it. No one was around on this bridge, leading between one derelict building and one disused theatre. Occasionally a gust would draw his fuligin cloak across his face, forcing upon him a darkness so total he thought it death itself.

The uphiminn-kyrr was to clear the skies as best as possible. The clouds were potent these days, and they needed dispersal if he was going to travel north for long periods. He placed the device on the ground, set the dials for maximum trajectory, then set it to start. There was a timer that he salvaged from another relic, so he was never quite sure how efficient it was, so he remained focused on the device from a distance of twenty paces. It was like waiting for a firework. The sounds of the city drifted up from below, bottles clinking, a little laughter, reverb of horses’ hooves navigating tight alleyways, every night so similar.

Eventually, a fizz – a light glow from the uphiminn-kyrr, and a small ball of white light launched with velocity into the skies.

He did not know how long it would take to know if it had worked, or even if the effects would be useful, but he had to do all he could.