THE THREAT predicted by the future-searching did not materialise; nothing menaced them in the night.
By morning, Unar had stopped turning Kirrik’s One Forest speech over in her mind. She was so tired she could barely think or speak. Imagining Frog, snug inside the dovecote but no doubt restless with anxiety that Unar would fail the test, was all that kept Unar’s eyes from closing and her cheek from sinking to the branch.
The notion that she still owned the energy to somehow get her breeches down and urinate off the edge also faded. She’d let loose, uncaring, and the seat of her pants had felt warm for a moment. Eventually, the relentless monsoon had washed the warmth away.
Now songbirds flew down from the bright treetops, entering into the tiny windows of the dovecote. The death-lamps of Airak burned steadily, neither flickering nor waning, though they seemed dimmer as cloud-scattered daylight infiltrated as far as it ever would in Understorey, where the sun never warmed anyone.
Contrary to what Kirrik had said about fasting, cooking smells and men’s voices came from the closed door of the dovecote. More tiny birds fluttered down, wet and bedraggled, to enter the windows, and some of them left, again, flying up towards the light.
At last, the heavy door swung back and Frog’s big eyes peered out at Unar and Kirrik.
“The Master says you may enter and break your fast. But be quiet. ’E is upstairs. Sleepin’.”
Core Kirrik passed the umbrella to Frog and swept immediately past Unar, through the open door. It took Unar’s fogged mind a few more moments to absorb what was happening. She still didn’t move until Frog took her hand and tugged.
“This way.”
“I did what she told me,” Unar said, too loudly, but the world was weird and tilting. “I passed the test.”
“That was not the test,” Frog said. Unar felt as though she’d been flattened by a broken bough. That was terrible news. And the world was tilting even more. Unar lost her balance. Stumbled through the doorway. Her hands and knees found polished floor in place of rough, wet bark.
She had tumbled into a cloakroom. Lit by an Airak-lamp of the nondeadly variety. Unar slowly raised her head to see not only heavy fur cowls and rows of strange boots with separated toes, but unfamiliar weapons with spikes and multiple curving blades.
“Let me help you up, Outer,” said a voice like a belling ox, and Unar realised that one of those pairs of boots was occupied. A man’s broad black hand was extended towards her.
Somebody else from Canopy. Somebody else who has fallen.
“Warmed One,” Unar gasped, grasping the hand, and as it drew her to her feet, she absorbed the rich layers of embroidered silk that covered the man from neck to knees, the way his priceless outer coat was cut off at the elbows to leave his forearms bare, and the scar-like seams where his climbing spines were hidden.
“My One Forest name is Sikakis,” he said. There was grey in his black hair and beard, but his grip was strong and his dark eyes unwavering. “I was Acis, once, a prince of Airakland, but those days are far behind me.”
“You will leave Core Sikakis alone,” Kirrik snapped, unseen, from beyond the cloakroom. “He has no time for you, Nameless. Come here!”
Unar went, stumbling a little. The floor was uneven where the five branches beneath joined one another. Kirrik waited in a room with a round table and sixteen chairs around it, none of them occupied. In the centre of the table, the blue-white light of another lantern overpowered the yellow light from a hearth fire on the right-hand side. To the left-hand side, a writing desk was covered in scrawled-on parchments and the droppings of tiny birds, who sat on rows of perches pecking grain from wooden feeders. Shelves on every wall held leather-bound books, stacks or rolls of skins and paper, and row upon row of stoppered ink bottles and feather quills.
“Is this a library?” Unar asked, bewildered. “A school?” She had expected more weapons. Space for fighting men to train. Cooks to feed the warriors and seamstresses to repair their armour. From the outside, it was a large building.
She had expected something similar to, but on a grander scale than, the three hunters’ abode. Nets, traps, and stored supplies. Was this how the Master and his servants would seek justice? How they would kill the new gods and bring back the old ones? With only one old prince and his black-skirted hag, one clever child and an army of pink parrots and blue wrens to do his bidding? No wonder he had sent Frog to fetch a fallen Gardener.
And no matter how she thought on it, Unar couldn’t see a way for the Master to kill deities who were almost instantly reincarnated. Kill them all at once, and the Old Gods will return, Hasbabsah had said, but gods didn’t stay dead. Everyone knew that.
The Master was mad. But even madmen had tricks that could be learned.
“You are wetting the carpet, Nameless. Stay away from the writings. Stand by the fire.”
Unar obeyed, still uncoordinated and aching. Three pale Understorian men—so there are a few more fighters—came from beyond the bird room, glancing at Unar and dismissing her before saluting Kirrik with their fists to the left side of their chests.
“We will not fail, Core Kirrik,” one of them said.
“So Core Sikakis has already assured me,” Kirrik said drily. “Follow him, now. The Old Gods’ blessings go with you.”
“Shall I quench the lamp for them, Core Kirrik?” Frog asked. Kirrik lifted a finger in assent, and Frog hurried after the men.
Kirrik stared at Unar for what seemed like a long time.
