Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Ghede

Omanuju was waiting at the edge of her family’s property. They followed the wagon road until it bent south towards Mab Miller’s land and the tower. Instead of turning, Omanuju struck a path directly into Frank Gregory’s potato field and continued into the forest on the far side. The woods here were thick conifers that even on a bright day blocked out much of the sun from above, making a permanent dusk beneath their boughs.

At night the space underneath was pure blindness, yet Omanuju still managed to find his way, warning Gabriella of stones and roots that might trip her. Their path climbed rocky slopes and descended into dells with noisy streams that Gabriella could hear but not see. But mostly their path climbed, the descents becoming less frequent, and after a time they only ascended, Gabriella’s heart beating loudly in her ears and her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Despite Omanuju’s warnings, Gabriella still managed to stumble and trip, so much so that when they reached the island’s interior highlands, her knees were scraped and her palms stung from catching herself. Omanuju helped her over one last set of boulders and then stopped. Here the island opened up to its own sea of grass that covered most of the rolling land of the interior. No longer beneath the trees, they could see the stars stretching from one horizon to the next. The sliver of moon had tracked into the center of the sky. Compared to the darkness of the forest, this meadow was positively bright. Gabriella could make out the shape of undulating hills and ridges silhouetted against the spray of stars to the south and west.

Omanuju rummaged through his pockets, drew out a small object hung on a strip of leather, and handed it to Gabriella. She took it in her hands and studied it, running her fingers along the length of leather.

“It’s a whistle,” Omanuju said. “We’re far enough away from the village now to sound it.”

She obeyed, putting the tiny instrument to her mouth. Although polished and gleaming like metal in the moonlight, it was not cold to the touch. Rather it felt warm on her lips. Its call was a sweet note that nonetheless pierced all other sounds around them—the wind in the evergreens, the chorus of crickets, the mournful call of a night lark. All the natural sounds around them diminished as if arrested by this one note that swelled with her breath and filled the wide chamber of the night, all the way to the starry vault above. When she had finished, the sound still echoed in her ears. She looked to Omanuju for some sign of approval. When she held out the whistle to return to him, he shook his head.

“Keep it . . . you might need it later. Now listen.”

She hung the whistle around her neck and turned her ear to the meadow. She could hear hoof beats approaching and she imagined a horse of some kind. Before long it was upon them, but as the hoof beats neared, she realized that this was no horse. It was the right size, but the shape was off—the head a measure too short. The ears were misplaced—too far out on the sides—and the shoulders a hand’s length too high. The moonlight moved across its fur like the shine on iridescent ink. Gabriella caught her breath when she realized that a rack of gleaming antlers crowned the animal’s head.

“An elk. Of course, Old Man Ant is for Old Man Antler,” Gabriella said, not realizing she spoke aloud.

“Careful who you are calling old,” Omanuju said, his teeth flashing a smile. He bent down to the rocks they stood on, pulling forth two saddle bags that he slung over the waiting elk.

Gabriella was still trying to take the creature in. The fur was a dark grayish brown if she discerned it correctly in the weak light. The underside of the neck was white and shaggy. But it was the animal’s eyes that were most striking. When she caught the moon’s reflection in them, she was startled to see the animal looking back at her in a steady, almost knowing stare. She stepped backwards, feeling self-conscious as if she had been caught staring at a stranger.

“Is he tame?” she asked.

“Tame? I don’t know if I would say that, but he is a friend. He will carry us where we want to go.”

“We’ll ride him?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, swinging onto the elk’s back and offering his hand. Gabriella took it and sprang up behind Omanuju. Once mounted, without warning, the animal sprang into motion, galloping through the waving grasses. Gabriella felt a dizzy sensation in her ears, and her body felt oddly off balance as the elk accelerated. The wind rose to a howl around them, making an eerie howl in the antlers. The hooves beat out a furious tempo, and the feathered heads of the grasses hissed as they parted in front of them, then closed in their wake.

The sun rose. Leagues of hills rolled out to either side like waves in the ocean of grass. She had never imagined her own home island to be so large. As the light grew, she had a better look at their mount. It was a subtle gray-brown color that was well suited to blend in with open fields or shady woods. Its coat was shaggier than a horse’s, but she liked it for its softness and length, allowing her to twirl it about her fingers and even grab hold of to steady herself when they bounced over a stream or leapt a gully.

