AMETHYST 5.5: THE WHEELBARROW

“Do you understand the meaning of the skull? Do you understand why you fear it? It is because it is your true face.”

– from ‘Grandfather’s Open Arms’

“Direcrown’s here,” I said to the others. “Can someone link us up?”

There was no way I wanted a private chat with this individual.

“Spirit? Glancefall?” A moment later I tried, “Winterprince?”

“Well…?” Direcrown demanded, upper-class churlishness in his voice, as if he spelt it ‘whell’.

Damn it.

Something was blocking me. It wasn’t that the link wasn’t there – I could tell that much from the way my mind-voice was projected. I looked around at the ‘windows’, covered in the impenetrable bony curtains. No, that wasn’t it.

I couldn’t look at the sphere directly, but I studied the green rune-lines, the actual lettering – from the outside of the tower the ribbons were chaotic, but now that I was inside the full complexity of the force-matrix at its heart was laid bare to me.

Yes, the sphere could be to blame for depriving me of the link. It was snatching, snaring magic out of the air to fuel itself. No wonder I felt a bit wobbly.

Yes, there was at least a sliver of a chance this wasn’t something Direcrown had done deliberately.

I shoved another star inside my circle-shield just to be on the safe side (it did seem that I was within spitting distance of a giant magic sink, after all), and angled my wings so that I could drift towards the black stone floor.

“What’s there to discuss?” I asked harshly as I came to a stop, still hovering slightly. “You abandoned us –“

“You fled the same as I,” Direcrown demurred. “And that poor weave never would have withstood the deathknights’ charge. No offence intended, Feychilde.”

I hadn’t been intending on taking any offence, until he added that, as though he were pegging me as the cause of the weave’s weakness.

Seriously, twice in two minutes? And this time from someone who ought to know better.

“What have you been doing?” I watched him for any signs of hostility, but there was nothing; he seemed relaxed, even pleased in the way he padded from foot to foot. The fiendish mask hid his expression, of course. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“Did we not?” He turned, reached out for the nearest green cord and caught it between his fingers, halting its progress. “Have you not read this yet? Prepare to grow a tail!”

I frowned, and tried to copy his motion; the runes just slipped through my fingers.

“Has the wraith so addled your brains that you forget what it has done to your flesh?”

My frown probably deepened. I released the insubstantiality, and slowly felt the return of solidity – the sensation was depressingly familiar.

By the time my hand and sleeve were opaque once more, I could grasp the rune-lines without any hassle.

I held a trail up before my face, so I could keep the darkmage and his shield in my peripheral vision while I studied the words.

It took me a moment to realise why I was having a bit of a struggle. The lettering was that of an Etheric alphabet – matching the energy’s hue, as I’d expected – but the words themselves were from the Netheric lexicon.

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A necromantic spell, written in fey characters?

“‘It is unspoken, but do not forget: only the chained know the meaning of struggle; only the dead can rise. Kaile, do not let this sorrowful sun set. N-N-‘”

I choked as I read the spiteful epithet; if I’d had to translate it for Jaid and Jaroan I’d have gone for ‘Equine Harlot’, and that was leaving out the other, even-more-distasteful half of the phrase –

“‘Nentheleme, bear my sword and my shovel. Lynastra, open my heart and my eyes…’” I moved my gaze to meet Direcrown’s. He was no longer padding between his feet but was standing as though rooted to the black stone, tall and still and stern. “Have you managed to derive some sense from these ramblings?” I asked him directly. “If you have, it’s beyond me. This is more like a prayer than a piece of magic, right?”

Throw him a bone. Better than him clamming up.

He bowed slightly and flicked his wrist in a mocking little gesture, indicating the massive green orb. “This relic of our craft,” he said grandiosely, “is designed to break the spell of undeath holding Zadhal in its eternal grip. Read on. I’m certain you shall soon be of the same opinion.”

I sighed.

“‘Now from the shadows we beckon and fail: love is the line to my memory’s dream. In falling we only hasten faster – on emerald seas we are to set sail. Here is the promised door, the ancient seam, the last grace of Mortiforn, our Master…’”

I fell silent now as I continued, going through the passages in my head, turning them over and over.

It does sound an awful lot like they were looking for a way out of undeath, doesn’t it?

“I’m afraid I simply cannot comprehend a single word of what you’re thinking,” Gilaela said.

“Nor I,” Avaelar supplied.

Sorry – that’s the Netheric. I quickly translated the thoughts for them. Do you think Direcrown’s right?

There was only silence inside my head. Then, after a few painful seconds, Gilaela said, “I don’t think this is really our forte, Feychilde.”

Direcrown had folded his arms across his chest. “In what do our assessments differ?”

“Little,” I admitted. “So this… this is designed to separate the soul from Nethernum, allow it to proceed?”

“The Gateway of Mortiforn permits the soul to continue on its way,” he said. “Or so goes the tale, in any case.” I nodded, and he continued, “Those whose spirits have been bound by the workings of undeath cannot transition from the shadowland to the otherworld, from the otherworld to what lies beyond… They cannot pass Mortiforn’s threshold. This text seems to support that perspective – is it possible that they have truly found a way to break the bonds?”

He used an eldritch power to float into the air – it was jerkier than the wind-spells of wizards, and it only then occurred to me that he must’ve been using something to keep himself warm, too.

He soon came back down bearing another glittering trail of green runes in his hand. “Read this part.”

Our shields crossed with no issues as he reached out and passed the sorcerous thread into my hand.

I read it twice to myself, then looked back at him. He’d retreated but stayed facing me, so I could meet his eyes, meet them as though I could read his thoughts behind them.

“’In Kultemeren, so shall it be done,’” I repeated the last pertinent line. “That’s not trivial, is it?”

Direcrown was shaking his head. “Very good, Feychilde. Well done. I believe you are well caught-up.” He gestured to the windows, still encased in the bony shell. “Have – are the others nearby?”

Did I detect just a trace of concern there in his voice? Was it concern for the others, or just concern for himself, that he might be in trouble for his disappearance?

I nodded cautiously. “The link isn’t working here. The sphere –“

“Drains the words as you cast them,” he finished for me. “This truly is a curious creation. Have you heard of its like?”

“Not ever.”

“I thought as much.” He sounded thrilled rather than disappointed to have the object’s mystery reconfirmed by my ignorance. “I shall have to pen a treatise, once –“

“Are you forgetting why we’re here?” Then I realised he didn’t know. “Erm – the others are fighting the Prince of Chains, actually…”

“What?”

“Yeah… Leafcloak… She was… well…”

“What?”

I quickly related what’d happened, putting the mystery of the sphere in its place; if there was anything that deserved a treatise, it was the appearance of an avatar. “So Shadowcloud’s missing, and there’s this, like, ocean of wights, and they’re even more-unkillable than usual –“

“And you came here? Left them with but one sorcerer?” He actually sounded mildly infuriated. “Come – you shall guide me to them, and together we will overcome the divine creature before returning.”

He turned aside to the wall, but I stayed where I was and shook my head. “Shields don’t work. Timesnatcher’s got a plan – I think it has something to do with Lightblind; she went back to Mund but he said something about her. We need to fix this, this thing,” I caught another green cord, ran my eyes across the runes, “and fix this city.”

Direcrown seemed to regard me curiously, head slightly askew on his shoulders. “You’re a strange creature, Feychilde. Very well. We shall remain.” He righted himself, glancing up to take in the myriad green trails.

I wasn’t expecting to hear such fervour in his voice as I did when he concluded:

“And we shall fix it together.”

* * *