The Tree as Tall as a Mountain

The land was in darkness; the land was in silence, and he moved over it thus, seeing it sweep beneath him at a distance. The quiet of the plains, the soft whisperings of the forests. The cities were far away.

For a while he followed the river, watching it bend and curve across the land, seeing it fall into white wildness, seeing it taper into pools and riverlets. The river spanned the entire land, from the mountains in the north, to the plains beneath, meeting the sea in the south, where cities hugged the coast.

But he would not go so far. He wanted solitude, not the bustle of a thousand noisy souls. He wanted dark quietude; he wanted to think on death.

He could be very large, but that night he took on the form of a man, and rested in the plains, hiding himself amongst the grasses. It seemed possible at that time to die as easily as any mortal, to be lost in eternity, to be forgotten, to be hidden from the heavens. The stars were hidden by clouds, and the moon showed only a dim light. It seemed possible to die that night.

Beneath him the earth moved.

He felt the strange vibration under his hands, the soft shaking of the ground, for a few moments before he realised its origin. It was the beat of a horse’s hooves. The rhythmic sound reached his ears a few moments later, and he sat up, peering fruitlessly into the dark. Someone was racing blindly through the night, as though they, too, reached out for death.

But there was too much life about the ride, he realised, for that to be true. He stood up, now, and watched as the rider came closer, a faint shape building form, strength, colour, as it approached. A wild rider, with hair streaming out behind her, clinging onto the horse, her eyes open, gleaming a little. Now he raised an arm and moved the clouds away, so that light poured from the sky. He wanted to see. And there she was before him.

Her hair was tied in the manner of the barbarian tribes, tied in braids, with strips of coloured cloth threaded between them. She was clad in leather and furs, in knee-high boots, and a sword hung at her side, bright as the moon revealed itself from the sky. Her face was transformed by a strange exhilaration, and then she opened her mouth and gave out a great cry of joy. He stumbled, then – he stumbled and fell, and she passed him by, unseen.

He stayed watching her in the grass as her stallion took in the miles like a stride. They moved together across the land like a wild wind, like the white water falling, like the fury of a god. He heard her cry echoing over it all, dying away until it was lost in the darkness. And then he knew he did not want to be so lost. And so he stayed until the sun rose, and colours painted themselves over the clear, clear sky.

Journey rode into camp before the first light struck the circle of tents, while the early morning rested over the camp. Rubbing down her weary horse, she shook out her own hair, and stretched, before retreating to her tent. It had happened. It hadn’t been a dream . . . when she had raced through the plains she had witnessed true power. She had ridden over the land, her horse marking its hooves heavily into the earth. She had traced herself as strongly into the place as the river itself.

And she had passed a Spirit; it had fallen before her.

Journey knew there were two great spirits in the land. Some worshipped them as gods; others refused. The two together held great power, although they were opposed in every way. One was the spirit of passion, life, strength, war, struggle, fury. The other was peace, contentment, acceptance, and thoughtfulness. Journey knew from her racing heart that she had passed by Ardour, not Serene. It was not just that; she knew that sometimes the spirits took on human forms, and that the figure she had seen had been that of a man.

It had been a shadow in the grass, a mere form in the darkness. But then the sky had cleared; the light had shone out, and she had ridden the tracks of starlight all the way home. And she had heard an echo to her own cry of joy; not with her ears, but within her. It was a wilder cry – it reminded her of the returning cry of a wolf – it sent fire rushing through her.

The camp was too quiet. She wanted it to be night, she wanted revelry and wild dance, music, drinking, fires shooting sparks to reflect the stars. Not the practical realities of morning. Not waking up, to look around and see where the wildness had taken her.

She hadn’t woken yet, because she had not yet sought out sleep. In the tents beside her slept her brothers and sisters, her family, the men and women who had left their own tribes and had joined her. They were tied closer to her than blood, because they were ready to die for her . . . and yet they slept now, and she was alive, awake, ready to scream out her name, ready to carve it into the earth.

Ready because this morning she knew it was possible. She had ridden the land, she had traced her path across it, had passed Ardour himself. It was no chance. It was meant. She would cross paths with Ardour again, she knew, and everyone would soon know her name, whether she cried it out or not. It would remain on their lips nevertheless.

On her way home, she’d climbed a small hill, she’d ridden a new path which overlooked the plains. There she’d seen a great thing; a tree that was as tall as a mountain. Or so it had seemed; the mountains stretching high before her, and yet from where she stood the tree spread out wide, encompassing them all. Now Journey remembered that great tree, vibrant, covered with green leaves and rose-coloured blossoms. It overshadowed even the mountain's grandeur.

There was a soft call from outside her tent; it was like the cry of a bird. Journey looked up and smiled. Then she moved to the opening of her tent, and saw her brother hesitating there. He had his bow strung over his shoulder, and he grinned his morning welcome to her. Amongst the quiet of the tents, he alone heard her restlessness.

Journey grinned in return, and grabbed her own bow. She wasn’t tired, despite her active night. She wanted to ride again, she wanted to hunt and conquer, she wanted to be filled with wild energy. And not just that day, but forever and ever.

The shepherd on the hill put down his small knife with some satisfaction. He’d carved a new pipe, from a fallen branch of the white Ceple tree. It was sacred to Serene, and now he would invoke her, and her peace, every time he played.

The sheep were quiet around him. He sat amongst them, his knife stowed in an inner pocket, and brought the new pipe to his lips. He blew some experimental notes, happy with their clear pure notes. Then he began to play a soft lilting tune, as gentle as a breeze, as quiet as a breath.

