The smell of rot lessened, and the deeper she went the cleaner the walls were. Eventually, she came to a section where the strange pulsing lights were still working, casting a pinkish light over the empty corridors. She saw more of the strange tubes they had witnessed in the other wreck, and more alcoves, their meaning or use no clearer than before. Eventually, she came to a section where the ceiling was lost in the darkness, and for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint, this felt like progress.
She had raised the lamp to see the exit on the far side when a shifting pattern of light oozed through the wall to her left. Vintage gave a low cry and staggered away, reaching for her crossbow, but the thing was so fast. In moments, it was on her, a head like a bald skull made of light twisting down with its jaws open wide. The crossbow bucked in her hands and the bolt landed directly in the space between the holes she chose to believe were its eyes. The parasite spirit let out a high-pitched wail and floated up and away from her like a leaf caught in a strong wind. Not waiting to see what it would do next, Vintage snatched up her travelling lamp and sprinted across the chamber, a ball of terror heavy in her chest. Once through the exit she kept moving. Her hope was that she would lose it deeper inside, that it would be too pained and confused by the bolt in its head to come after her.
There followed a breathless, panicky run, the light from her lamp bouncing unevenly against the walls. When eventually she found what she was looking for, she did indeed nearly trip over it; a nerve centre of fleshy, greyish blocks rising in a low hill across the floor. Somewhere beneath that, she suspected, was the twin to the pink shard of crystal that had trapped Esiah’s son and driven the old man mad. Her heart in her throat, she circled the protrusion, and when she found the hole she had known would be there, she felt a terrible mixture of hope and terror close over her heart. Someone had been here, someone had made it this far. And she had a pretty good idea of who that had been.
It was the morning of what the Eborans apparently called the Festival of New Lights. They were a people on the point of extinction, their city an empty husk with a dead god crouching at the heart of it, but despite this, Noon sensed an atmosphere of hope about the place. It was a cold day, everything awash in sunlight that was bright and clean. Far above them, the corpse moon hung in the sky, a greenish smudge too bright to look at; it looked closer than she’d ever seen it, and very clear. Word of what was to be attempted had got about somehow, and the people camped on the lawns and the diplomats taking up residence in the rooms were all talking about it. Noon heard it on everyone’s lips as she wandered around, speculation and gossip traded by people who looked worried, or excited, or bemused.
The ceremony was to take place at midday. Hestillion had wanted it closed off from the hordes, for them to try the worm people’s magic privately and without an audience, but Aldasair had been besieged by interested parties desperate not only finally to see Ygseril, but also to see the use of an ancient Jure’lia artefact. And, of course, if this was to be the day that the tree-god came back to life, every one of them there wanted to be in the hall to witness it. What a thing to tell your children! What a thing to take back to your city or kingdom, a piece of prestige that would make you envied, famous, untouchable. Tormalin had given the word finally, a half-amused expression on his face, allowing the peoples of Sarn to be there to witness the revival of the great Ygseril. Noon thought only she had seen the expression that had flitted over his sister’s face. She was worth keeping an eye on, that one, Noon felt instinctively, even as part of her felt calmer all the time; after the initial confusion, it seemed that the presence inside her was at peace here, and that, in turn, made her happier.
As she made her way back across the lawns she saw Aldasair sitting on the grass, a trio of children sitting cross-legged with him. He had a deck of cards covered in elaborate drawings, and he appeared to be teaching them a game of some sort. The children were laughing and elbowing each other, crowing at each victory, while a tall human man with a pair of shining axes stood over them. Noon smiled. Grass and laughter and the feeling of sun warming her through her clothes; it was all a long way from the Winnowry. Agent Lin was dead, and even the Winnowry would have to think twice about bringing their grievances to Ebora.
‘Lady Noon, will you join us?’
Noon smirked. ‘Just Noon is fine. What sort of cards are those?’ She added herself to the circle, ignoring the brief puzzled glance one of the children gave the bat wing on her forehead. All behind her now.
‘These are tarla cards.’ Aldasair shuffled them skilfully, blending them between his fingers and making the children giggle. ‘We used to use them to tell fortunes.’ He nodded at a little girl with a snug fur collar and short black hair. ‘They’ve already told us that Callio will grow up to ride a horse better than her brother, and Tris here,’ he nodded to a small boy with a mess of ginger curls, ‘Tris now knows that one day he will find a gold nugget as big as his fist. So we’re going to try a game now.’
Aldasair began to deal the cards, but Noon shook her head.
‘I’m happy to watch.’
And she was. Whatever happened this afternoon when Tor poured the golden fluid onto the roots of Ygseril, her past was behind her. The game went on around her and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt some of the tension go out of her shoulders. Deep inside, the presence that spoke to her so easily now seemed to stretch like an indolent cat.
Times of peace, it said, should be savoured.
She couldn’t agree more.
Presently, a tall girl with scabby knees came running over to them, a flush of excitement on her cheeks.
‘Callio, the lady is doing the puppets again! Come and look!’
The children immediately abandoned their card game, scrambling to their feet.
‘I’ve heard the puppets are very good,’ said the tall man with the axes on his belt. Bern. Aldasair, she remembered now, had introduced him to her the night they had arrived. ‘Shall we go and have a look?’
Aldasair looked at her, and Noon shrugged. ‘Why not?’
They followed the children as they weaved through the crowds. It did feel like a festival day out here – the smell of roasting meat, brightly coloured flags. There were lanterns and lamps everywhere – some already lit for the Festival of New Lights, others waiting for the evening. One tent had been covered in a piece of fabric sewn all over with pieces of broken mirror so that it winked and glittered like the sea under a summer sun; the people of Sarn were getting into the spirit of the thing. Presently they came to a small crowd of seated children. There was a young man wearing a bright blue hood – Noon noted absently that he looked like her, his black hair shining almost blue under the sunlight, his skin a warm olive colour – and he was dancing a figure on strings between his hands. The children were laughing, enjoying the show.