Sylas stared hopelessly, shaking his head. He turned back to the crack beneath the door and saw that the shadow had gone.
“There must be a way…” he said.
“There is,” said Espen, taking him by the shoulders and looking earnestly into his eyes. “Find Naeo.
That’s
our only hope.”
Sylas held his gaze for a moment and then, reluctantly, he nodded.
“Come,” said the Magruman, guiding Sylas in front of him.
They continued down the corridor, soon leaving the door and its occupants far behind them. They walked in silence, their eyes lowered, trying not to focus on the doorways that they passed, or the occasional movements beneath them. Sometimes Sylas thought he heard a cough or a shuffle or a whisper, but otherwise the silence was oppressive – somehow far more horrifying than groans or cries for help. It was the sound of defeat, of lost hope.
They walked for what seemed an age, passing an endless parade of grim, grey-faced doors. Every once in a while a dark passageway or staircase led off to one side, some climbing towards distant lamplight, others descending into the deeper, darker bowels of the building, hinting of more misery and despair beyond. A continual flow of stale air emerged from these depths and flowed along the corridor, carrying upon it the smell of sweat and sewage and decay.
Suddenly Sylas stopped. He winced and clasped his wrist and the Merisi Band.
“It’s hurting,” he whispered.
“So it works…” said Espen, seeming pleased. He pointed ahead of them to an opening off the passageway that was broader and darker than the doors. “That’s the staircase. Her cell is directly above us, one flight up.”
Moments later they turned into the opening, Sylas first. He looked up to see a towering flight of steps, lit by a single distant torch at its very top. He could just make out two large wooden doors next to it, glistening with brass fittings. Rubbing his wrist in an attempt to ease the pain, he began to climb.
He knew that the end of his journey was drawing near and he began to feel stirrings of excitement and apprehension, but with every step, he also felt a gathering fear at the prospect of meeting Naeo: at the thought that there, beyond those doors, was his Glimmer. Was it really possible that there, just a few paces ahead, he would find... what...? His other self?
His heart quickened and he felt sweat running from his brow. He tried to concentrate, to focus on what had brought him here: everything that Mr Zhi and Fathray had revealed to him. He thought about the passages he had read in the Samarok, about the meaning of his name, about all that Espen had now explained. But for some reason he still felt uneasy, as though he had not yet heard the whole truth. As they mounted the last few steps, his nerves were on edge – still, something seemed wrong.
They were now nearing the doors and, as he looked up, Sylas saw that they were ornately carved with shapes and patterns, most of which were inset with bronze. They seemed oddly out of place after the squalor of the dungeons.
“Espen?” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“You never explained why you’re here.” Sylas slowed and turned. “Why
are
you here? At the Dirgheon?”
Espen muttered something under his breath, stepped past him and turned one of the large bronze handles. There was a loud clunk as the bolt slid across and then it swung open.
What lay beyond was not a dark, dingy corridor or a procession of grey cell doors; it was a vast hall, lit brightly by hundreds of oil lamps mounted high on the walls, held in glistening gold brackets. The doors they had entered were at one end of the chamber, so they could see its full splendour: its towering, vaulted ceiling; its polished marble floor; and covering the expanse of grey stone walls, long lines of bookshelves crammed with tens of thousands of books. Above them enormous dramatic oil paintings spanned huge sections of the hall, each the height of several men. Every one depicted a sprawling scene: vast armies battling on verdant plains, deserts and mountainsides; fleets of galleons on calamitous seas beneath whirlwinds and lightning and evil skies; pyramids like those of the ancients – just like those of the empires of Egypt – amid oceans of dust and fire.
But one of them drew Sylas’s eye: the one nearest to them, at the very end of the hall. It was a vivid, heroic picture of a single figure on a headland, a bay spread out below him and on the sands, thousands of tiny figures beset on all sides by mounting waves, downpours of rock and streams of fire. Despite all these horrors, none of them were in flight, for these wretched people were sinking, consumed by the sand, some bound by their ankles, others already gripped to their waists or their chests.