In the distance he could see the town, with its wooden paling, where the owner of the sheep lived. He himself dwelt in a small croft outside the main town. The busy streets were not for him, the noise of carts over cobblestones, the bustle of the marketplace, the constant cries of the street-sellers. The white wood pipe was enough sound for him, the bleating of lambs, the wind through the trees.

The towns, which grew larger and larger, encroaching onto the plains, and the land of the tribes, were places of fever and fury. They were always hungry, and they took more and more every year. The shepherd understood little of what was happening in the large cities, but he knew each year he took the sheep a little further out, as more land was eaten up by new homes. He saw the walls being extended, he saw strangers taking up the ancient lands. It troubled him, with nameless fears, to see the changes happening all around him. So he would invoke Serene, who gave him acceptance, who promised peace.

There was an echo of thunder, and the shepherd laid down his pipe and looked up at the sky. If there was a storm, he would have to take the sheep back to their pen –

The sky was clear.

Uneasy, the shepherd stood, looking around. The rumbling continued, and he whistled for his dog, who began herding the sheep together. His hand tightened around the pipe in his hand; he murmured softly to the sheep, and turned directing the dog towards town. Then he looked back.

The hill behind him was dark with a great army.

Five hundred riders, screaming, waving their swords, their wild hair tied in the manner of the barbarian tribes, raced towards him. The earth trembled under their horses’ hooves, the air shook with their cries.

Snap.

The shepherd looked down at the pieces of pipe in his hand. Then he threw them to the ground, and ran hard towards the town, so far, so far off.

It was supposed to have been a warning. The townspeople had been steadily taking the land of the nomads for years. The nomad tribes had complained, had retaliated in small ways by attacking flocks, destroying houses in their paths. But nothing had stopped the steady encroachment of land.

So Journey had ordered the attack. They were to ride on one of the outlying towns, they were to destroy the homes which were spreading out onto their own lands, were blocking their own traditional paths. They were to use fear to drive the townspeople back to the coast, where they belonged.

Her tribe, her family, those who were unfailingly loyal to her, had ridden out by her side, had roared their support for her, had cried out her name again and again as they traversed the land. Those who loved her rode by her side. Her brother was there, his bow at his back as always, his sword hanging at his side.

It still hung there.

Journey knelt beside his body where it lay, on its thorny bed of piled branches. He was covered in blood; his head was thrust back, his mouth open. He had been calling her name when he died.

“Oh my brother. Oh my brother. Oh Lyht . . .”

They had placed him in her tent, still lying on the litter of branches that had pulled him home to her. Dressed in his leathers, with his sword at his side, his hair tied with coloured cloths, dyed with the stickiness of blood . . .

Someone had placed the two icons there beside him, the whitewood Serene figure, the black figure of Ardour carved from the sticky walnut tree. Journey grabbed the tiny idols and threw them hard across the tent. Then she knelt down, rocking, and wailed.

“Oh my brother . . . oh my brother . . . oh Lyht, my brother, my brother!”

They had raced towards the town, and had let loose arrows of fire at the scattered homes around the town walls, yelling out their cries, watching the people run for shelter. No one was to be targeted, she had commanded. Just the buildings, and anyone foolish enough to attack them. But no one was that foolish.

They had fired their warnings, and had wheeled around, to race home. That was when the attack began.

It was an army, a battalion of city soldiers, lying in wait behind the palings of the wooden walls. Perhaps they had been there by chance, or perhaps the town knew the nomads would not stand for the theft of their land forever. But it all came to the same in the end. An attack for which no one was ready.

The city army had burst out behind the flimsy walls in a great wide wave, attempting to encircle them. Journey had seen from the first that their aim was to wipe them all out, every one of them. Well, they had not succeeded in that. She had screamed out her orders, and they had been passed on from brother to sister to brother. They had broken through the lines, had refused to remain imprisoned by the army. The archers had sent out their fiery arrows into the pack, whilst the rest leapt into the fray, tearing down soldiers from the mounts, cutting them apart, yelling their cries of victory even as they were slaughtered.

Journey had yelled for them to break through and then to scatter into the plains, knowing how wildly outnumbered they were. Even then, she had known they would take the fight back to that town, and destroy it for its treachery. Even before he had fallen.

Journey looked up, then, watching Lyht’s still face tenderly. She knew it. She knew him. And he had known her, like no one else . . .

Then she got up and found the icon which she’d thrown. The darkwood, the sticky carved figure whose dye stained her hand as she grasped it. She wanted Ardour now. She had no time for the flimsy white figure of Serene, which had probably cracked on the ground at her throw.

Someone in the battle had thrown a dagger at her, and Lyht had leapt in its path, calling her name, and had been struck in the throat. He had slid from his horse, had choked to death, fear in his eyes, pain gripping him so that he arched in agony. She had kept his gaze and then he had died and she had lost it. She had lost him.

Now she took her own dagger and drew it hard from her shoulder to her elbow, tearing through the cloth and skin, watching dispassionately as the blood welled up. Then she took the dagger again and cut herself from elbow to wrist. The icon in her hand was red with her own blood, and she wavered, falling back onto her knees, opening her mouth for the right words.

“Give me vengeance over my enemies . . .” she murmured at last, quiet fury in her voice. “Give me satisfaction over those who I hate. Let me kill and kill and never stop until they are all gone. Give me revenge and let me eat it. Fill me with discontent, give me victory over these that I will murder, let me slay and slay and never cease . . .”

Her blood dripped onto Lyht’s bed of thorns. She fell there, the icon gripped in her hand, and only awoke that evening when they took her from her tent, bandaged and half-dazed with shock, to watch the burning. The sparks flew up into the sky and mirrored the stars.

Ardour watched her pull out the small carved box from her saddlebag, and slide it into her own pocket, before beginning the steep ascent up the mountainside.