It was midday when they stopped at a cluster of boulders that rose like a small island from the sea of grass. Omanuju dismounted directly onto the top of the stones, and Gabriella followed, leaning against the elk to regain her balance. After so many hours of riding, even the stationary rocks felt as if they were rising and falling.

The elk drank from a nearby stream as Omanuju tore chunks from a brown bread loaf to share with Gabriella along with some hard, white cheese.

She was hungry and the ride had been long, but her spirits were not diminished. She skipped across the rocks and took the offered food. The day before she had been languishing in bed, a girl with an imbecile brother, and surrounded by well-intentioned but befuddled healers and priests. Omanuju, by contrast, was decisive and learned. What he did not know, she was confident he could find out. Now he had helped her to ride an elk, see parts of the island she had never dreamed existed, and—perhaps most importantly—freed her of her brother.

It took her a few minutes for the reality of her freedom to sink in. Even as she ate, she caught herself breaking the bread into pieces, ready to share with her brother. As she explored the rocks she found herself examining them for places where Dameon might trip and fall. She had to remind herself that he was not with her and that she could—for once—simply look after herself.

And the prospect that he could be cured forever made her spirits soar. She was captivated by this notion she had planted in her own heart—that if she fulfilled the dead’s prophecy they would cure Dameon. How could they not if she and Omanuju saved the tower from falling into the hands of the Servior? Small healings occurred regularly. Although the dead had not been known to cure Stanley Farmish, the half-brained village idiot who was not even housebroken, or Joel Orange, who regularly saw spirits and heard disembodied voices to the point of madness. But surely for this quest, her brother might be changed.

It made saving the tower all the more urgent.

“Do you think the dead will cure Dameon if we succeed?” she asked.

“Cure him?” Omanuju sounded surprised. “He is different, but surely he is not sick.”

“But Omanuju, even you must know of his . . . peculiarities.”

“Aye, I do.”

“It makes him difficult.”

He took a bite of his bread and looked out into the waving heads of grass. “I have known others like Dameon, and believe me, he may have qualities yet undiscovered and underappreciated.”

“He is only eleven, but he can balance Father’s ledgers at a glance.”

Omanuju nodded, his expression unchanged.

“And he can count like no one else, by sixes, sevens, elevens, even primes. Primes are numbers not divisible by other numbers.”

“Thank you for that lesson, my dear,” Omanuju said.

She blushed. Of course a learned man like Omanuju knew what primes were.

“But are these not valuable abilities?” he asked.

She shrugged. “He’s my brother,” she said. “But he is hard to love.” She recalled Dameon’s face as it appeared under the water in the mill race and shuddered. She did her best to push the vision out of her head. Omanuju noticed her shiver. He pulled out a waterskin from his satchel and handed it to her.

“Sometimes when we find a person hard to love, the failure is in us, rather than them.” He got up and dusted off his trousers. “Now, drink up, we have leagues to cross still, and this trip will require all of your strength and more.”

They rode on shortly after, the elk’s coat becoming damp with perspiration underneath the saddle bags as the day warmed. Omanuju was an unerringly considerate man, constantly asking after her comfort, offering Gabriella the waterskin first and always the bigger piece of bread when they stopped to rest. But for all his conversing in the House of Healing, he was quiet now. He spent most of his time with his face turned to the hills, taking in the vistas around them, settling into the rhythm of riding, a cadence that was as natural and soothing as a heartbeat. She, too, was quiet, as if words would distract from the perfect coming together of sky and sunlight, shadows of the clouds scudding over the rolling hills around them.

Midafternoon, they stopped beside a stream that wound between two hillocks covered in patches of wild flowers. Gabriella looked upstream to see a waterfall sluicing down from a mesa to the north. She gazed at the rocky promontory, its vegetation sparse, and noticed a shape that was too linear and too sheer to be anything but man-made.

“Is that a fortress?” she asked.

“What is left of one,” Omanuju said, squinting into the distance.

“Did we build it?” she asked, referring to Harkenites although she sensed she already knew the answer. It was too large and too remote for her people to have constructed, although she had never heard of any previous inhabitants on the island. Omanuju confirmed her hunch.

