The Bitter Twins Page 2

  2

  The ice was thinning.

  Peering over the side of the well, Eri could see the smudged shape of his own head and shoulders looking back at him: a dark mirror. He wasn’t sure how he knew the ice was thinner, aside from a blurred memory of a hundred winters asking the same question; he had done this before, after all, over and over again. It was possible to think of that as being caught between mirrors. A hundred, a thousand images of himself, the same over and over, caught in this dark mirror forever. Stepping neatly away from that thought, he pressed his hands to the big rock he had lifted onto the lip of the well, and gave it a quick shove. It plummeted down and there was a satisfying crack, followed by a sploosh.

  ‘Good.’

  He would have water from the well again. Through the winter he had taken water from the great steel buckets he had brought indoors just before the cold months truly took their grip on Ebora, and occasionally from handfuls of snow, but mostly he had stayed inside, safe within the walls of Lonefell. But water from the well would be fresher, and not taste of metal. It was one of the things he looked forward to spring for, after all. Mother would be pleased to hear of this sign of the warmer months – she would be glad to get back to the gardens.

  The bucket was stiff with frost, but the rope he had kept indoors to save it from the wet rot. In moments he had a bucketful of water as clear as the sky, and before he poured it into the basin he took a mouthful straight from it, grinning as the shock of the cold travelled through his teeth.

  ‘Brrr.’

  Basin in arms, Eri walked back through the frosted gardens. It was too soon yet for shoots, but he could imagine them there, waiting under the ground like tiny green promises. Back inside Lonefell, he took the basin straight through to the kitchens and added more wood to the fire, waiting for the stove to warm. From there he went down the cold stone steps to the larder, grabbing a candle as he went. The larder was a vast place, and the yellow warmth of the candle did not quite light its furthest corners; if anything, it only served to deepen the shadows on the empty shelves.

  ‘Empty shelves.’

  Eri stood and looked at them, a cold worm of worry waking up to twist inside his chest. He had perhaps two shelves of food left down here, if that. Jars of pickled vegetables he had made himself with the last of the vinegar, dried and salted meat from the rabbits he had managed to trap last summer, a pair of ancient cheeses wrapped in thick cloth. He was afraid to open those in case they were completely lost. Time was running out, if there was any left at all.

  Eri snatched a packet of the dried meat off the shelf and left, heading up to the kitchens, humming tunelessly to himself, murmuring the occasional word as the fog of forgetfulness lifted.

  ‘On the fifth day we shall dance, my love . . . and on the sixth you shall sing to me . . .’

  He put a small amount of the water on to boil, and put some strips of the old rabbit meat in to soften. A handful of dried herbs and some salt went in next. It would be a warm dinner, at least.

  Leaving that to cook – for want of a better word – Eri wandered down the corridor away from the kitchen, walking without thinking to his mother’s rooms. The walls here were covered in bright paintings: of the lands beyond the Tarah-hut Mountains, of the war-beasts in their battle glory, of old Eboran heroes, their armour shining impossibly bright. His mother and father had made the inside of Lonefell bright with paintings and stories, and every room was stuffed with bookcases, each heaving with books. When they took their son into seclusion, they had not wanted him to be bored.

  His mother’s room was bright with early morning sunshine – he had already been in here to draw her curtains – and she was a still shape within the bed. The sheets were crisp, and embroidered with a great forest, animals peeping out from between the trunks and branches.

  There was a chair by her bed, so Eri sat on it, remembering as he did so that when they had first come to Lonefell, this had been his favourite chair, even though his legs hadn’t quite reached the ground at the time. Now the upholstery was thin, and here and there little puffs of white stuffing were showing through like the thinning hair on an old man’s head.