There was a rude path, strewn with boulders, narrow, crumbling away into nothingness. Soon even this track petered out, and she had to begin climbing. Ardour watched her strong arms grip the side of the mountain, watched her finding her footholds carefully, watching her fingers inch along and grasp a firm outcrop, watched her hang by a hand over a drop of a thousand feet.

He waited. He knew she would come, and he knew she would never ask for his help to complete the arduous climb. So even when her hands scrabbled at the air, and she dislodged huge stones which crashed far beneath her, he did not move, merely watched. Journey expected nothing but victory over her own flesh, and he expected the same. It was Journey, after all.

Ardour had watched her closely after their first meeting. He saw her screaming out vengeance in battle as she took town after town. He watched her leap from her horse to that of a soldier, and pull her dagger across his throat, and leap back to her mount, without a pause. He watched her stand her ground facing the blades of a dozen fighters, and swing her sword, baring her teeth, and slaughter every one of them. He watched her wipe her bloody hands down her torn cloak, without a thought. It was growing stiff with the blood of her enemies.

She was pulling herself up onto the summit of the mountain now. The narrow cave was lit by a single candle, and he watched her lift up the little light and allow it to guide her through the passageway to the main cave.

He met her there.

Someone had carved one of the standing stones into a rough likeness of his human form, and she stood in front of it, holding the box in her hands. He appeared behind her, but although she started a little, she would not turn. She would not meet his eyes. Instead, she continued to gaze at the icon.

“The ashes of my brother, and my own blood, are melded here. I will leave them here, as a reminder. That I choose you –“

“I will give you victory over your enemies.” He spoke at last, and heard with some satisfaction her muffled gasp. “I will give you vengeance and satisfaction.”

She nodded then. “I will continue to rise up against the towns. I want to be known in every part of the land . . . I will go into the cities, even, and I will have my name on the lips of the people by the sea.”

“You will need a larger army, then,” Ardour advised quietly, taking the box from her hand, laying in down. “When you attack the towns, you need to take the strong men and women to serve as your soldiers. When you go into the cities, you must overrun them with your fierceness. Take the icon – that figure soaked in your blood – and call for me, and I will come. We will overtake the land together.”

He expected her to look at him when she departed, but she did not. Instead she left the box where it lay and turned, walking steadily out, and beginning her steep descent down the mountainside. He did not watch her go; instead he looked at the box, wondering at the man inside who had commanded such devotion. Ardour wondered whether he had known his power, or its value.

Journey’s hands trembled as she fumbled for a foothold. But she knew she would not fall. She had come so far, and she had so much further yet to go.

The cave had been so dark. She had barely been able to make out the shape of the standing stone, where she had had to place her brother. A tear dripped off her nose. Her brother remained in that dark dark cave.

And Ardour had appeared to her. She had never known such a thing before. But she knew enough to not to look at him. She was afraid if she saw his eyes she would see them everywhere, forever.

A tiny spark of triumph grew inside her as she remembered his words. Then she would be known throughout the land. Then she would have the towns, and the cities, too. Then the armies who had slain her people would be slain.

The growth of her army troubled her a little; she could not conceive how a forced soldier could be loyal to her. Except if she were feared. Feared terribly, so that nothing could be seen worse than displeasing her.

Journey nodded, as she jumped down to the path. That was the way, then. Her army – they were no longer her tribe or her brothers and sisters. They could not be her family. Her family was dead, now – her family was in the little dark cave above her.

“Tell the people to leave the city,” Journey commanded abruptly. “At twilight I will give the order, and everything here will be burned to the ground. Nothing will be spared; I won’t allow a building to stand, not a stone will remain atop another. This city harboured murderers and thieves, traitors and deceivers. Whoever is not loyal to me must be loyal to the grave alone. Now go!”

The commander nodded, bowed, and exited in silence. Journey found herself alone in her planning room, set in the highest tower of the palace. It had once been a bedchamber, filled with luxuries, soft furnishings, tapestries and wall-hangings. Now it held a rough table, covered with maps, and a few chairs. Her own chair stood with its back against the near wall, with the door beside her. The other chairs were packed closely about the table, so that the rest of the room lay bare and empty before her, and the view from the large window clear.

Her precious things lay in a wooden chest at her feet; now she opened it, and drew out the blackened icon. It had been handled so frequently that its features were quite smooth. Now she looked carefully at the carvings as she held it in her hands, as though to find a clue to the spirit it represented. Still she refused to look at his face.

“Come – I have need of you,” she spoke out bluntly, feeling his presence behind her.

“You hold nearly the whole land, Journey.”

As usual, the sound of his voice made her start.

“You have only to take the Capital, and then you will rule all.”

“All their armies are heading there now,” Journey warned. “ It will be a city well defended.”

“They know you cannot be defeated,” Ardour shrugged, and Journey thrilled a little to the quiet confidence in his voice. “You have imprisoned every person in the land –“

Journey stilled a little at that. Had she not meant to free them?

“Your name is on the lips of every soul. You have had vengeance, and once the cowards hiding behind stone walls see you, they will expire out of terror. Not from your army, not from the weapons they carry. When they see your greatness, they will die. They know who you are –“

Journey felt her spirit rise with his words; she felt exhilaration, and the sense of power. It was in her grasp –

The sun began to sink a little below the horizon, and the room became filled with shadows. The profile of the carved table stretched up one of the cold stone walls; the huddle of chairs became something dark and menacing. Journey moved over to the window, where the archers were watching for her. They would begin to fire, and that would be the sign that the city would be entirely destroyed. She hesitated a moment, but Ardour did not leave. His presence instead filled her with the fury to complete her plan.

She raised her arm, and fire flew through the air.

