Worldsoul

Forty-Six

Shadow stood alone in the middle of the Khaureg. From the position of the sun, it was late afternoon. The sky was a hot burn of blue above her, and the distant dunes were ringing and singing as they shifted. There was no sign of the garden of flowers, of the storm-swarming abyss, of the angel or the demon. Why had Elemiel taken a risk that had nearly killed her? But he had said the guard should not have been able to see them: presumably because they were with Elemiel himself, and he was allowed to walk there. Then she wondered how vulnerable she had really been. She wasn’t quite human any more, after all.

On the western horizon she could see the walls of Worldsoul, with the golden crescent moons of the Eastern Quarter rising above. Facing the city, there was no chance of losing it. Tears came to her eyes and she clenched her fingers around the hilt of the sun-and-moon blade. She had wondered if she would ever see it again, and now-

It was dusk when she walked through the Desert Gate. The evening bustle of the Medina lay ahead. Shadow felt as if she had been gone for years, and she did not trust the Messenger’s view of time. When she checked the great water clock that stood at the entrance to the Medina, however, she found that she had been gone for three days, as she had thought. She let go of a breath that she did not know she had been holding and walked into the Medina.

“Shadow!” She turned at her name. Sephardi came out of a dark doorway, smiling. “I haven’t seen you for days. There was talk… ”

Shadow returned the smile. “There’s always talk.”

He looked at her. “You smell of the Khaureg.”

“I’ve been-outside the walls.” She probably simply smelled, Shadow thought with distaste.

“Mariam Shenudah has been asking about you.”

“I was going to see her,” Shadow said.

Three days, but it was not just that it felt longer. She felt no hunger and only a little thirst. There had been a shift, a reorganisation of her guiding principles. She’d gone to get rid of a spirit and she’d found a war. Even the Shah could be regarded from a different perspective: a potential ally, or part of the problem? The sight of the café destroyed in the flower attack, charred and with its walls still reeking of smoke, only hardened her resolve. She needed advice and if Shenudah was unable to give it, she would at least know where it was to be found.

Mariam worked throughout the night, but it was early enough for her to be out and about, catching up with Medina cronies. Shadow found her on her own doorstep, unlocking the door.

“Shadow!”

“I need to talk to you,” Shadow said. Sephardi had melted away into the Medina, pleading urgent business, and she had been relieved: it was not precisely that she did not trust him, but he conveyed rumours. It was his job and she did not begrudge him that, but she thought the news of what she had been shown in the desert needed more careful handling than being scattered around the Medina like blown leaves. And not much stayed in the Medina, either: fermenting in its crucible, information became alchemically transformed, eliding and changing, until, released, it sprang forth into the city. Had Sephardi gone straight to the Shah? Quite possibly so.

Mariam, however, knew how to keep her mouth shut. When they were behind her locked door, and Shadow had, with some gratitude, accepted the ritual of tea, she told Shenudah what had happened. She had some concern that Mariam might not believe her, but the other woman listened without expression.

“I’ve heard of the Pass of Ages once. It’s in a very old text that was brought with the Library when it came from Alexandria. It’s said that Eden fell into it after Adam was thrown out.”

“Eden apparently did.”

“The story of Eden has many variations. Some of the oldest say it was born from the desert. Historians are starting to think it was a real place, a forest that formed a wild garden for the early peoples of the Fertile Crescent. There would have been areas they’d seed and tend: the Fall came when they gained knowledge and tried to control it. They destroyed the balance and the Garden died.”

“That doesn’t account for the Pass.”

“But if what the angel told you is true, it’s part of the overlight.”

“Who are the Storm Lords?”

“In legend they are the children of Lilith, who is herself many entities-the Lilitu. They’re bird demons, storm devils. They came into being when Lilith, who was Adam’s first wife, left Eden on her own because Adam tried to control her. Who can blame her? She danced with demons in the desert and bred with them to produce the storm children.”

“So Lilith left Eden of her own free will, and when Eden fell, her children came back to make use of it?”

“Perhaps. Someone’s attacking this city, after all, and the Storm Lords are ancient enemies of mankind.”

“How do we stop them?” Shadow asked.

“I think you need to pay a visit to the Library,” Mariam Shenudah said.

That night, Shadow had a dream. She was back in her own rooms, with mingled reluctance and relief. Mariam had offered her a bed for the night, but given that so many things were trying to kill her, Shadow was unwilling to place the older woman in further danger. Shenudah was the closest thing remaining to family, and she’d lost too much already. So she had come home, to spend a weary hour re-warding the laboratory, followed by a bath-essential after three days in the desert, it had been amazing that Mariam had let her in through the door-and finally going to bed.

In the dream, she was once again out in the desert, and she knew despair at the realisation that the return to Worldsoul had been the illusion, and this the reality. She had not escaped, but was once again in that unknown place, where the tides of time shifted like the dunes. Elemiel’s beehive hut, undamaged, stood before her. It was night, with the stars thick overhead.

The man came up the path towards her. She had a curious rush of feelings: hope, resentment, desire, shame. The young man was tall and wore black robes. His face was beautiful: symmetrical, with high cheekbones and liquid dark eyes. His skin was the colour of gold and it shone. He wore no headgear and his hair fell to his shoulders. He wore a short black beard.

“Who are you?” Shadow said. He touched his brow and she saw a fillet of gold around it. She was sure that this had not been there before.

“I am a prince,” the young man said. His face was grave. He reached out and Shadow stepped back.

“Do not touch me,” she said.

“I know you are a virtuous woman. I mean no disrespect. But I am within you.”

“You’re the spirit who is in my blood?”

“Yes.” He bowed. “I did not intend to possess you. But I have to hide.”

“In me?”

“A human is the best hiding place. They’re surprisingly difficult to see into.”

“What are you hiding from?”

“Everyone.”

“Why?”

The spirit drew his right hand up and in it was a scimitar. It shone in the moonlight, fire-bright.

“I am the scabbard and the blade,” he said, and before Shadow could stop him, or say anything, he raised his arm above his head, reversed the hilt in his hand and plunged the scimitar into his own skull. It vanished and at that moment Shadow understood that both scimitar and man were part of the same thing, just as Gremory was both girl and beast and both, and all demon.

“How do I get rid of you?” she said to the spirit, and he-the Prince of the Air-began to spin, whirling around in a dervish-wheel of dust and air. Then he was gone, winking out. A single drop of blood fell glistening to the desert earth. And Shadow woke up.