Sylas covered his mouth and drew his eyes away. “The Reckoning…” he murmured.
Suddenly a searing pain sliced through his wrist making him cry out.
The double doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Three dark, cloaked figures stepped out of the shadows, dragging with them flailing, struggling prisoners.
Sylas recognised two of the captives straight away.
Simia and Ash.
He felt an overwhelming, crushing panic. His throat closed. The air was squeezed from his lungs.
Slowly he turned to Espen. His lips parted but he could not speak.
Espen looked down at him. There was no surprise on his face. No dismay. He glanced at the other end of the hall, but made no attempt to run.
Sylas began to back away towards the door. “No!” he cried.
Suddenly Espen knelt, reached out and grasped him tightly by the shoulders.
“It was the only way to keep Naeo alive!”
Sylas’s eyes began to fill with tears: tears of rage and despair.
“You led me to them!” he muttered between clenched teeth. “You
knew
about Simia and Ash!”
The Magruman shook him. “No one else matters now,” he said in a voice charged with emotion. “No one but you and Naeo.”
With that, he took Sylas roughly by the collar and began dragging him down the hall.
“Now, rise: fear not
where none have gone
,
For then, at last, we may be one.”
I
T FELT LIKE THE
world was ending. Simia had been right all along. He tried to fight back, but it was hopeless: Espen was far too strong. Sylas looked back at his friends and saw that they too were trying to pull away from their captors, but their attempts were just as futile. As he watched, a long line of Ghor entered from behind them and now stood guarding their only exit.
“No others?”
The surprisingly soft, feminine voice came from beneath the hood of one of the three black figures, the one holding Simia.
“None,” replied Espen, his voice suddenly gruff and harsh.
“Was there trouble?”
“He suspected nothing,” said Espen.
“Traitor!” shrieked Simia, pulling even harder to free herself. Her face was pale with fury. “I knew you were a traitor!”
“Quiet, child,” purred the hooded Magruman. “You didn’t seriously expect to succeed, did you? One puny boy and those flimsy contraptions?” She cackled, sneering at Ash. “Pitiful! You’re all pitiful.”
She reached up and pulled back her hood, revealing her beautiful feline face, proud arching eyebrows and smooth, dark complexion. It was Scarpia.
The other Magrumen immediately did the same: one a narrowfaced woman, with unnervingly pale skin and hair, and eyebrows that were so blonde that she could have been albino; the other a man, older than the others, with curls of greying hair and taut, angular features.
But Sylas took little interest in the Magrumen, for his eyes were now fixed on the third of the captives. The closer they drew to one another, the more the pain raged in his wrist, the more certain he became.
It was Naeo.
She did not speak or make a sound, but there was something about the way she moved, the shape of her face, the way she fought with her tormentor as he fought with his. But it was more than that: something deeper and more primal. It was a sense he had that this was not a person at all – not in the way he knew people to be. As he drew closer and saw that she too was looking at him, he knew that she was thinking the same thoughts.
As he squinted to take in her features, she squinted to take in his.
As he drew in a gasp of air, so did she.
And there was something more powerful than all of this: when their eyes met, he felt his fear leaving him. In place of the confusion and doubt he had felt for days – perhaps longer – he felt a new certainty, and with it, a strange stirring of joy. Joy like he had felt in the forest, standing in the path of the Passing Bell.
Suddenly Espen stopped just a few paces short of Scarpia. She extended a long, elegant arm from beneath her cloak, her fingers reaching for Sylas’s collar. He was just out of reach.
There was a silence: a long, unexpected silence.
Scarpia shifted nervously and tilted her head questioningly to one side.
Sylas raised his eyes to Espen’s face. The Magruman looked down and for a moment he smiled an open, unguarded smile.
“Go to Naeo!” he cried. “Now!”
In one motion he released Sylas’s collar and threw his arms in the air. Instantly a roar rose from somewhere deep in the Dirgheon, somewhere in the tunnels and passageways far below. As he threw his hands forward, his features contorted with the effort. Scarpia raised a hand as though to defend herself, but it was too late. A grating, vicious scream erupted from the staircase behind him and, with a thunderous bang, the doors flew wide, splintering against the walls.