At the sight of the evening being filled with such brightness, Journey could not help but give out a wild laugh, a cry of joy, of desperate excitement.

Although she still could not see Ardour, she felt him move towards her at the sound. His dark form was a shape behind her. She trembled at the thrill that his close presence gave her; the power he emitted, the untamed strength. It was exactly as she felt that night.

Slowly, carefully, she moved her hand back and encountered his. She meant just to touch him for a moment, but he grasped her fingers and gripped them hard, almost painfully. She gave out a wordless cry, and then he pulled her around, until the length of her body was pressed against him. She had squeezed her eyes closed, with as much strength as he held her hand.

Journey found she was breathing hard, her heart racing. No one had ever come so close to a god before, she was certain. If that is what he was. She dared to move her free hand towards him, and splayed her fingers of his chest. He wore a heavy studded vest like a warrior. She could feel the movements of his breaths beneath, as heavy as her own.

He did not move away. And as she heard the high-pitched whir of arrows filling the air, she took courage, and moved a little forward, and kissed him.

She did not want tenderness that night, and it was far from him. He met her hunger and pressed her hard against the window, his mouth moving over hers, biting her lips, releasing her hands to slide his arms around her body and enclose her, until the whole of his dark power seemed to surround her. She heard the yell of her army as they obeyed the signal and ran out to tear down the empty city. It brought a thrill over her, and she shuddered, and kissed him once more. She would know his face not by sight but by the memory of it under her mouth. Her hands were pressed tightly to his chest, and she slid them beneath the vest, to explore cautiously his warm flesh. He made a sound, then. He took an inward breath, and his arms released her a little, holding her carefully rather than gripping her hard. And then he touched his lips to hers with something akin to gentleness. And then she heard the cries.

They hadn’t left. The people hadn’t heeded her warning, had perhaps believed it a ruse, where her army would be waiting for them outside the walls, and they would be cut down defenceless. But they were defenceless now, now that the city was burning, and her army was toppling it, stone by stone.

Journey tore herself from Ardour’s arms and ran to the window. The screams and cries she heard could now be seen coming from the dim figures of people racing through the streets. Old men, little children, all alike, running out of their fiery homes, to be taken by her army’s steel. They would be destroyed, every one of them.

Journey felt a thousand things race through her mind, she felt her body tensing as she gripped onto the window’s edge. But then she slumped, and just stared out into the dark, the confusion growing as the army moved on, the cacophony rising as the fire spread. This, then, was what she had done. She stilled herself to watch, even as a soldier raised his blade against a mother with her babe. This was what she had done. There was no undoing it. This was what it meant to have power, to own the land, to have the people imprisoned by her.

She was never sure exactly when Ardour left, whether it had been when she broke away from him, or when a cry came from her own lips at the confusion beneath her. In some small part of her triumphant vengeance could still be heard. In another, she heard her own lament for her brother, and saw the sparks of his funereal pyre, flying up to the sky.

He watched her as she hurried from the window to the stairwell, taking the steps two by two, moving quickly from the high tower down to the palace itself, and then down further into the still-burning city.

He had slowly faded behind her – hardly aware of it himself – realising that she no longer saw him there. And although she often sensed his presence before he appeared, he knew that to her he was entirely gone. The city that burned by her hand, the people who were dying under her direction, were all she could see.

Ardour watched her run out and approach her commanders. She would not rescind her orders, he could tell. It was her previous commands, that the city be emptied, which she would be inquiring about. He watched her speak to those she had once called brother with the harshness of a despot, the distance of a king. And all the time looking about and around, at the buildings crashing to the ground, at the people scattering, screaming.

She broke away from her commanders finally and began to walk amongst the ruins of the destroyed city. She had wrapped her cloak about her, he saw; that cloak on which she had wiped the blood of her enemies, those who had murdered her brother. Now she tugged it about her, as though there was a sharp wind blowing, as though the fires did not create enough heat to make her forehead bead with sweat.

Ardour saw her pause at a child’s body, and stare for a moment, before looking up at the sky, her face expressionless. Her face – she had screwed it up like a child’s before kissing him, as though fearful, as though afraid that in her arms he would become what he seemed to her, a stone, a lump of walnut wood. He was that to everyone else in the land. A frozen thing, something lifeless, without true form or features. But he had been alive in her arms.

When she had bitten his lips it had hurt, just as though he were a human . . . when she had squeezed his fingers he had felt the tight discomfort. And her hand on his heart made him want to live forever.

Journey found herself moving from body to body, making her way through the rubble, the debris from the toppled buildings, passing fires, passing things indescribable, unimaginable. There seemed nothing whole left in the city; there seemed nothing alive.

She had done this. She whispered the words to herself out loud, again and again, because there was a small voice inside her that denied it. After all, she had told them to leave! She had given them fair warning –

But why should they have trusted her? No, she had done this. She had taken the city and pushed it to the ground with her own hands. She had plunged the sword into this babe, and this woman, and this man; she had flung the dagger which had cut open this boy. Lyht’s face came before her again and again. The way she had mourned for him; it would echo across the whole land. A thousand thousand women would weep in just the same way she had wept. What triumph!

Oh, what a victory.

She wondered idly who she had become without her brother, without a family. With her blood-covered cloak to warm her. And with a city ahead of her, not just to conquer, but to rule.

And she had killed Lyht, because there he was before her.

Journey blinked, kneeling down beside the young man’s body. It wasn't Lyht, of course, just another young man she'd killed, dressed in the simple clothes he favoured. Another young man with his fair, fair hair, and perhaps his eyes - but she could not see, because they were closed tight -

And then he whimpered.

Journey jumped back, with a cry on her lips.