“No, it’s older than the people of Har’Kennis. It was built by the Skyln Empire.”

The elk tore some grass up by its roots from the edge of the stream and chewed it loudly.

“Can we go there?”

“No, evil may still lurk within those walls.”

They remounted, and Omanuju said nothing for some time after that. Staring ahead through the elk’s antlers, she noticed that her whistle and the elk’s antlers were made of the same material: not quite metal but not quite bone either—something light, solid, and in-between.

The elk’s sharp antlers held a fine edge, almost like a knife. She had already seen how the creature could scythe grass by swinging its head low.

The whistle was smooth, except for the carvings on it: a city on an island floating in the sky. Gabriella examined it curiously. The city was surrounded by clouds that blended gracefully into the body of the instrument. The carvings, intricate and flawless, made her wonder if she was worthy of such a gift. She double-checked the knot in the strap holding it around her neck and tucked the whistle into her shirt for safekeeping.

It was afternoon when they reached the eastern shore of the island. They dismounted. Bluffs lined the edge of the grasslands, and Omanuju led them on a path through a gap in a ridge, its slopes covered in unwelcoming thorn trees already barren of most of their leaves. The way grew narrow, and sheer walls covered with flaking lichens rose up on either side of them. Cold gusts of air that smelled of salt whipped through the passageway. They proceeded single file, with the elk trailing behind, balancing on loose boulders and leaning against the wind. Finally the walls opened up, and one side dropped away revealing a cliff and the sea below. Shades of rip currents cut across its gray face. Waves crashed directly against the foot of the cliffs, leaving no space for a beach or even rocks for seals or walruses to bask.

“Tread carefully,” Omanuju said, tightening his belt around his cloak so it would not flap in the breeze. Gabriella followed suit, following close to Omanuju, the elk just behind her. Her palms were so sweaty that they left palm prints on the rocks as she passed. Her head spun at the height as the sea churned below, and her stomach threatened to lose its contents. It was only when the elk pressed its soft velvety nose to her neck that she felt an odd calm settle over her, enough at least that she was able to follow Omanuju a few final steps into a cave that she had not noticed before. She was not one for dark places, but the cave was preferable to the cliff and its dizzying height. Omanuju led the way inside, kicking a loose stone over the side where it plunged what seemed to be hundreds of feet before it disappeared with a splash in the surging waters. Birds had nested on the cliff face and around the cave mouth. The floor was covered in their downy feathers as well as droppings, but that did not stop Gabriella from falling to her knees. She took deep gulps of air and hung her head low on her chest.

“You do not like heights?” Omanuju asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“Never,” she panted.

“Hmmm,” he said, twisting his mouth into a frown. “A slight complication, but one that can be overcome. At least, Adamantus has taken a liking to you.”

“Who? What? Oh,” she said as the elk nuzzled her in the ear and licked her. His tongue was hot and rough, but something about the contact soothed her. “Adamantus, that is a nice name.”

When her insides had settled, Gabriella looked up to study the chamber that held them. She gasped. Several feet off the ground, hanging from the ceiling, were a half-dozen sailing vessels. They ranged in size from a dingy to a fifty-foot cutter, each constructed of smooth, polished timbers that were carved with efficient, sweeping lines. The drafts were shallow with small keels, although their rudders were all oversized and made of canvas.

But most unusual were the sails. They were wider than they were tall. Instead of connecting to the ships via masts, they were suspended on a complex network of levers, winches, ropes, and pulleys. Wooden supports separated them into a series of panels that stretched nearly as wide as the ships were long.

Gabriella stood up, starting at a gull that had built a nest on the prow of the nearest and largest ship. Beneath the nest of twigs the word,

Elawn,

had been burned into the wood in a dark, almost sinister script. She felt her stomach heave again.

“What is this place?” Gabriella asked, swallowing bile, her voice echoing off the walls.

“A chamber of ghosts.” Omanuju slid his satchel off his shoulder. Lifting a flap, he rummaged through the contents for a moment before pulling out a small drawstring bag of flour. Pouring some into his fist, he sprinkled the flour on the floor of the cave in a series of intersecting lines. Suddenly, arrows appeared, sprouting from the corners of squares in all the cardinal directions and those in between.

“What are you doing?”