“Well. I suppose I must feed you if the Master’s orders are that you are to be fed. Clearly you are in no condition to feed yourself. Everyone knows Canopians are weak, but I hadn’t expected this.”
You called me strong, Unar thought, not realising she’d spoken aloud until Kirrik answered her impatiently.
“Your magic is strong. Your body is pathetic. A weak body cannot sustain even the strongest magic for very long.”
Kirrik’s expression changed then. Unar was so tired she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Was it lust? Was it the hunger with which Oos had looked on Unar’s bare breasts, all those endless hours and days and years ago in the Garden when Unar had expected to become a Servant of Audblayin?
Before she could be sure, Kirrik’s face closed over again. She opened a brown earthen pot and took out some speckled, grainy bread. Another jar held a bright blue jam that Unar didn’t recognise; at some point she found the jam-smeared slice in a bowl before her and tasted it, sour and strong.
“You will sleep by the fire for now,” Kirrik said. “The Master will not be pleased if you become ill.”
“Frog,” Unar said. She meant to say, Frog can heal me, if I become ill, but then she remembered that it was her own power that Frog used, and perhaps if she became ill, Frog would not be able to use it. Frog said love was needed for healing. And Frog’s advice was never to love.
Frog’s lying. She’s good at it. She’s cunning.
Yet Unar actually had no idea what Frog’s magic was capable of; for all she knew, Frog had shown her a lie when she had shown her by magic that they shared a blood mother and a blood father.
“Yes, yes. You will see Frog the Outer again soon.”
Kirrik stripped away Unar’s clothes. She hung them on the fire screens to dry. Unar, who had no way of knowing if more strangers would come out of the corridors, did not resist. Couldn’t resist. The strange expression on Kirrik’s face returned. Perhaps it was envy. Perhaps the pale woman wished her skin were darker, sun-warmed; perhaps she wished for Unar’s youth.
No, she had called Unar’s body pathetic. It couldn’t be that.
“Go to sleep, Nameless,” Kirrik said.
* * *
WHEN UNAR woke, she couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. The great dovecote, sheathed in the sound of rain, was quiet but for the flutters, pecks, and toenail clicks of birds. The fire had been banked, and there was no sign of Core Kirrik.
Unar went to the side table where the brown earthen pot rested and was disappointed to discover there was no more bread. A scroll on the writing desk caught her eye, and she unrolled it.
Her parents had rarely allowed her to go to the school, and she’d never learned letters, but the page had some ink drawings on it, not just the tooth marks she knew were words. A black human silhouette with a silver-blue halo around her head was linked by fine lines to three more silhouettes. One had a silver-blue orb hovering above his palm. One had silver-blue tears tracked down his cheeks.
The third figure had owl feet and was linked by another tenuous ink line to a recently drawn figure with a green leaf growing out of her mouth. Tooth-mark letters covered both sides of the line, still powdery with paperbark residue from being blotted.
“Can you read, Nameless?” Kirrik asked from right behind Unar, and she jumped, letting the scroll roll up of its own accord.
“No, Core Kirrik.”
Kirrik’s lip curled.
“Pity. You could have helped with the correspondence. You are too old to learn letters.”
“I’m not too old to learn anything.”
“You appear too old to learn to hold your tongue. I have had enough of your whining, Nameless. It will not do. From now on, you will speak when spoken to, is that understood?”
“Yes, Core Kirrik.” Unar gave the scroll a last, regretful look. The Master, the apparent leader of these One Forest people, must be writing letters to Canopy to try and set up a meeting of gods such as Kirrik had described. Probably demanding to know why Canopians could pass freely through the barrier and return while Understorians could not.
Servant Eilif surely would have answered thus: that Understorians were monsters, violent and simple, fit only for slavery. That they must be kept out of Canopy for the same reason that demons were kept out, to protect the civilised people of the city. Unar knew this to be untrue, and if she knew it, then the gods must know it, too. Perhaps Servant Eilif would also say, as Unar had once believed, that Understorians had their own supernatural protectors. But that was also wrong—the dark parts of the forest held no gods, only their old bones. There must be another reason.
Yet Audblayin would not meet, or correspond, with someone like Core Kirrik. The Servants would not allow it. Maybe that was why Unar was important to One Forest. She would be the link between those above and those below the barrier. Core Sikakis, though he had been a prince of Airakland, clearly had no wish to return to Canopy. That had to be why they were willing to teach her what they knew.
“Why do you think you are here, Nameless?” Kirrik asked, catching the glance at the scroll, seeming to read Unar’s thoughts a second time.
“To be used, Core Kirrik.”
Kirrik’s laughter, this time, was so wild, beautiful, and powerful that it was all Unar could do not to grasp it and weave it into something, anything. Yet at the same time, she recognised that nothing of Audblayin could be fashioned from Kirrik’s voice. Branches could not be brought to life. Seeds could not grow. Unar could gain no inkling from the sensation of it of what Kirrik’s magic was good for.