He was alive. It wasn't Lyht, just a young man like Lyht, but he was alive. She stood up, then, and called for a horse. And then she carried him back to the soldiers' camp in her arms, scarcely aware of what she was doing. But she would not return to the palace that night. She would never go into that city again.

Journey paced outside the healer’s tent with rapidly retreating patience. The tent had been placed in the centre of camp, so as to be easy access to all, but it meant the noise and bustle of a busy soldier’s camp rose up around them. She had some people fixing her own tent, but she had brought the lad to the main healing place until it was ready.

The feel of the camp was entirely different now, Journey realised. Most of the soldiers were conscripts. Only a few of her original tribe remained. Not all were forced, of course; many, many of the men and women had chosen to join an army headed for victory. But those of her family had come to her because they loved her. And these soldiers felt nothing but fear and a distant admiration.

Journey reminded herself that she had no family.

The commanders she had chosen did their job well. The place was clean and neat, the tents lined up exactly, and the soldiers all busy. They had a harsh barbarian discipline which meant few infractions. Oh, they were not ready to die for her; they hoped to live for the rewards she’d bring. And when they looked at her, passing, they were too afraid to do anything but slide their eyes over her face and move on.

There was a rustling, and Journey turned hurriedly as the healer slipped from the tent.

“How is he?”

The healer eyed Journey cautiously.

“The wound will heal, Conqueror; it is superficial.”

“But?” And Journey glared at the visibly disturbed woman. “What is wrong with him?”

“There is nothing amiss – with her,” the healer said finally. “That is no boy, Conqueror, but a young woman.”

Journey stared, then pushed past the woman and moved into the tent. There were several large tents filled with wounded from that night; soldiers who had been crushed under falling buildings, or burnt, or who had a skirmish with those in the city who had retained their weapons. But she had taken the boy to the healer's own tent, which lay next to the main healing stations. It was small, containing little but some furs, a few wooden chests which she presumed held the tools of a healer, and a pallet on the floor. Lying there, the long side wound now bandaged, lay the one she had found. It was most obviously not a boy.

It had been the cropped tousled hair, the shabby clothing which had deceived her. When had she ever been so deceived in the past? Had it been so ruse, some trick?

“You’re not my brother,” Journey said finally, her voice heavy.

The girl’s eyes opened and she looked up warily. “I could be your sister,” she suggested cautiously.

Journey almost gave out a laugh. She stared at the girl. She had odd eyes, nothing like her brother's. It was a shade of green she'd never seen before.

“Why were you dressed like a boy?” she asked bluntly. “I mistook you –“

“I thought it would be safer,’ the girl shrugged. “And here – I’m not dead, am I?”

Journey snorted. “Your expectations are low if this is your idea of Elysium; and high if this seems like Tartarus -”

“No – that was where you took me from,” the girl said seriously. “I don’t know who you are, and neither do you know anything of me – except that I am a girl. Thank you for your heroism.”

Journey did laugh, then, a long, low, bitter laugh. “Let me illuminate you, then. I am no hero, I am the one who lit the flames, held the sword, pushed you to the ground. Doesn’t my appearance seem familiar to you?” She tugged at her hair, wild with a hundred braids, threaded with coloured cloths, all about her shoulders. “I am the Conqueror, that is who I am –“

The girl’s mouth was open in surprise. She held her side, then, and moved up a little on her pallet.

“That is not all you are, because you rescued me. So you are the conqueror and the rescuer. And I am just Blithe.”

Journey turned away towards the opening flap of the tent. She did not want to know the young woman’s name. And yet –

“You have a way with words. Can you read and write?”

Blithe nodded. “I can.”

Journey turned again, and then spoke to the healer as she returned to her post. “When she can be moved, send her to my tent. Oh, and ensure she has fresh clothing. She stinks.”

She heard Blithe’s indignant cry at her comment as she left; it made her smile a moment as she headed towards her own tent. But it was luck all the same, to find someone who could read for her. Once she reached the city and began to rule, it would be the least of the many things as a barbarian she would have to learn.

A single horse raced along the ocean road to the barbarian camp.

Once the road had been teeming with life, Ardour thought abstractly, watching the horse’s furious pace. Once it had been filled with merchants and pilgrims, beggars and warriors, thieves and noblemen. The rattle of carriages and the shouts of stranded travellers had echoed all along the broad highway.

It was silent, now. People feared to leave their homes, and they refused to travel along open ways, preferring the narrow back roads, rather than meet the wrath of the barbarian army. War was clamour, and fury, and wild uproar – but it was also silence, where no quiet had been before.

The horse raced directly to the camp, its sides heaving, soaked with sweat. The rider was trembling, Ardour could see; he shook as he looked for the tent of the conqueror, and his feet lagged reluctantly as he headed for the guarded entrance.

Ardour could see Journey had altered little within the small tent since she had come from the plains. It still contained the simple pallet on the floor, the wooden chest of personal belongings, the dyed thorn-branch which hung from the roof. Apart from the small table, covered with scrolls, which faced the opening of the tent, the small space remained unchanged.

The guard challenged the shaking messenger, and he took a step back, before muttering his business through pale lips. When they nodded and allowed him entrance, Ardour saw the small man gulp, shivering, then step past the tall barbarian guards, to face Journey and her commanders standing within.

The sight almost unnerved the messenger completely, Ardour saw; he almost expected the man to whiten and fall at Journey's feet. Instead he mumbled incomprehensively, took out a hand slick with sweat, and presented the scroll to her.

