“Are you alright?” Kriz asked, sensing his distress.
“Yeah,” he said, marvelling at his ability to sweat in a trance. “I’m just fine.”
The dome interior was not how he remembered it either. Instead of the glass floor there was a matrix of walkways, some level, some sloping down to the vast space below. In Clay’s time the space below the dome had been filled with drake eggs, but now it was sectioned off into a honeycomb-like series of glass-roofed, hexagonal rooms. He could see shapes beneath the glass, four-legged, long-tailed shapes. Some prowled back and forth whilst others lay unmoving.
Drakes, Clay realised, seeing the unmistakable form of a Green languidly coiling its tail below. It was smaller than its modern cousins, but still substantially larger than those he had encountered in the forest.
“Breeding pens,” he said. “This is where you harvested your product.”
“Yes.” Kriz spared a brief glance for the drakes below. “I assume you must have something similar.”
“Yeah, not so clean though.”
They came to a halt as Krizelle paused up ahead, her gaze drawn to something directly beneath the walkway. Clay moved closer to view the object of her interest. The glass roof of the room below was smeared with something dark, making it hard to discern the exact shape of what lay behind it. However, he could see that it was far larger than the others, its long tail coiled around a slumped, inert body.
“What is that?” Clay asked Kriz.
She continued to stare at the shape beneath the smeared glass. “For now, just another failed experiment.”
“Krizelle!”
They turned to watch Krizelle approaching a place where the various walkways converged to form a wide central platform. Zembi was waiting alongside Veros Harzeh. The intervening years had affected both men differently. Zembi’s hair had become noticeably thinner, as had his frame. Also his features now exhibited the gaunt, hollow-eyed look of a man who slept little. By contrast Veros Harzeh had become an even more substantial human being, his frame several inches wider and a large, grey-flecked beard covering his chin.
“So good to see you again,” Harzeh told Krizelle with a broad smile.
“Speaker,” Krizelle greeted him with a respectful nod. Clay noted that she exchanged no greeting with Zembi.
“Not for much longer,” the stocky man replied.
“Veros Harzeh comes with news,” Zembi told Krizelle. “Unwelcome if not unexpected.”
“Devos Zarhi won the plebiscite,” Krizelle said with a heavy sigh.
“I’m afraid so,” Harzeh said. “I’m sorry. But you know what this means . . .”
“It means our society has surrendered itself to fear, ignorance and superstition,” Zembi cut in. “A surrender I am not prepared to accept.”
“Zarhi will take over as Speaker within the year,” Harzeh said. “When she does . . .”
“The Philos Enclave will fall. Everything we have worked for will be destroyed. Decades of progress lost.” Zembi’s gaunt features spasmed in barely controlled fury before he mastered himself. “Fortunately, the Philos Caste has long anticipated this moment and we have not been idle.” He took an apple-sized crystal from his pocket and held it out to Krizelle. “Show him.”
Krizelle took out a vial and drank before reaching out with Black to pluck the crystal from Zembi’s hand. The ticking sound rose again as she began to transform it, first flattening it into a wide disc. A few seconds later the facets began to form themselves into a miniature landscape; rivers, valleys, mountains appearing in concentric circles. It reminded Clay of a shooting target, a flat outer ring, followed by an indentation that bespoke a body of water which in turn gave way to a mountainous region in the centre.
“What is this?” Harzeh asked, peering at the crystal model as Kriz finished crafting the last mountain.
“A new enclave,” Zembi said. “A whole world in microcosm. Self-contained and far removed from the petty superstitions that would impede us.”
“You want to build this?”
Clay saw Zembi exchange a glance with Krizelle. “We already have,” he said.
Harzeh voiced a loud, incredulous laugh then sobered when he saw the sincerity on Zembi’s face. “How?” he demanded. “Where?”
“You recall the southern polar expedition five years ago?” Zembi asked. “Its purpose went far beyond mere exploration.”
Harzeh laughed again, a soft gasp of bitter realisation. “So you lied to me, and to the Assembly.”
“Yes,” Zembi said, a fierce note of conviction colouring his voice. “And I’d tell a thousand more lies to achieve our goals. We are so close, old friend. You know how vital this is.” He moved closer to Harzeh, voice lowered to an intent murmur. “I intended to complete the transfer over the course of the next two years, but with the Assembly in the hands of that delusional woman time is no longer a luxury we enjoy. We need your assistance. The sun crystals still need to be transported, as do the children. Just three aerostats. That’s all I ask.”
Harzeh ran a meaty hand over his greying beard, frowning at the model. “Why so elaborate?” he asked.
“Drakes don’t flourish in captivity,” Krizelle said. “We lose more than half of every generation hatched here, and those that survive infancy tend to live only a few years. Father believes we have corrupted the blood lines. A fresh start is needed if we are to breed stock with sufficiently potent blood. A sealed environment simulating their natural habitat will achieve that.”
“Think of it, Harzeh,” Zembi said as the Speaker continued to ponder the model. “Within a few generations we will finally achieve convergence. Is that not a prize to risk everything for?”
