At the snake’s head and in front of it, the tiny flickering tongue that was Rutt and the baby he named Held in his arms.
She could descend, plummeting like truth, to shake the tiny swaddled form in Rutt’s twig-arms, force open the bright eyes to the glorious panorama of rotted cloth and layers of filtered sunlight, the blazing rippling heat from Rutt’s chest. Final visions to take into death-this was the meaning behind that brightness, after all.
Words held the magic of the breathless. But adults turn away.
They have no room in their heads for a suffering column of dying children, nor the heroes among them.
‘So many fallen,’ she said to Saddic who remembered everything. ‘I could list them. I could make them into a book ten thousand pages long. And people will read it, but only so far as their own private borders, and that’s not far. Only a few steps. Only a few steps.’
Saddic, who remembered everything, he nodded and he said, ‘One long scream of horror, Badalle. Ten thousand pages long. No one will hear it.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘No one will hear it.’
‘But you will write it anyway, won’t you?’
‘I am Badalle, and all I have is words.’
‘May the world choke on them,’ said Saddic, who remembered everything.
Her mind was free. Free to invent conversations. Free to assemble sharp knuckles of quartz into small boys walking beside her endless selves. Free to trap light and fold it in and in and in, until all the colours became one, and that one was so bright it blinded everyone and everything.
The last colour is the word. See it burn bright: that is what there is to see in a dying child’s eyes.
‘Badalle, your indulgence was too extravagant. They won’t listen, they won’t want to know.’
‘Well, now, isn’t that convenient?’
‘Badalle, do you still feel free?’
‘Saddic, I still feel free. Freer than ever before.’
‘Rutt holds Held and he will deliver Held.’
‘Yes, Saddic.’
‘He will deliver Held into an adult’s arms.’
‘Yes, Saddic.’
The last colour is the word. See it burn bright in a dying child’s eyes. See it, just this once, before you turn away.
‘I will, Badalle, when I am grown up. But not until then.’
‘No, Saddic, not until then.’
‘When I’ve done away with these things.’
‘When you’ve done away with these things.’
‘And freedom ends, Badalle.’
‘Yes, Saddic, when freedom ends.’
Kalyth dreamed she was in a place she had not yet reached. Overhead was a low ceiling of grey, turgid clouds, the kind that she had seen above the plains of the Elan, when the first snows came down from the north. The wind howled, cold as ice, but it was dry as a frozen tomb. Across the taiga, stunted trees rose from the permafrost like skeletal hands, and she could see sinkholes, here and there, in which dozens of some kind of four-legged beast had become mired, dying and freezing solid, and the wind tugged and tore at their matted hides, and frost painted white their curved horns and ringed the hollow pits of their eyes.
In the myths of the Elan, this vista belonged to the underworld of death; it was also the distant past, the very beginning place, where the heat of life first pushed back the bitter cold. The world began in darkness, devoid of warmth. It awakened, in time, to an ember that flared, ever so brief, before one day returning to where it had begun. And so, what she was seeing here before her could also belong to the future. Past or in the age to come, it was where life ceased.
But she was not alone.
A score of figures sat on gaunt horses along a ridge a hundred paces distant. Wrapped in black rain-capes, armoured and helmed, they seemed to be watching her, waiting for her. But terror held Kalyth rooted, as if knee-deep in frozen mud.
She wore a thin tunic, torn and half-rotted, and the cold was like the Reaper’s own hand, closing about her from all sides. She could not move within its intransigent grip, even had she wanted to. She would will the strangers away; she would scream at them, unleash sorcery to send them scattering. She would banish them utterly. But no such powers belonged to her. Kalyth felt as useless here as she felt in her own world. A vessel empty, longing to be filled by a hero’s bold fortitude.
The wind ripped at the grim figures, and now at last the snow came, cutting like shards of ice from the heavy clouds.
The riders stirred. The horses lifted their heads, and all at once they were descending the slope, hoofs cracking hard the frozen ground.