“Perfect,” Kirrik said. “How perfect you are. And gifted, as Frog promised you would be. Even considering the bone, you travelled here quickly. I will use you, Nameless. It has been a long time since I had a Canopian adept of my own to use. Greatly preferable to lurking by the border and snatching whatever song or speech I could.”
“A long time, Core Kirrik? May I ask what happened to the Servant of Airak who made these lamps?” Unar hoped she wouldn’t be chastened for speaking out of turn. Kirrik only smirked.
“Oh, yes. He was the last, before you. Not a full Servant of Airak, only a Skywatcher. Just as you are only a Gardener, but he was weaker. The Master had to use him up, all at once, and it killed him. That is what happened to the maker of the lamps and why we could not replace the fifth one when it failed.”
Two birds quarrelled over a spray of seeds. Unar concealed her shock. How much worse could these people be? A great deal worse, as it turned out. She had foolishly offered herself for use, only to now discover that she could be used up, like a gourd full of monkey oil or a knife sharpened into nothingness.
It wasn’t too late. She could leave. It was only Kirrik, here and now, and Unar thought she could overpower her. From what Frog had said, Kirrik would not be able to kill using Unar’s power, and seeing the future or feeling the approach of adepts would surely be no protection against Unar’s fists and teeth, not to mention a club or two of living wood. There were even five kinds of tree for Unar to choose from.
They will not take my magic from me again.
But how would she learn if she left the dovecote? Kirrik had asked her, How do you find the barrier from this side, girl? Without the secret, despite her confidence, Unar had to confront the possibility that she could bang her head against the barrier for a hundred years and not get through, since the magic of Canopy had faded from her skin. The Master might be her only way back. And she couldn’t leave Frog. Not again.
“I see,” she said. “Thank you for explaining, Core Kirrik.”
Kirrik turned away. Took a few paces towards the table. Her fingers traced the surface grain contemplatively.
“If the Master used you up all at once,” she said, “he could grow an entire great tree, I think. Grow it through the centre of the Garden and break open Audblayin’s egg. The goddess would fall into our waiting arms, Bodyguard or no. What do you think of that?”
Was this the test? Kirrik must know that Audblayin was dead.
“The egg is empty,” Unar said. “Besides, Audblayin is only one deity. Your Master needs to speak with all thirteen.”
Kirrik laughed again.
“He does need all thirteen,” she said, “and he’ll have them, Nameless the Outer. You will be allowed to help us, once we can be sure of you.”
So. Unar had guessed right. Help them to gather all the gods and goddesses of Canopy together? Perhaps to murder them if they proved argumentative or incapable. Bring the barrier down. It remained as impossible today as it had been yesterday. It was ludicrous.
“I owe a debt to you. For my sister. I’ll help you. I’ll pay the debt.”
I’ll stay until I’ve learned as much as I can learn. But Frog can’t have realised that the Master’s path leads nowhere; I’ll convince her of the truth.
“Not enough. You must come to know, as we here know, that the city of Canopy is a defilement that must be torn down.”
“How shall I come to know that, Core Kirrik? I’ve heard of the Old Gods. They may be brought back to the forest, but how do you know they’d have greater care for Floor and Understorey than the new ones do?”
“Do the gods and goddesses of Canopy have a care for Understorians and Floorians, then? I have not noticed them! I have not seen the flowers of Irof or tasted the bounty of Ukak’s bees! After you have lived with us for long enough, you will wonder why you ever wished to crawl and kiss Audblayin’s hand.”
Unar forced herself to gaze patiently at Core Kirrik, who’d worked herself into something of a frenzy.
“And until then?”
“You will require supervision. Tiresome as that may be. You have chores to do, Nameless. The Master breaks his fast this evening. You can be trusted to make a meal for him, I think. Follow me.”
Kirrik led her away from the wide room with its round table and writing materials, along a dim corridor. Open doors lay to left and right. Each room contained a blue-white lamp, four bunks to each wall, with each bunk bearing a bundle of bedding, and a washstand. Here, where there was neither magic nor wood smoke to deter uninvited guests, the tiny, high windows had insectivorous plants smothering the sills. The last room on the right was a kitchen of sorts, with four hearths, clay chimneys, and pots dangling from hooks on the ceiling. To the left, another open door showed a primitive privy: two holes in the floor and two water barrels.
At the very end of the corridor, a spiral staircase led upwards. Unar had put her hand out to point at it, to ask what was at the top of it, when her fingers rebounded from an invisible surface.
Like the barrier. A smaller version. What can be created can be destroyed. They practice replicating it so that they can determine its weaknesses and tear it down. Or perhaps they plan to help the gods and goddesses, to make a better, stronger barrier. One that can protect everyone. One Forest.
The Master’s quarters must be at the top of this staircase.
“Here,” Kirrik ordered, marching into the kitchen. All the hearths but one were cold. Beside the lit one, enough cut wood to last the whole of the monsoon and then some made a wide stack from floor to ceiling. On a wooden bench top, a single white egg rested in the bottom of a deep basin of water. Kirrik looked at it, then looked at Unar. “The Master will have four eggs. And three birds. You have permission to use magic for this. Begin.”