CHAPTER 47

“Rhia! Rhia wake up!”

“What? Are they here already?” In the week or so since the Church had begun their vile work she had become increasingly lethargic, exhausted by losing her battle. She had taken to sleeping late. It was bright daylight already.

“No, not the churchmen.” In the light pressing in through the shutters Markave’s face was a mask of horror.

“Kerne! Oh no.” She struggled to sit up. Kerne had reached the stage of the fever when his pain was constant and his skin bruised at a touch. Death was not far off, and she wanted to be with Markave when his son died.

“Not Kerne.”

She looked more closely. Markave looked stricken. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Markave took two halting steps to the window, then tugged one shutter open, jumping back at once as though scalded.

Light flooded the room. Not just normal daylight but a burning blue-white radiance that made Rhia throw her hand up to shield her eyes.

She knew that light.

No. It can’t be.

She turned to Markave. “When did… how…”

“Everything was like this when I woke up. What’s happening? What is this?”

“This,” she pointed at the window, squinting against the glare, “or rather that, is the Sun. What the Sun really looks like.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In the skyland. The Sun looks like that in the skyland.”

“How can this be?”

“An excellent question.” A breathless animation gripped her. How can this be indeed. “I need to go to the palace.”

“Is it… safe?”

“No. But given the fact we can endure this light at all I’d surmise we have a cloudy sky.”

“More than cloudy. There’s a storm brewing.”

“Ah yes, that would make sense. I’ll need my thickest cloak. You and Brynan must wait here.”

“I have no intention of going out in that.”

Rhia did not want to. But she had to know how bad it was.

Markave was right about the storm. Clouds swirled and billowed overhead, while menacing rumbles of thunder sounded in the distance. As she turned the first corner, a fierce gust of wind yanked at her cloak, blowing the hood down. She pulled it back up, holding it in place with one hand. She should probably have worn gloves to protect her hands too.

The streets were empty – it was still early – but there were distant shouts from farther down the hill.

At the palace a pair of demoralised guards half made to stop her, until her glare silenced them. She took back corridors unused since childhood, when she had become Francin’s regular playmate after he lost his sister and they had run riot in places they were not meant to go. The servants she passed were either making a point of going about their business as normal or muttering fearfully in corners. Rhia ignored the air of restrained panic, heading ever upwards.

She emerged on the noon tower – so named because of an old, complicated and probably untrue story about a distant ancestor of the duke who had ended up throwing himself off it at midday. It was the highest point of the palace.

Up here the wind was a gale. Rhia stayed back from the parapet, and crouched down against the constant buffeting. Overhead, the already-bright clouds flashed searing white, and a moment later a thunderous crash reverberated across the city. She flinched, then made herself untense. With one hand on the tower’s flat roof for support, she looked out over what Francin called “the best view in the land”.

Normally the skyland was a silver-white band along the far horizon. Now, the whole land was lit silver-white, in every direction.

It was as bad as she feared. The celestial shade that made Shen what it was hadn’t just moved. It was gone.

A splat of warm rain hit her cheek. She recoiled, then scuttled back down the stairs.

A staircase and two corridors later, the courtier heading towards her stopped and said, “The duke would–”

“Where is he?”

“I’ll take you to him.” The man, some scion of a minor House, took her to one of the duke’s meeting rooms. Francin was huddled round a table with half a dozen minsters. He looked up when she burst in, and said, “Gentlemen, please wait here. I need a quick word with my cousin.”

The men muttered, horrified gazes going to her scarred and mask-less face, but Rhia ignored them. Francin opened a side door to a smaller chamber, containing just two chairs and a desk. He did not sit. He looked as agitated as she had ever seen him, and before she could speak said, “Something far above us has gone awry, hasn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe so. Can you be sure?”

“Yes. I am as sure as I can be.” With a jolt she realised that her theory, which the Church had dismissed as delusion and which she had begun to doubt herself, may just have been unexpectedly, terrifyingly vindicated. She had an inappropriate urge to laugh.

“And whatever has gone wrong has left us exposed to the unshielded Sun.”

“Yes. Thankfully there are clouds, at the moment.”

“Is it just us?”

“Us? Oh you mean just Shen.” The thought that this might be a worldwide phenomenon stopped the breath in her throat. She made herself inhale, and think. “I can’t be sure.” The shadeswarm consisted of structures whose motions and interactions were beyond her ability to model, but it must be sophisticated, dynamic and, until now, reliable. If one part of the system failed, others would compensate. “But I don’t think every shadowland will be affected, at least not immediately.”

“And will it… remedy itself?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.”

“So this is permanent.” His gaze went briefly heavenward, then settled back on her. “You need to go home and pack now.”

“Pack?”

“Yes. One bag, as much as you can carry. No more.”

“Pack for what?”

“You’re leaving, with me. With us.”

“Leaving? To go where?” There was no shelter, no safe haven. No Shen.

“Just be ready to leave at dusk.”

“I don’t underst–”

“For once, don’t try and understand. Just do it. It’s your only chance of survival. And wear riding clothes.”

“Riding clothes? You can’t outrun this!” But he was already hustling her out. He shoved her, gently but firmly, to one side and returned to his huddle of ministers.

Bereft of other choices, Rhia left.

Outside, the storm was whipping itself into a frenzy. Flurries of hot rain smacked her, and the wind harried her all the way home. There were more people around now, most dashing between shelter. The odd shout and, once, a woman’s scream, were audible above the howl of the wind.