  ‘It’s cold, but the ice is melting.’ He looked across the bed at the far side of the room as he spoke. His mother was a series of soft curves that he didn’t quite focus on. ‘Not long now and the garden will be blooming again. Although . . . well, I hope the vegetables do better than they did last year, Mother. I don’t know what it is – maybe it’s just that the soil is tired. Everything around here seems tired.’ Eri stopped, and after a moment he pulled the corner of the blanket back, and with only a small amount of difficulty slid his hand into his mother’s. He still didn’t quite look at her. ‘When we came here, I thought it was all a great adventure. That we were pilgrims of a sort, I suppose, striking out on our own to find our way. You and Father made it seem like that, I think – all of Father’s stories, all the books he brought. He was so excited to read them with me, I remember. And our garden. We were going to grow so many things in it. Exotic foods as well as everything else, and of course I had a whole suite to myself, full of toys. You must have employed every artisan in Ebora, to bring that many toys with you.’ He cleared his throat, and squeezed his mother’s cold fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry. Now, I realise it must have been terribly sad for you both. Leaving everything behind to come all the way out here. I found some letters . . .’ Eri paused, shivering violently. His stomach growled and when he pulled his jacket closer around his chest, his fingers brushed against ribs that were too prominent. ‘It’s not that I’m snooping, Mother, it’s just that I’ve read every book twice, three times, some of them, and Father didn’t mind.’ He bit his lip, then continued. ‘I found letters from your mother, and from Father’s parents. They weren’t happy about what you’d done, by the sounds of it. Letters full of pleading, and threats. I didn’t realise you had told them they couldn’t see me, but then I suppose I never thought about it.’

  A fly had got into the room. It buzzed once past Eri’s ear, making him shiver again, and then threw itself repeatedly against the far window until he stood up and chased it out with a roll of old parchment. That done, he stood by the glass and looked up at a clear sky. Nothing up there today, at least.

  ‘I think I’m seeing things.’ He looked back at his mother, then just as quickly looked away again. ‘Things in the sky. But that can’t be. Ebora is dead – it died a long time ago, probably when those letters from my grandparents stopped coming. Right? I just need to eat more food, that’s all, and that will be easier soon, it will be easier . . .’ Eri raised a trembling hand to his forehead and pushed away the hair that had fallen into his eyes.

  ‘Oh, speaking of which . . .’

  He straightened his mother’s blankets, bending down to brush a dry kiss against her waxy skull, and then hurried back to the kitchens. His meagre broth had congealed into something that would at least be more flavourful than water, and he quickly slopped it into a bowl. That done, he carried the bowl, spoon sticking out of it, down another long corridor to his father’s study. In here, the books were watchful, too quiet, and the maps on the wall all looked like lies, so he picked his father up and took him back out to the gardens. There was a series of low stone benches facing the frozen pond, and here he sat and slowly ate the hot gruel, his father set upon the ground next to him.

  ‘You can feel it’s warmer, can’t you?’ The taste of meat, salty on his tongue, had cheered him up somewhat. ‘I didn’t tell Mother, but the larder is nearly empty. This thaw couldn’t come quickly enough.’ He paused to yank a piece of particularly tough meat from between his teeth. ‘Ugh. The rabbits will be back in a few weeks, and if we get some really fine weather, I can range further. I know what you’ll say, but the Wild is still a good distance from Lonefell and there’s a chance of some deer to the east, I’m sure of it. A whole deer would keep . . . would keep me . . . us . . .’

  A shadow cast them into darkness. Er
i looked up, his heart in his throat, and there it was again. He jumped up so violently his boot hit the bucket of bones, causing a dry clacking noise he automatically ignored. Above them a dragon soared, slow and magnificent in the golden light of the morning. She was low enough for Eri to see the wide pearly scales of her stomach, each as big as his hand, and the fine white feathers of her wings.

  ‘It can’t be real. Such things don’t exist anymore. I mean, they just don’t. Father?’ Eri looked down, directly into the bucket of bones – something he very rarely did – and the bare yellow reality of his situation was as cold and as shocking as the well water. He gasped, wrenching his eyes away, and looked back up to the dragon. She was turning to the west, banking slowly like an eagle, and it looked as though there was someone riding her. After a moment, the dragon opened her jaws and a bright jet of violet flame leapt forth, like some sort of fantastical flower. It dissipated, and Eri realised he could hear something, something even more extraordinary; the sound of laughter in the wind. It had been decades since he had heard laughter – it was difficult, for a moment, even to remember what it was.