Harzeh closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “We live in an age so wondrous it would have made our ancestors weep to see it,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if the Zarhis of the world don’t have the right of it. Should we not be content with the Benefactors’ gifts?”
“You may call it contentment,” Zembi said with hard certainty, “I call it blind indolence. You remember why we started this, old friend. Humanity once came within a whisker of extinction because we were too mired in ignorance to develop the means to deal with so great a calamity. Convergence will ensure that never happens again.”
Harzeh opened his eyes, gave the crystal model a final glance before nodding to Krizelle. “Thank you, child,” he said, turning and starting along the walkway towards the exit. “The aerostats will be here within the week,” he added without turning. “It will be my last act as Speaker before Zarhi calls for my exile. Be sure to use the time well.”
The memory broke up as the stocky man walked away, the dome swirling into mist then re-forming into a familiar landscape. It was the cliff-face from their trek through the mountains, but now partially covered with some kind of wooden scaffolding. A glance at the sky revealed the three crystal suns shining bright above it all.
Clay watched Krizelle navigate the scaffolding with the practised ease of an oft-performed task, descending a series of ladders before entering the wide opening in the cliff. She descended a long narrow passage then followed a winding course deep into the rock. The passage was lit by a soft orange glow that grew brighter the deeper they went. A five-minute journey brought them into a large cavernous chamber where a single walkway led from the passage to a large central platform. Beneath the walkway a series of stepped terraces descended towards a bright, fiery red circle. Clay had to squint at it to make out the sight of roiling lava. On each of the surrounding tiers lay eggs, hundreds, perhaps thousands of eggs all bathing in the glow of the lava pit.
“The crystals need thermal energy to work,” Kriz explained. “The greatest source of continuous natural heat in this world comes from beneath the earth’s crust. It’s why this site was chosen. The entire construct rests atop an active lava-stream.”
“They hatched,
” Clay said, nodding at the eggs. “That’s where that sickly White came from, and all those Greens and Reds.”
“It seems the stream and the fault-line that produced it have become more active in recent years, hence the tremors. The increase in temperature must have caused a mass hatching.”
A soft voice drew their attention to the central platform where Krizelle was greeting an older and thinner Zembi. He stood at the edge of a large circular pit in the floor of the platform. A faint huffing sound came from the pit, along with the scrape of something hard on stone. Whatever lay below seemed to absorb Zembi’s complete attention and he failed to turn when Krizelle entered. Clay noted she came to a halt several yards from the edge of the pit and seemed distinctly disinclined to venture any closer.
Krizelle stood in silence for a time, watching her adoptive father with an expression that veered from frustration to concern and back again. To Clay’s eyes she seemed to be the same age as the Kriz he knew, meaning whatever was about to occur had taken place shortly before she began her centuries-long sleep.
“Hezkhi’s back,” Krizelle said, causing Zembi to stir from his reverie, though he barely glanced at her.
“And?” he said, a slight irritation to his voice.
“You were right. The Philos Enclave is abandoned. He flew on to the city, seeing burning buildings . . . people rioting in the streets. Then he landed in the desert and walked to a settlement. The people there were full of stories about abominate children born with vile powers. They say Speaker Zarhi launched a purge of these abominations, and for her pains one of them assassinated her three years ago. Since then . . .” Krizelle shrugged, repeating softly, “You were right.”
Zembi gave a vague nod and returned his attention to the pit. Clay saw Krizelle bite down some angry words before forcing herself to step closer. “Still no response?” she asked.
“Your sister tried again this morning.” Zembi waved a hand at something lying near by. “Nothing.”
Clay turned to the object, finding it to be a crystal, one of four in fact. They were shaped differently from the other crystals he had seen in Kriz’s memories, with jagged spines that gave them a star-like appearance. They gave off no illumination but he was able to discern that they were all different colours: red, green, blue and one so dark it seemed to swallow the light. His mind immediately flew to the domes and the crystals he had seen there, the blue one that had so entranced the Spoiled Briteshore miners.
“You should destroy it,” Krizelle said, drawing his gaze back to the pit. She had edged closer to Zembi, but still kept several feet between herself and the edge. The expression on her face as she leaned forward to peer at the occupant was one he had seen before, back when she blew up the pack of Blues with her bomb-thrower.
“Premature,” Zembi muttered in response. “She still has much to show us.”
Krizelle let out a sigh and removed her gaze from the pit. “Father, the situation at home . . .”
“This is your home.” The old man finally turned to face her, a vestige of a paternal smile on his lips.
“My own kind are being persecuted. Hunted like animals . . .”
“And what fate do you imagine awaits you if you return? I built this place to be a refuge for you and your siblings, a place to shelter from the storms I knew were coming. The world changed forever with your birth, and change is never easy.”
“You expect us to just live out our days in this . . . pretence of a world? Some of the others have started calling it a prison, and consider you their gaoler.”
Zembi let out a sigh of his own, though it was more of a resigned groan. “Then it’s time,” he said, starting towards the walkway.
“Time for what?” Krizelle called after him.
