“…and so these men, these Priests of Souls, drank deep of their ill-gotten power, clothed themselves in deceit, and set out into the world.”

SYLAS FELT THE BREATH rush from his lungs. He stared at Espen.

“Did you say my mother?”

“I did,” said Espen.

“You know her?” He pressed his palms into the dry, packed earth.

“Yes, Sylas, I know her,” said Espen softly. “Though the Merisi know her far better than I.” He paused as if unsure whether or not to continue. “Your mother and Mr Zhi have known each other for years.”

Sylas’s lungs burned and his heart pounded in his chest. Fathray had been right: she and the Merisi were connected.

“Why?” he asked, looking up at Espen.

“Your mother is special, Sylas. Almost as special as you.”

Bayleon was no longer smiling. He had lowered the ladle into the stewpot and his eyes were fixed on Espen.

“It was to do with her dreams,” said Espen.

Simia frowned. “Her dreams?”

Sylas was silent.

“They helped to convince her – and Mr Zhi – that the Glimmer Myth is true.”

Sylas dug his nails into the dust. He thought of her illness, her nights sobbing in his bed. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Her dreams...” he whispered. Images of her long nights of suffering rushed through his mind, of her talking to herself, of her pleading and sobbing, of her quiet chatter when no one was there.

And then, almost despite himself, he said: “She spoke... she talked as though someone was in the room... like... like it was a...”

“A conversation,” said Espen.

Sylas’s eyes flicked to the Magruman. Espen looked at him with uncharacteristic tenderness, and nodded.

“I don’t think your mother was ill at all,” he said quietly. “I think she shares your gift. She shares your connection with this world. But hers is with her Glimmer.”

Sylas covered his face with his hands, trying to take it in.

“It seems that for whatever reason,” continued Espen, “your mother was aware of her own twin in this world. The Merisi weren’t sure how, but Mr Zhi, who spent a great deal of time with her over the years, said there was little doubt.”

Sylas raised his head from his hands. “Her twin,” he said under his breath.

There was another long, awkward silence. Simia placed a tentative hand on his knee.

Ash gave a low whistle. “This is for real, isn’t it?” he said to nobody in particular.

“It was Mr Zhi who had her taken to Winterfern?” asked Sylas, rubbing his temple. “To the hospital?”

Espen nodded.

“And he visited her?”

“He did. Often. And even before that, at your home.”

Tears suddenly welled in Sylas’s eyes and he looked away to the fire. Bayleon stirred, straightening his back.

“Leave the boy alone,” he said firmly. “He’s heard enough for now.”

“No!” snapped Sylas. “I want to know why they made me believe she was dead. How could they do that? How could she do that?”

Espen’s eyes searched the boy’s face for a moment. “I know very little, Sylas, but of this I am certain: the Merisi believed that her gift came with great dangers, both to herself and to those she loved. They did it because they truly believed they had no other option.”

“But how could they let me suffer like that?”

“They did all they could to ease your—”

Sylas felt a swelling rage in his chest. He scrambled to his feet and glared down at Espen.

“Did all they could?” he cried, tears burning his eyes. “What did they ever do for me, except send me to this godforsaken place?”

Espen was silent for a moment. “They had you brought to Gabblety Row, Sylas. They gave your uncle rooms and made sure he had a business. They had Veeglum watch over you.”

Sylas took a step backwards and stumbled slightly on the pile of earth. He turned from Espen to the faces around the fire. He tried to find words, but finally he whirled about, clambered unsteadily over the heap of soil and walked off into the night.

Espen stood and took a step to follow, but stopped himself. “Don’t go far!”

Simia leapt to her feet and pulled her coat about her shoulders. She jumped over the earthen barrier and darted off into the blackness.

“He can’t go alone. I’ll stay with him!” she shouted over her shoulder.

 

Sylas walked blindly, taking deep breaths of the chill night air. He had no idea where he was going or why. All he knew was that he needed to get away, to think. He stumbled until the dim glow of the fire had faded into nothingness and all that was left was silence and blackness.

He stopped and turned slowly about, blinking at the emptiness, soaking up the smooth closeness of night on the Barrens. He lifted his hand before his face and saw nothing; he looked to the sky and saw the same oily void as everywhere else. In some part of him he knew that this should terrify him, that such darkness was his worst fear, but now, just as everything seemed meaningless, chaotic, undone, he surrendered to it. He sat down in the black dust, drew his knees up to his chest and rocked gently backwards and forwards.

He thought of the last time he had seen his mother, her pretty face looking down at him in their kitchen, smiling at him, drinking in the sight of him. He remembered only a few fragments of conversations about school, his painting, the kites. Why hadn’t she said anything? How could she have kept all this a secret? He replayed her gestures, her expressions, her slow words, but he saw no trace of mystery, no hint of a world of magic and shadows and Glimmers. She had kept all that to herself. Alone.

He felt tears burning in the corners of his eyes and brushed them away. “Why…?” he whispered to himself.

“Because you didn’t need to know.”

It was Simia’s voice, just a few paces away. He looked about, but saw only blackness.

“How did you find me?”

“I told you – I know this place,” she said, sitting down somewhere to his right.

They were quiet for some time, listening to the silence, staring into nothingness, and Sylas was surprised to find that he did not mind her being there. He wanted to be quiet and she seemed to know that without asking. It was comforting somehow – just knowing that she was there, somewhere out there in the night.

Finally he broke the silence.

“Why did you say that? ‘Because I didn’t need to know.’”