  Eri stood and watched the dragon until she was a tiny dot on the horizon, his broth quite forgotten and cold. His father did not venture an opinion.

  3

  My dearest Marin,

  By Sarn’s broken old bones, I hope this letter finds you safe. I have sent it on to the last address I had for you, and I hope that you are still there – the university at Reidn has good, strong walls, and there are lots of people there. If you can, stay there, Marin. Don’t do anything stupid (not that you would, darling, but your aunt worries so).

  I’ve sent a letter home to the vine forest too, but I am on the road and have no way to receive replies. There is a certain amount of safety in remoteness, so the House may not have seen any horrors, but I cannot help thinking of the Behemoth ruins hidden within the forest. They were ancient and little more than shards and broken pieces, and everything I’ve seen suggests that only the remains from recent Rains have been brought back to life, yet . . . Of course I worry.

  I travel now with an Eboran woman called Nanthema. I will have mentioned her to you, I think. We’re making our way to Ebora, travelling often at night and avoiding the main roads, although I’m not sure that will help. We must be alert at all times, and it is exhausting; if we are not cowering from the distant sight of the Behemoths lurching through our skies, we are hiding from wolves, or Wild-touched creatures. I am hoping to find help in Ebora, or at least more knowledge of what exactly we face. I have much to tell you, Marin darling, but too much to fit in this letter. I will tell you when I next see your dear, handsome face.

  An interesting note about this letter. We have stopped in a town called Nrg, a northern settlement clinging to the Min hills (hills my arse, these things are more or less mountains, my sore feet can attest to that) and they have the most remarkable birds here, huge things that I think must be mildly Wild-touched. They use these birds to send messages, which is, hopefully, how your letter will reach you. However, the woman I spoke to who tends these birds told me that just recently the birds have not been returning. Killed by Behemoth creatures, I asked her? She thought not – it’s possible, she thinks, that the birds have been using the corpse moon to navigate by, and now that it is gone, they are getting lost. Isn’t that remarkable, Marin? There are always new wonders, it seems.

  Extract from the private letters of Master Marin de Grazon

  When the attack came, Esther was ankle deep in muddy sand with her little brother. The day was a blowy one, punctuated with squalls of rain all the colder for coming in off the sea, and they both had their hoods strapped down tightly. Corin’s was bright blue and sewn with little fish shapes: a present from their grandfather. He had got it for his nameday only the week before, and was still insisting on wearing it at all times, even at dinner. Inside the great shell they were protected from the worst of the weather, but it was still cold and damp.

  ‘It smells,’ pointed out Corin.

  ‘Mmm, lovely fishy smell. Smells just like your socks.’ They moved deeper inside, Esther leading the way as Corin stifled his giggles. The smooth, pinkish walls were stained with salt and even a few barnacles, but Esther could see what they were after, just ahead. White mounds with black spots, each about the size of her foot, clung to the shell wall. She took out her knife in readiness.

  ‘Here we go, Corin. Do you want to do the first one?’

  Up close, the sacs of razor crab eggs were more translucent than white, with bulbous grey shadows inside, covered all over in a thick, shivering jelly. Corin frowned deeply; they did not look much like the tasty morsels of brown flesh their father served up for dinner in the evening, and she could see him wondering already if this was worth all the effort.

  ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ Esther untucked the oilskin sack from her belt and positioned it under the nearest cluster, then took her knife from its sheath. This, she knew, was Corin’s real fascination, so she let the murky light play along the blade for a moment. ‘You take the knife, and then, holding the cluster at the bottom, you see, you just slide it up under, next to the skin of the shell. You have to get it all in one go, otherwise it all falls apart into blobby bits.’