The entire hall shook as a great wind surged along its length, ripping books from the shelves and hurling them high into the air, striking the Magrumen and the Ghor with devastating force. In seconds it filled the room with the foul stink of the bowels of the Dirgheon, the filth and squalor of a thousand forgotten souls, the rot of years of neglect. It was as though the imprisoned masses had suddenly broken their silence and exhaled a cry of rage.
The prisoners were ripped free of their captors and sent sprawling towards the far end of the hall. The Ghor were lifted bodily into the air and hurled against the walls to the sound of cracking skulls and breaking bones.
Only the three Magrumen remained standing, their black cloaks flying around them as the pestilent wind struggled in vain to gather them up. Even as it struck, their arms were rising in unison, their faces set, their eyes focused on Espen.
To Sylas, this was all a distant blur, for his eyes were fixed on Naeo.
He could see her, there, just beyond the billowing cloaks of the Magrumen. She was halfway to her feet now, drawing herself away from the twisted limbs of one of the guards, her eyes on Sylas; like him, throwing herself forward, half leaping, half sliding towards him.
In the midst of the wild fury of the wind and the cries and the screams, Sylas felt an astonishing stillness: a stillness born of certainty – certainty that they would meet, that they were meant to meet, that it had always been intended. His eyes passed over her blonde hair, her intense blue eyes, the features he now remembered from his dreams, the features he saw to be so similar to his own.
He was her. She was him.
They were the same.
The pain in his wrist had become unbearable: no longer an ache or a stabbing pang, but a constant, searing fire that consumed his wrist, his hand, his arm. And when he looked down, he saw that the Merisi Band was aflame, its shining surface glowing with a bright light of its own, its shape now indistinct, in motion. But it was not the flickering motion of fire, it was the shimmer and ripple of molten metal.
He sensed that Naeo was now close and despite his pain he looked up and saw her just an arm’s reach away. Instinctively he held out his burning hand, his fingers searching for hers. In the same instant she reached out for him, her face straining, her body stretched to its limit.
Their hands met. Their fingers curled. And they held on.
Despite the desperate scene, despite the significance of the act, it felt natural – almost ordinary – like clasping his own hands or touching his own face. Yet there was something beyond the physical touch, something in his heart and his mind. It was like a great surge of energy, not the kind that moves limbs or courses through veins, but a feeling, a knowledge of completeness. Of strength.
Something strange started to happen to the Merisi Band. From the liquid metal rose a silvery vapour: barely visible trails that twirled and twisted in the air, forming an ethereal mist. It was entirely unmolested by the wind: instead it first rose, then turned in the air and drifted down to Naeo’s wrist. She and Sylas watched entranced as the vapour slid beneath her arm, then around, meeting itself to form a perfect ring – a band of its own. Even as they watched, it became more distinct and solid. The trace of silver became opaque and began to reflect the light; a true silver band began to form. And when Sylas looked to his wrist, the Merisi Band had changed, no longer broad but fine and narrow; no longer silver and gold but gold alone.
A calamitous crash made them lift their eyes. There they saw a scene of desperate battle: thousands of books flying from the shelves on both sides of the hall and slamming together in midair; Espen, standing alone in their midst, directing the winds, somehow managing to stop the great storm of books from striking him; staggering now, beginning to fall; Simia and Ash running towards him hand in hand, bending low, but assailed by the flying books; Simia clasping her shoulder, looking directly at Sylas, screaming something.
He was already in motion, rising and launching himself towards his friends. He did not turn to look for Naeo; he knew that she was at his side. He felt her there. As soon as they were on their feet, they were met by a hail of books that hurtled towards them from the shelves, scything, spinning, slicing through the air.
Sylas threw his hands up to protect himself and closed his eyes.
To his surprise, he felt nothing. None of the books found their mark. He looked about him and saw that they were falling out of the air as if they had met an invisible barrier. He lowered his hand a little and the books flew on. He raised it again, and abruptly they faltered and crashed to the floor.