He heard Simia shift on the hard earth. “It’s something my dad used to say,” she said. “I used to ask him stuff all the time, you know, why’s this happening, what’s that for, who did such and such and how’d they do it. And most of the time he’d tell me, even if he made a joke out of it or missed out the interesting bits. But sometimes, just sometimes, when I was asking about the worst stuff, the things even adults didn’t like to talk about – Thoth or the Dirgheon or the Undoing – he’d go quiet. He’d think about it, and then he’d say: ‘Simsi, you don’t need to know.’”

“Wasn’t that just annoying? Especially for you.”

“Yep,” said Simia, a smile in her voice, “and I used to kick up a real stink, but I always stopped after a while. It was something about the way he said it – a kind of knowing and softness at the same time – I knew that he was doing what was best for me.” She drew a sharp breath. “Of course, now, after everything, I understand exactly what he was doing.”

“What?”

“He was letting me be a kid. For as long as he possibly could.”

They fell silent again. Sylas stared into the night, the image of his mother in his mind, her voice sounding in his ears, and he knew that Simia was probably right. Perhaps she had protected him, kept him safe, kept him away from whatever all this was about – the Glimmer Myth, the Undoing, who she was, who he was. Perhaps she’d done it to let him be himself – to be young while he could.

He felt tears start to roll down his cheeks. He did not wipe them from his face. He just sat quietly and wept. And Simia let him.

The darkness closed in about them and both were lost in their thoughts. Sylas thought back over the years, of his relationship with his mother, the good times, the happy times, and then the despair, the grief and the loneliness, when all he had of her was her faded picture, and the few gifts she had given him. His mind turned to the book of science, with its inscription:

“Learn all that you are, my dear Sylas, learn all that you are able to be.”

He knew then that she had not wanted to keep anything from him, she had just wanted him to find out at the right time. Find out for himself.

They sat in silence for a while longer and then he said: “We have to work all this out.”

Simia was quiet for a moment. “What?”

“Who I am, who brought me here, this Glimmer Myth, the Undoing – all that stuff. It’s all connected.”

“Well, that’s why we’re going to see Paiscion, isn’t it?”

“I know, but before I was just doing it because everyone seemed to think I should – because everything was leading me there. But now… now I really want to go. I want to go there and wherever I have to go next. I mean, if everything Espen said is right, if the Glimmer Myth is true and my mum and I have some part in it, this could be the most important thing I ever do.”

Simia thought for a moment. “I suppose it could be the most important thing any of us ever do.”

 

 

It could hardly be called a dawn. There were no rays of light, no traces of sunshine, no promises of warmth, just endless expanses of white mist glowing ever more sombrely as the day struggled into being. Neither was there any sound, for the Slithen rarely broke the surface of the river and, when they did, their oily flanks caused barely a ripple.

The prisoners huddled at the rear of the ancient, slimy boat, pressing in against the cold, straining their senses for any sign of the world around them, any sign of life. For the most part they had to settle for the occasional looming darkness of a riverbank or withered tree, and perhaps the hunched silhouette of a heron searching for fish in the putrid waters. When there was nothing else, they would look ahead to the tangle of chains that stretched in front of the crude vessel and disappeared into the depths, where the Slithen strained at their harnesses.

So the boat sped on, like a ghost ship, carried forward without sails or breath of wind, cloaked in a deathly silence.

If there was solace to be found on that awful vessel, it was in the form of Bowe. He met frightened glances with a compassionate smile or a nod of the head, in a manner that left his companions in no doubt that their worst fears had been understood and shared. He placed a firm hand on trembling limbs and more than once gathered the frail into his giant frame to give them warmth. Fathray too sat close at hand, gaining some strength from his friend as he cast his eyes out into the nothingness and stroked his long moustache in quiet reflection, humming his strange, tuneless melody. Thus, as shadows became the dismal glow of day, Bowe somehow gave the hapless prisoners a brief, uneasy calm.

It was shattered in an instant.

“No...” moaned one of the women suddenly, “no... no... no...”

Her eyes were wide with terror and fixed somewhere high above the thinning mists. Others followed her gaze and saw what she had seen: a vast pyramid of shadow towering into the miserable sky, looming over the river ahead.

The Dirgheon.

They took up the woman’s lament and Bowe exchanged a knowing look with Fathray. Now, as he looked at his companions, he saw something that filled him with a new fear, for his Scryer’s eyes saw nothing but the coiling, smothering blackness of despair. It gathered about his brethren like the dark wings of a predator, taking from them any last vestiges of hope. He saw tears in the eyes of grown men, and felt the woman at his side become listless beneath his arm.

Great torrents of horror emanated from the prison ahead, from the thousands of broken hearts, lost hopes, vanquished dreams. He searched his mind for light, for stillness, for relief, but all he saw was the thick, oily blacks of despair; the harsh, thin blues of grief and loss; the sharp, cutting reds of hate and anger; all these endlessly swelling and receding within an ocean of feeling.

And then, suddenly, something changed.

The dark rolled back to the edges of his mind. In its place something slow and still emerged. Something light. Warm. Hopeful. It rose like a dawn from the dark horizon, banishing the grim hues of the Dirgheon and, in their stead, offering hope, solace... love.

Bowe opened his eyes and saw a vision of beauty and joy.

He extended his fingers, as though this apparition could be touched, and his large green eyes glazed with tears.

She was there. He could feel her.

His beautiful daughter.

“Naeo.” He spoke the name tenderly, under his breath. He looked up at the dark pyramid and, for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to think of his little girl. He thought of her in a boat similar to this, perhaps seeing this very same sight. He pictured her arriving there. Being taken inside.

He turned to his companions. “We go to those we love,” he said.