As was her wont, Journey handed it, unrolled, to the woman beside her, keeping her eyes fixed upon the terrified messenger. Ardour wondered at how quickly Journey had placed her trust in the fair-haired girl, whom she called her scribe. The girl had sworn no allegiance to her, nor had she promised Journey any service for saving her life. Instead she said odd things, to which the conqueror listened. For that Journey gave her her trust. Because the odd things generally were true.

He saw the scribe’s eyebrows raise in surprise as she perused the scroll’s contents. Then she coughed, and began to read theatrically.

“To the Conqueror of the Land;
Greetings.

We, of the city of Thirun, open our city to you, and moreover, our palace from where you will rule.”

Journey barked a short laugh, then stared at the scribe.

“Read it properly, please.”

“That is what it says, conqueror,” the scribe returned. She read further, where the leaders of the city set down their conditions for peace, whereby they would surrender fully, for fear of their lives and their property.

“Knowing the honour which you hold, whereby a vow is a vow, and you cannot break it, we ask that you accept these conditions – and thus rule over us, not as conqueror, but as Queen.”

Journey flinched at the word. “So that is what they want.”

Ardour saw the glances which the guards threw amongst themselves; triumph, and suppressed joy. He did not see that on Journey’s face; nothing but resignation. And caution on the scribe’s own.

“So, the cowards have sued for peace. Well, we will accept it,” Journey nodded, and directed the scribe to pen an appropriate reply. “And so we will travel on, and meet those of the city – not as their conqueror, but as their – Queen.”

Her face wrinkled a little in distaste.

“Go back to your masters with this message, o mouse,” she directed the messenger. “What sad victory, to have so little over which to rule.”

“So little . . .” the scribe echoed, as Journey pushed the messenger out, and brusquely bade the guards, and the commanders, to follow, leaving her. Only the scribe remained, standing by the small table, on which the scroll lay. She waited there, while Journey moved to tie the outer flaps of the tent, then sit on her pallet, covered with bright woven cloths, and stare into a large bronze mirror, which faced her. Her eyes were dull, Ardour observed; Journey stared into the polished surface, but saw nothing there.

The scribe did not speak, or smile; she just sat by Journey’s side, and waited.

“I am to rule the city; I am to rule the land,” Journey said finally. “So I am no longer barbarian. My tribe is no more; so I am no longer a tribeswoman. I am to have a room made of stone, unmoveable; so I am no longer a nomad.”

She tugged at the first of her braids, unravelling the bright red cloth which threaded through it.

“When I confront the city which has showed me their true face – their cowardice – I have to show myself at my most false.”

She tore out another thread, as green as the grass that covered the plains; and another the blue of the open sky.

“They will not let me rule them as I have conquered them.”

Ardour saw the scribe stand, then, and move behind Journey, and turn her away from the polished mirror. She gently unravelled her braided hair, untying the small plaits, unwrapping the cloths and setting them quietly beside her. When her hair was loose, the scribe combed oil through it, as was the fashion in the city, and tied it tightly back from her face in a long single braid. Her darkness was hidden; the paleness of her face instead could be seen.

“Who do you see?” the scribe asked softly.

And Journey laughed harshly. “A conqueror of mice; a regent of fools.”

Part Two: The Cloak

Far above the great city of stone, a figure tiny against the towering walls stood up – and a low drumbeat began to sound.

As the queen moved slowly along the outer walls, a hush grew amongst the people milling about below. The throb of the drum grew stronger, louder, and was followed by the sound of marching; then the ornately carved doors of the palace swung open, and row upon row of soldiers appeared. They turned, completely in step, and lined up along the palace walls, facing the courtyard.

The queen drew closer, making her way to the set of winding stairs, which wrapped itself about the largest tower. More drums began to sound, the pounding growing until it altered the beat of every heart and filled the mind of every soul, standing, waiting.

The great palace, which was built within the very walls of the ancient stone city, overlooked the central marketplace, about which the main streets and homes of the people stood. Its three large towers stood threateningly over it all; most especially the central tower, which stretched high, to overlook both sea and land. It was there, the people knew, that the barbarian queen had situated herself. From there she could watch over the people, and from there she could stretch out her hand and grasp anything she liked.

And now the distant figure grew larger, coming closer, moving more quickly now as the beat of the drum grew faster – then paused at the base of the towers, just above the main doors. Two large spears were stuck fast into the stone; and it was in between these that the Conqueror stood.

In her flowing coloured robes, with her braided and oiled hair studded with gems, she looked every part the Queen. Her eyes were hard, as she stared down relentlessly at the people set out before her.

The drumming ceased.

A strange silence overtook the crowd; stranger still, because they were standing in the marketplace, an area never quiet, where activity never stopped, even in the dead of night. Laughter and shouting were always a part of the centre of the city.

Not that day.

There was a scuffling, and from a side door a handful of guards moved out, with two young women and a man in their grasp. They brought their chained prisoners into the centre of the bare courtyard, a little below the eyes of the queen. They were pushed roughly onto their knees, and their heads pulled back by their long hair.

The middle one was fair, Journey noted dispassionately. She had long, golden hair, and an extremely dirty face. If it was dirt. It could have been a long, dark bruise, right along the left side of her face, she supposed.

The others seemed grubby, too, but she was fairly certain that was congealed blood covering the young man’s eye.

She raised an eyebrow impatiently.

“Conspiring against the Conqueror, your highness,” the tallest guard offered, in his loudest voice. As though she were still in her tower room.

“I know what they’ve done,” Journey said lazily. “I caught them. I heard their words – the Conqueror must die for what she’s done!”

Then she moved forward and stared deliberately at the prisoners. At the fair one, particularly.

“You won’t be there to see it, though –“

She gave a swift nod, and the guards who had held back their heads now lifted their swords, and drew their blades quickly across the throats of the young people in their arms.