“To sleep,” he said, voice echoing in the cavern. “You always knew this day would come. We will sleep and, fate permitting, awaken to a better world . . .”
His voice faded away, leaving Krizelle in silent contemplation. She remained still for some time, arms folded tight across her chest, then started as a loud, rasping roar came from the pit.
“Be quiet!” Krizelle shouted, moving to the edge of the pit where she stared down at the occupant in unabashed hatred. After a second her face softened to a resentful mask and she stepped back again. “It’s unfair of me to despise you so,” she said. “We have so much in common, after all. Like you, it appears I should never have been born.”
As she turned to go Clay stepped forward, looking down and finding himself staring into the eyes of a White Drake. It was about a third the size of a full-grown adult, its scales marked by ugly wet patches like the one they had killed on the mountainside. His pulse began to race as he continued to stare into the beast’s eyes, bright with understanding and dark with malevolent promise. Knows it’s in a cage, he thought. And doesn’t like it.
“Father’s greatest achievement,” Kriz said, moving to Clay’s side. “The product of decades of cross-breeding and chemical interference. It was supposed to be the key to convergence, a great and precious gift that would change everything.”
“You made it,” Clay said, his thumping heart slowing as a cold anger built in his chest. “You brought it into the world.”
There was a tightness to her gaze now, her features clenched against something it took him a moment to recognise: shame. “You didn’t know, did you?” he asked. “What it was capable of. You had no idea.”
Kriz stared at him for a moment, frowning in incomprehension until the realisation hit home. “The threat you spoke of,” she whispered. “The thing you woke up. Is this it?” Her voice rose as she stepped towards him, gripping his shoulders, demanding. “Did it get loose . . . ?”
She trailed off as a shudder ran through the trance, the surrounding cavern taking on a misty appearance. “What’s happening?” she said.
“The Blue’s starting to thin,” Clay said. “Whatever you brought us here to do, you need to do it now.”
She cast a frantic gaze down at the now-shimmering form of the White. “But there’s still more to show you, more to explain . . .”
“We ain’t got time. You said we needed to trance to open that thing. How do we do it?”
Kriz grimaced in frustration then tore her gaze from the White. “Very well,” she said, and the memory vanished, leaving them in a pale grey void. Clay looked around, seeing white flecks in the void that bespoke an imminent loss to the trance connection.
“One of Zembi’s better notions,” Kriz said, staring straight ahead and frowning in concentration, “was to bond drake blood with the crystals at a molecular level. When Blue was used it enabled a meeting of minds, even between those who don’t have our gifts.”
Clay watched a misty white form shimmer into being just in front of Kriz. It flickered and expanded for several seconds before settling into a vaguely human shape. “So you can trance with Zembi?” he asked. “Even though he’s not Blood-blessed?”
“The connection is limited, but enough for basic communication.” Kriz continued to focus on the shimmering form. “I just need to—”
She choked off into silence, sagging in his grasp, a dark jet of blood erupting from her mouth. Clay gaped as she collapsed, still choking, his gaze finding the knife buried to the hilt in the back of her neck.
“Were you under the impression,” Silverpin asked as she strode towards them across the grey void, “that I wasn’t the jealous type?”
CHAPTER 47
Hilemore
“Don’t look like near enough,” Scrimshine said, peering at the contents of the barrel sitting open on the mid-deck. A fist-sized bundle of gun cotton sat in the barrel surrounded by a mixture of loose chain and nails.
“A submerged explosion carries far more force than one in the open air,” Hilemore replied. “And I’d rather not handle this material in any larger quantities than we have to.”
Scrimshine gave a wry shake of his head and seemed about to speak again but fell silent as an irksomely familiar vibration thrummed the deck. “Will that bastard ever shut up?” he wondered in a soft but shrill mutter.
They had continued to sail north since encountering the Blue, covering another eight miles throughout the succeeding day and night. All the while the beast prowled the waters beneath the hull, casting out its gathering call. So far, however, none of its brethren had seen fit to answer. The tension evident in the crew ratcheted up with every passing hour and none had slept except in short, shallow naps brought on by sheer exhaustion. The two dozen modified barrels on the mid-deck had been conceived by Hilemore as much to occupy the men’s fear-wracked minds as to provide some meaningful defence against the inevitable Blue assault.
Each barrel was stocked with a dense ball of gun-cotton, packed with whatever scrap metal they could find and the top covered by a circle of waxed canvas. In addition, a string of stoppered, empty grog bottles had been tied around the waist of each barrel. Manufacturing it all had taken several hours of labour that served to distract the men from doom-laden notions, but no amount of work could completely banish their fears.
With the barrels completed, and in need of something more to occupy the crew, Hilemore followed Scrimshine’s suggestion and had them begin throwing all excess weight overboard. Half the cannonballs went first, followed by all the guns save the one Steelfine had managed to get into working operation. After that he ordered every spare stick of furniture over the side and instructed Steelfine to identify any further fittings not essential to sailing the ship. He wasn’t sure if any of this actually increased their speed, but he fancied the wake left by the Dreadfire in the otherwise placid waters had begun to broaden a fraction, which at least was something.