“Waking a ghost,” Omanuju said with a wink before leaning over the design and whispering, “Ghede, open the way.”

His voice was soft as if this Ghede was right next to them. Then he was, a figure standing arms crossed, legs apart in the shadows cast between two of the ships. He came forward slowly, his feet bare. His clothes were that of a sailor: frayed britches that stopped at his shins and cinched with a leather belt that held a sheathed scimitar. He was shirtless but for a vest that hung loosely on his sculpted frame. He took in the three of them—his expression unreadable. Whether he thought them a strange ensemble, whether they were welcome or not, it was impossible to tell.

“Doubtful was I that you would ever call upon me for assistance,” Ghede said.

“The Servior have grown in power. Their loyalty to their masters is undiminished,” Omanuju replied.

“The time of the breaking of the seal draws near,” the man said.

“ʻNear’ to one with your perspective, Ghede,” Omanuju said. “Time is different to your kind. The seal might hold for a few more generations.”

“Or it may not! Are you prepared?” Ghede asked, turning to the elk. Adamantus huffed through his nose and lowered his head.

“As our stations require,” Omanuju answered.

“Good.” Ghede drew his scimitar. “Then all I have left is to test the girl.”

“Her name is Gabriella Carlyle. The dead spoke their prophecy through her.”

“The dead choose strange messengers.” Ghede swung the sword so that the blade whistled in the air. At the same time he stomped a foot as if starting a dance, but Omanuju and Adamantus froze as if they were statues. Only Gabriella and Ghede were left free to move. He stepped forward into the light, and Gabriella gasped. His skin was blue, his hair red as coral. Her shock pleased him, his lips forming a wry smile.

“Is this my test?” she asked.

“Test?” he laughed. “More like your end,” he said, rushing forward with the sword out. Gabriella fought the overwhelming urge to cower and scream. No one was coming to save her, she realized, and so she acted—diving and rolling under Adamantus and out the other side, placing the paralyzed elk between her and Ghede.

“You’re quick,” he said. “But it won’t save you.” He paced around the elk on the balls of his feet, feinting to one side, then the other.

Gabriella realized he was right. She was unarmed, overpowered, outmatched. The best she could do was prolong the inevitable.

How did everything go so wrong,

she wondered, trying not to panic. Better Omanuju had never disturbed whatever powers lurked in these caves.

There was no hope in confrontation, only escape. But she would need more than the swiftness of her feet. She moved towards Omanuju, pushing and shaking him, but he was still as if he were made of stone. But she was able to grab the pouch of flour from his stiff hand as Ghede lurched for her.

She threw up a cloud of the stuff with only a moment to spare. Then she rolled forward, right past Ghede, calculating that he would expect her to run in the opposite direction. He did and swung blindly into the cloud. By the time he cleared the powder from his face, she had a sizable lead to the opening of the cave.

The light grew around her while the sound of breaking waves increased with every stride. She could hear Ghede cursing as he pursued her out of the cave. With a rush, she stumbled back out into the light and onto the cliff trail. Vertigo closed in on her like a fist. She could not even look at the path without her head spinning. But this time she noticed a chamber cut into the cliff to her left. A spiral staircase led to what she realized were the remnants of an ancient tower carved out of the rock. The enclosure of the stairs was more welcoming than the drop to the sea on her right. She even hoped that Ghede might not notice her turning aside and would continue along the cliff, giving her the opportunity to double back and try again to free Omanuju.

Reluctant to go any higher in the cliffs, she chose to run down the stairs. The old steps were smooth, well lit by windows cut into the stone at intervals. She heard the

slap-slap

of Ghede’s footsteps as he passed by the top of the stairwell and continued onto the promontory. Gabriella stopped to catch her breath but the sound of Ghede coming back sent her skittering down the stairs.

She took the stairs two, three at a time, at one point almost tumbling head-over-heels. As the stairs spiraled around she passed more chambers. She continued a little farther then ducked into the first chamber she saw. An armory! Spears, swords, battle axes, all rusty in the salt air, lined the walls. Against the interior wall ghostly ceramic pots shaped to resemble skulls stared out into the emptiness.

But Ghede was still behind her. She pressed herself against the wall and listened as he went past. Her heart beating in her ears and her breath coming short, she was almost certain that he was at least a level or two beyond her. She inched for the opening when the sound of Ghede’s feet stopped. She froze.