Journey watched them carefully. She was a little too far away to see their eyes, but she thought their fierceness faltered a little before they died.

She was like a figure woven in a tapestry, or something painted on a wall, or anything except the woman he had known and kissed in the dark.

Ardour stared at the queen, sitting on her throne and gazing dully at the blood which splashed on the cobblestones beneath her. The bodies slumped, and were dragged away; and still she stared, until a drumbeat roused her, and she stood and moved off.

If she had taken the traitors and slit their throats herself, or had laughed, or had done anything but sit and stare, he would have known she remained herself, despite her queenship. But even her walk had changed, she moved slowly, as though everything was heavy about her. As if she were becoming stone.

He had left her for a time, once she had entered the city as queen, and had followed his own affairs.

On the border, beyond the mountain, there had been a skirmish – the smugglers fighting amongst themselves – and a village on fire. The people had run wildly into the forest, away from the fly of arrows, the flash of swords. But in the centre of the town there had been a woman on her knees, and she’d had a black icon in her hands. She had rocked backwards and forwards, gabbling, staring out with fury at the wildness going on about her.

He couldn’t make out her words.

There was almost no one left in the village. Either they were fighting in the fields outside the town, or they’d taken their families and fled into the cover of the trees. She was almost alone there, apart from the body lying behind her, and she wasn’t planning on running, he could tell. She wasn’t looking out to be rescued. She wanted revenge on her enemies. She wanted death and more death and she clutched at the icon in her hands, muttering her enraged incantations, knowing that the spirit would hear her and grant her such a request.

She didn’t know the piece of wood was dead. It had been cut out of a the black wood of a nut tree, carved rudely with a knife. It had died long ago, and even as part of the tree it couldn’t hear or obey.

Ardour walked invisibly around the destroyed village. It was not like him to avoid the fight, but compared with the great battles he had recently overseen it seem petty and tedious. The woman, dressed in her long garments, her head tied with a black scarf, and her eyes flashing caught his attention instead. It suddenly occurred to him that she would rather have the life of the man behind her than revenge; that she would happily toss the dead wood away if he was brought back to her.

An arrow flew through the air and caught her in the throat.

Her words were cut off midflow; but her lips kept moving, soundlessly, as she sank to the ground beside her man. Her arm fell over his body, and then she smiled.

As though she’d got what she wanted after all. But Ardour realised he would never know what she was saying. He hadn’t heard her, because the woman had been praying to a piece of wood, and he wasn’t that any longer.

And so he had returned to the city.

They had cried out her name, they had cheered her as she entered the city, but she wished they were calls of derision, she wished they were shouts of fury.

They had filled the city with flowers, they had flung sweet-scented roses at her, but she wished they were stones, she wished they were arrows tipped with poison.

Journey knew well how to fight. But she did not know how to deal with a city of fools, who had given her the whole land, and hated her because of it. They had sent back the mouse of the messenger, accepting her terms of defeat, and alongside it valuable jewels, prettily carved boxes, and richly embroidered gowns. Fit for a queen. Unlike her blood-soiled cloak, which was fit only for a barbarian conqueror. That had to be discarded, although it was soaked with revenge. And her leathers and furs which let her fight free. They too had to be put away.

So that riding into the city she was shivering with cold, and fury, dressed in silks, with clothes as bright as those worn by performers on a stage, who only wanted to parrot other people’s words. A crowd of pale faces had surrounded her – they had called out her name – as she had ridden at the head of her army.

And a crowd of pale faces surrounded her day by day, either terrified servants who followed after her with goblets of wine, or platters of food; or terrified advisers who asked her a thousand questions about the rebuilding of roads and cities and trade routes which her battles had disrupted. And who were never satisfied with her answers.

She had chosen the central tower for her own quarters; at the very top was her own chamber, a large room with luxurious hangings, skilfully worked tapestries, and a sunken bath. It had broad windows, which afforded a view of the city, and of the sea, as well.

There was a little room below hers, in the tower, where she housed the only person she trusted – Blithe. It was a modest chamber, but she had remembered to fit it with table and chair for writing, and shelves for holding scrolls, as well as a large number of candlesticks. Somehow she felt a little better for having her friend so close.

The last chamber, only a little larger than a cupboard, was where she placed Ardour’s icon. It was dark and cramped, but she knew the image would be safe there.

She placed a guard at the entrance to the tower, and allowed no one, not even her advisers, to trouble her there. Instead she came down to them, in the main hall, day after day, from the very morning to late into the night, and argued, until her head spun with words, and she found herself parroting things she did not understand or believe. Sometimes she saw herself, with her painted face in borrowed clothes, sitting on a garish throne, and she wondered what on earth she had done.

“I can rid the land of them for you.”

She had come to him, to the dark room, to clutch the icon and call for his advice about a strategy, to subjugate a group of rebels who still railed against her.

“What?” In her surprise, Journey almost turned and faced the spirit behind her. Then she remembered the last time she had turned to him.

“At your word they can be gone. I can do that.”

“Why?” It broke from her before she thought. Then she shook her head and pursed her lips, as though she could take the word back. “I have had blood on my hands before, that is nothing to me.”

She felt him hesitate behind her.

“The whole city accepts my rule, apart from these few. I am –“ She stopped. “I am the queen. I sit on my throne and rule the land. They look to me for law and I dole it out to them. This is who I am.”

That is not all you are. Blithe’s words echoed in her mind. But she had stopped saying that long ago.

Her friend had been happy with the room she had set up for her. Had been happy to teach her how to wear the strange clothing of the city, to eat in the tedious manner of the city-dwellers. But now she avoided her eyes, as though the kohl about them frightened her; she avoided her presence, as though her new voice hurt her ears.