  In a practised movement, she slipped the blade underneath and the egg sac fell – with a slightly unpleasant splish, she had to admit – neatly into the awaiting bag.

  ‘Oh.’ Corin’s expression was hidden within his hood. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  It was a hum at first, and then a high-pitched whine that seemed to thrum through the walls of the great shell. Without really knowing why, Esther leaned her hand against the shell wall and felt it vibrating, so deep it made the ends of her fingers go numb.

  ‘The noise! What is it?’ There was an edge of panic in Corin’s voice, so Esther sheathed her knife and, leaving the bag where it was, took hold of his hand.

  ‘Probably just a big ship coming in,’ she said, although she knew already that couldn’t be right. No ship could make such a racket. ‘Let’s go and have a look, shall we?’

  They walked quickly to the lip of the shell, following its gently spiralling walls with the sand sucking at their boots. Esther’s first thought was that an unexpected storm had rolled in; true, the sea was the same steely band it had been earlier, no tossing waves out there, but Coldreef was in shadow. The wooden palisade that circled the settlement was a series of dark jagged sticks, and the cramped houses, with their mismatched walls of driftwood and razor shell, looked too small, dwindled somehow. And then she looked up.

  ‘In Tomas’s name.’ Esther snatched Corin up from the sand and held him to her like she hadn’t done since he was four. ‘Corin, we must get inside.’

  There was a monster hanging in the sky. To Esther, who had lived in Coldreef all her life, it looked a little like the fat sea beetles she sometimes found dead down by the shore, except it was huge, as big as a thousand Wild-touched razor crabs. It had a bulbous, segmented body, an oily greenish black in colour, with cracks and lines running all across the thing. Here and there were puckering holes that seemed to be expelling a thick black ooze, and odd skittering creatures. Even as she watched, these were falling down towards Coldreef like seeds falling from a tree, many-jointed legs spread wide.

  ‘What is it, Essie? What is it?’

  She had been running awkwardly towards the palisade gate, her only thought to get back to their father, but now the monster was descending – if it kept going, it would simply crush Coldreef under it. She stopped, and heaved Corin into a more comfortable position. It never occurred to her to put him down.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t – Corin, maybe we should hide for a bit. Back in the shells, and just wait, wait until it’s gone.’

  ‘But Papa!’

  Esther winced. Corin hadn’t called their father that since he was very small. There was a sudden rumble from the monster and it shifted abruptly to one side. The
movement did not look controlled, and even to her eye, it looked as though it were struggling to stay upright somehow. Parts of its segmented hide were missing, she realised, and others looked like they were sitting at the wrong angle. There was another noise now too, a high-pitched shrieking –

  ‘Essie! Look!’

  The people of Coldreef had realised what was hanging above them. Some were already trying to leave, running out the gates in a blind panic, while others were standing, looking up at the monster as though trying to figure out what it was. Esther saw some arming themselves, and then others falling down as if in a fit. First one, then two, then five or six; something was attacking them, something Esther couldn’t see. She hadn’t thought it possible for her to feel any more afraid, but a cold surge of terror was filling her throat.

  ‘Back to the shells, come on! Papa will be fine. He’ll meet us there. Come on!’

  Suddenly, everything was lit with an eerie purple light, like a lightning bolt had hit the settlement. Crying out wordlessly, Esther looked up to see a new shape in the sky – just as impossible as the monster, and in many ways, just as frightening. A dragon flew low overhead, mists of violet flame clinging around its jaws, before it roared forth another fireball. The dragon glittered in the subdued light, making Esther think of the shards of mother-of-pearl she would sometimes find on the shoreline, and there was a young woman riding on its back. Of her Esther could make out very little, save for a flash of black hair and an odd dark smudge on her forehead. In her arms, Corin began to kick violently.

  ‘Monsters! Monsters!’

  ‘Shhhh.’ She squeezed him tight. There were more flying shapes coming now, a menagerie of creatures straight out of her childhood stories. For no reason she could think of, her eyes filled up with tears. ‘I think these monsters are here to help us.’