“Crafty girl,” he said, his voice a hiss echoing up the corridor. He had discovered her trick. There was no time to climb back to Omanuju. Instead she slid back against the wall beside the door. There were numerous chambers off the stairwell and she told herself there was a chance he might choose wrong. She tried not to panic. Instead she searched her immediate surroundings for a weapon. From the wall, she wrenched a small mace. It had a studded oaken head. The handle was wrapped tightly in leather bands. She passed on the bladed weapons, doubtful that she could bring herself to kill a man, blue or not. But she was more than willing to knock him unconscious from behind. The handle was slick in her palm from her own sweat, but she knew she had chosen well. The mace was not too heavy for her but not so light that it would not stun her adversary. She only had to strike him soundly on the head.

Surprise would be everything. Her heart beat hard again, as if she were still running. Ghede was coming, she could hear him on the landing outside. His footsteps paused as he checked the adjacent chamber. Not finding her, he cursed. He was only a few steps away now. Gabriella lifted the mace over her shoulder.

The doorway darkened as he came through it. As she had hoped, he stepped into the chamber brandishing his sword first, his back to her as she pressed herself against the wall. She did not wait. She swung the mace in a downward arc at the back of his head. He was just beginning to turn around when she was inches from striking. She had him. The head of the weapon swung true at her intended target. Ghede was completely defenseless. She strained her muscles to provide maximum power, bracing herself for the inevitable “clunk.”

But it did not come. For a moment her mind raced wildly trying to determine what had taken place. Had she missed, she wondered, for the mace encountered no resistance. Her element of surprise was ruined, for the swing was cast. She looked up and tried to make sense of what she was seeing—the mace itself had disappeared into Ghede’s body, sinking with her continued motion as if he were not there at all. Her momentum carried her right into his back, and she braced herself for a collision with him. But like the strike of the mace it did not come. Instead she watched as her forearm disappeared into her adversary’s back with no more resistance than if she were falling into a pool of water.

Or a ghost.

She cried out as the rest of her fell into whatever spectral body he was, her arm, her shoulder, then her head. Her vision went dark, and for a moment it was as if she floated weightless, motionless in the night sky surrounded by the brightest stars she had ever seen in her life, below, above, and all around her. Their light was so close she was sure she could reach upwards and pluck them like shining fruit from a tree. But before she could, the scene dissolved, and she was falling across the room again, the mace swinging towards the shelves of skull shaped pots, her body twisting out of control.

“Whoa there, lass!” Ghede said, the edge in his voice gone. He reached out and caught Gabriella on the arm—his grip solid and firm—even as she emerged from his spectral body. He stopped her from falling, but the mace continued in its destructive path coming down on the shelf, shattering the faces of two pots.

Ghede pulled her close, steadying her, his sword now raised defensively in front of them as black matter poured forth from the shattered skulls. The substance looked like inky blood from a wound, but it flowed and pooled like a thick, vaporous fog. Lights moved within the darkness, like lightning in a thunderhead.

The sight mesmerized Gabriella, and she forgot all danger, the urgency of the chase, even the will to resist. A lethargy began to settle over her, and she only wished to settle down on the floor, slip her hands beneath her head, and drift into a long, dreamless sleep. Voices whispered comfortingly to her, not unlike when she had been possessed at the tower. But instead of moving her to act, these voices urged surrender. Her ankles felt cold. She looked down to see a tendril of the fog enveloping her leg. For a moment, fear flared within her, only to be smothered out by the incessant voices. With a powerful rush, she felt as if all the life within her, all the warmth, all the vitality of her soul were draining away. Her knees buckled, her will to live abandoning her. Her head felt heavy. She saw no point in keeping her eyelids open.

But as quickly as the torpor had overtaken her, it was gone, as Ghede yanked her up and out of the spreading miasma. He swung at the vapor, cutting them a path through to the door, only for it to close just behind them. He stopped on the stairs long enough to heave Gabriella up over his shoulder. She was confused, weak, drunk.

“What is going on?” she asked, her lips heavy and uncooperative. Her speech slurred.

Ghede clicked his tongue, sheathed his sword, and started up the stairs. “Now you’ve done it.”