‘Should it not be secret? Do you not wish to find other Eborans to do this with?’
‘No.’ In truth, he knew that to let a human participate in the rites of the Hill of Souls was unforgivable, but who was there now to oppose him? Should he go to the last Eborans, dying in their rooms, and ask their opinions? Or Hestillion? She wanted nothing to do with him. ‘In a few days’ time, it will be the turning of the half-season moon. Once, it was a sacred day. We had a lot of sacred days, but no one remembers them now. We should bury them then. The moon was always special to the war-beasts.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I would be very glad if you would come with me, Bern the Younger.’
35
One of the more intriguing footnotes I’ve come across in my research concerns that of the Golden Fox exodus. When the crimson flux truly took hold in Ebora, there were a group of people there who believed that perhaps they could outrun it. Led by an artist known as Micanal and his twin sister, Arnia, around fifty Eborans left their dying lands and travelled north to the Barren Sea, apparently sailing from there to – no one knows where.
The truth is, I suspect, more complicated. Little known to the world outside Ebora, there were two schools of thought regarding the origins of Ygseril. Many Eborans believed that the land in which the tree-god spread his roots was sacred, a place preordained to be the mighty Ebora. Others believed that a great seed was blown down from the north, brought to the central continent of Sarn by a lucky wind. Somewhere across the Barren Sea, they claimed, was a holy island, sacred to Ygseril and his war-beast children. No one has ever been able to say exactly where it is, however – as far as we know, there is nothing worth speaking of in the Barren Sea; hence its name.
There are so many juicy elements to this. First, Micanal himself was a very interesting figure. He was known to be exceptionally beautiful even for an Eboran, a man with unheard of grace. There were multiple offers of marriage for him, but he turned them all down to concentrate on his own work. His paintings and sculptures still exist, most of them held in private collections, and I have had the privilege of viewing at least three pieces. They are exquisite, and all signed with his personal sigil, the golden fox.
He and his sister had a ship made on the Barren Coast, and sailed with a group of followers and believers, fans and lovers, hoping perhaps to rebuild Ebora far from the troubling corpse of Ygseril. They believed that the holy island existed somewhere to the north – although it should be noted that even war-beasts flying over the area have never found it – and perhaps they thought that the salvation of Ebora could be found there; perhaps they hoped to find a new seed, and birth a new tree-god on that distant coast. What became of them, we do not know. There is a notorious stretch of water known as the Assassin’s Heart, twisting its way across the Barren Sea, and weather systems there do not usually let ships pass unscathed. So where did they go? Did they all die on the treacherous seas, or did they reach their mysterious destination? Did Micanal know something that we now do not? Everything I have read about him suggests a wise, careful man who did not make snap decisions. Why would he wilfully lead a group of his people to their doom? I don’t believe he did, or at least, that he meant to. Clearly, he had other plans.
Personally, I believe the mystery of the golden fox exodus still has a few surprises waiting for us.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Noon lay on her back looking up at a perfect blue sky. Indigo grass rose all around her, shifting and whispering in a mild breeze.
‘This grass,’ said Tor, who was lying next to her, ‘is the same colour as the eastern sea. Was it truly this colour?’
‘It was,’ said Noon. ‘There is an entire valley of it. Mother Fast called it “the god’s eye”. We never stayed here for long, though. Some people have a strange reaction to the grass. It makes them sleepy. Confused.’
Tor grunted. ‘The plains, it seems, are much more interesting than I gave them credit for.’
‘There are lots of strange places like this,’ she said, remembering. ‘Quiet, lonely places where people didn’t go, and if they went, they didn’t stay. All those memories I have, I can bring them back here, can’t I?’
‘I suppose you can.’ Tor didn’t sound particularly interested. He was brushing his fingertips across the blades of grass.
‘I don’t think you know what that means,’ said Noon. She thought of her endless nightmare, the one that skirted around the hole in her memory, and then pushed it away. ‘How dangerous that could be. To relive anything from your past.’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘You’re too used to being able to do this. Do all Eborans dream-walk?’
Tor picked a blade of grass, twining the slim shaft around his fingers. ‘We were all capable of it, to greater and lesser degrees, but not everyone was interested. My sister was the finest dream-walker Ebora ever had, I think.’
‘And now I can do it too.’
‘Well, no, actually. All you are doing is shaping your own dream. You have mastered dream awareness. All you can do is summon memories to experience. You can’t, for example, enter my dreaming mind. You can’t enter it, and you can’t change things there. Whereas I . . .’
He gestured lazily and the blue grass turned a lurid shade of pink. Noon elbowed him, and he laughed, turning to face her. Meeting her eyes, he seemed to grow suddenly serious.
‘You are so clear to me,’ he said. ‘So close. In dreams, often other people, even the dreamer themselves, are mutable and shifting. But you are you. I can never not see exactly who you are. Why is that?’
Noon sat up, pulling away from the unsettling look in his eyes. Summoning the correct memories, she reached into the dense pink grass and pulled forth a shining greenish-golden vessel. It sloshed in her hands.
‘What is that?’ asked Tor, sitting up next to her. ‘Is that . . .?’