Back at the townhouse all the shutters were closed. Well done, Markave. Markave. Francin had said he could save her but what about Markave? And Brynan? Assuming Francin had not just gone mad. No, she had to assume he had some plan, however unexpected. The alternative was unthinkable. She had lost so much – her work, her confidence, her hope in the future – yet she had survived, at least. But this could kill them all. She went to find her staff. Brynan was sitting at the kitchen table, looking morose. Markave was cleaning dishes; hardly steward’s work, but without Nerilyn… should I fetch her back? No: there was enough to worry about already.

Brynan jumped up, and Markave turned and put down the bowl he’d been washing.

“We are in trouble.” They knew that. She tried again. “The duke has a plan. He wants to… go somewhere, and he wants me to go with him. I’m not sure where but we need to trust him. Now, he didn’t say as much but I am sure you can come with me. He has asked me to pack a bag so I suggest you both do the same.”

“What about his lordship?” asked Markave.

She’d been too stunned to give any thought to Etyan! “He won’t be harmed by the Sun but… I need to get a message to him.”

“Brynan or I could go to the villa, tonight,” said Markave. “With a carriage we could reach it before dawn.”

“No, we’re leaving tonight. I… Etyan has survived worse than this. I’ll leave a note here for him.” Not ideal, but what other choice was there? “Be ready to leave at dusk.” She turned without waiting for an answer. Her own packing conundrums were already consuming her.

She fetched her satchel and travelling bag and took them up to the study. For a while she stared at its denuded state: half the books and papers either gone or stacked in random piles; nothing left of the celestial model save a sad pile of hoops, rods and cogs in one corner.

Thankfully, the most valuable writings were untouched. The churchmen had noticed her locked ironwood chest, and asked what was in it. She said, truthfully enough, that it contained more papers, which she was sure they would deal with in due course but which they could kindly let be for the moment. So, she still had the enquirers’ papers. The question was, how many could she carry?

She unlocked the chest and lifted the papers out in careful bundles. She must take all of Father’s writings: no one else had some of his more unformed musings, and his work was all she had left of him.

While the storm rattled the shutters she sorted her papers, trying to whittle them down to a selection that would fit into her pack. Brynan brought some food around noon; he said Markave had gone to visit his sister and other son, so he would watch Kerne now.

Kerne! She’d forgotten all about him. But she had no room for that concern now. “Did Markave cover his bare skin?”

“He took a cloak.”

Cloak. Clothes. She should probably take clothes. What about food? No, clothes and food could be replaced, or found. These papers could not. She went down to her room to put on her oldest mask, and men’s clothes; they’d be best for travelling. Wherever they were going. As a concession she balled up her somewhat grubby kirtle and rammed it into the bottom of the pack. Yithi came into her room as she finished dressing. The cats! Was there any way of taking them? Of course not. But perhaps they’d be all right, somehow. She decided to believe that. Today was all about deciding to believe, and the truth be damned. The truth was unbearable. Thinking about anything beyond immediate choices would paralyse her. She stroked the cat’s head for a while, then murmured sorry to the poor beast and fled back to her study.

The rain outside turned to hail, barrages of ice drumming on the tiles and pummelling the shutters. Thunder rolled around overhead. And the light, the terrible light, still shone bright, waiting to kill them.

The storm began to abate as the day began to fade. She looked at her efforts. So much would have to be left behind.

Someone called her from below. She hoisted the bulging pack onto her back and cast a last look around her sanctum, then made herself walk out and close the door. Looking over the banister she saw three figures below, lit by soft lamplight. She hurried downstairs as fast as her burden would allow.

“This gentleman has come from the palace,” said Markave, indicating their visitor, who wore militia uniform.

The militiaman bowed. He looked rather young. “I’m Captain Deviock. The duke has charged me with your safety, m’lady.”

“Has he now?” She looked to her servants. Brynan had a bag at his feet. Markave did not.

Captain Deviock said, “With apologies, it is only your ladyship who I am to accompany.”

“What? No, you must take my people as well.”

“My orders are to bring your ladyship and one bag. That is all.”

“Your orders! Well you can take your orders and–”

“Rhia.”

She looked over at her steward; her husband. His gentle eyes were sad. “It’s all right.”

“Markave, he has to let you come at least!” She turned back to the militiaman. “Markave is not merely my servant. I have married him.”

Captain Deviock’s brows went up at that, but he said nothing, save to shake his head slowly.

“Rhia, I have to stay.”

“What?” She looked back at Markave. “I can’t leave Kerne.”

“But he’s going to die anyway!”

Markave recoiled as though struck.

“God, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But… if you stay you’ll both die.”

“Then I’ll die with my family.” He turned away.

“Wait!”

He paused but did not turn. His tone was soft. “Is that an order, m’lady?”

“I don’t, can’t order you any more. Please!” But she was not sure what she was asking.

“I’m afraid my mind is made up. I’m staying.” He looked over his shoulder. “I will pray for you, Rhia.” Then he walked away.

The captain’s voice was quiet but firm. “M’lady, we have to go now.”

“What? Yes. Go now.” She wanted to say something, to find some comfort for these two loyal men she had relied on so much. But Brynan was sagging where he stood, defeated but obedient to his superiors’ wishes to the last, and the kitchen door was already closing behind Markave.

She let the militiaman take her bag and lead her out into the storm-lashed twilight.