When she called for her, to read a missive from a town far away, or to pen a letter on her behalf, she would do so willingly, but Journey realised she had not come to her otherwise, not in a long time.

She made for the door, leaving the icon carefully perched within the recess in the wall.

“Wait.”

Journey felt her arms fill with a soft, thick garment, heavy and dark.

“What is it?”

“It is a cloak – it will make you invisible –“

He was gone after those words – Journey felt his presence depart from the place. She shook out the cloak, noting the fineness of its weave under her fingertips. Then she sought out the scribe.

“What is it?” the scribe asked, looking up with her innocent face at the queen.

“It is a cloak – he says it will make me invisible –“ Journey laughed tentatively.

“Put it on,” Blithe directed, in firmer tones than those Journey had heard in a while. She obeyed - and when she did all her features were lost under its black folds; her dark hair, her eyes, her womanliness. She could have been anyone; no one would know she was the Conqueror.

“So that is what he meant,” Journey sighed. She watched as Blithe laughed and put it on herself, hiding her small body, her fairness, under its dark enormity.

“Perhaps he knew you wanted to hide from it,” Blithe said acutely, giving the cloak back into her arms.

“I didn’t know it myself,” Journey replied softly. She moved to the door, and then turned back.

“Is that what I must do with it?”

But the scribe did not answer.

There was another door, from Journey’s own room, which led to a passage deep within the tower walls, and which came out just outside the palace grounds.

Sometimes as she slipped down the dusty and damp staircase she wondered who had built the underground way. A king, with a hidden lover? A queen, with a secret child?

At nights she would pull the warm cloak around her and emerge hidden, from a palace, into a street. Into the marketplace which never slept. The torches would shine brighter than the stars, and the music would rise up, and people would open their doors and come out. And so she came.

It had been so long.

The very first night she ventured out, there was a great dance, and a man clutched at her hand and drew her into the wild spinning. The people swirled around her as they had when she had come into the city, but their faces didn’t mock her, they were filled with laughter instead, and she laughed with them.

On the next night she stood with a group of children and watched a street performer, balancing a dozen balls in the air, flipping and jumping, unable to be still. She laughed as the children scattered, afraid, when he put on a carved mask; and when they returned at the sound of his horn.

Sometimes Journey would pass over a coin, and purchase a sweet fruit, tearing the flesh off the rind and murmuring thanks to the vendor. She would wait till the dawn and see the fishers come with their load, muttering words about the sea, as though it was a goddess.

She had never known a city.

A line of beggars waited by the wall, old soldiers with missing limbs, women with faces shrivelled by age, shrunken children. Hunger stared out of their eyes, and she saw the number grow day by day, as more refugees from the burnt city stumbled in.

Journey remembered her tribe, as though it had been long ago, like a childhood. How everyone could look the other in the face, the laughter at nights around the fires, the joy at a good hunt. All that was lost to her now. She had communion with no other, apart from her scribe.

She watched for the rebels, as though Ardour had given her the cloak with that purpose, although she knew that wasn’t true. She had said that the people loved her, and that those who spoke out against her were few. But now she saw that although the people muttered to Serene, or to the sea, they never mentioned her without a curse. Buyer or seller, the old or the young, those with coin and those without. The people were separated by many things; but they were united in their hatred of her.

She could not find the rebels; they were all around her.

"Tell me -" Blithe spoke up, after listening to Journey’s stumbling words about the city, about the freedom of the cloak. "Tell me when you called out for Ardour."

Journey's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think I ever did -" And then she sighed, because she could not help but look upon Blithe's face and know it was innocent.

"I called out to him at the same time everyone calls out to such a spirit," Journey told her. "When a woman is in love she hearkens to Serene; when she gives birth she offers praises to the spirit of peace. But when she is angry – when she is insane with fury and longs only for revenge – she sheds her own blood and cries out to Ardour to give her the strength to slay, and slay, and never look back."

"And so you did."

Journey nodded, once.

"And so I did."

When Ardour next appeared at her calling, Journey turned and stood face to face with him.

“I am the queen.”

His eyes were wide with astonishment – his mouth was suddenly dry.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I have the land, and the city, too.”

“Yes,” he replied again.

She laid down the icon, and continued to watch him carefully.

“So how is it you were able to give me something –“

He had no answer for her; he would have had no answer to any question at all, not when she looked at him, at his face, not when her brow wrinkled in puzzlement, her eyes narrowed in confusion. If the stories told of a woman who could transform a man to stone by her gaze, then the stories needed to be changed. If the stories told of a woman’s voice leading a man to his death, then the stories needed to be retold. Her eyes made him live. Her voice changed his heart from wood to flesh.

He looked at her until she turned from him, and fled the room.

What Journey had feared came to pass. Now she had seen his eyes, she saw them everywhere.

The dark intensity of Ardour's gaze upon her had driven all other thoughts from her mind. This was the spirit of darkness, this the spirit of passion, wild freedom, night, and war. He stood tall before her, clad as she had once been clad in leather, with a sword hanging by his side. His hair as dark as her own, his eyes darker, not reflecting the blue of the sky by day, but the blackness of it at night. Something about him glowed, and yet he was more shadow than light. But he was a man. She had touched him, kissed him even and had not really believed it. Now she saw him and knew it was true. The icon she had held was nothing at all. Before her stood a man.

And now as she slipped on his cloak, his gift to her, she remembered his gaze. And now, as she dashed down the staircase, back along the passage and out into the streets, she saw it again. Again as she wandered through the marketplace, and out a side gate to the ports, watching the waves crash down and the gulls circle about the fishermen.

She remembered when she had first sensed his presence, when she had ridden over the land, her hair wild, her voice crying out, with joy. His voice had joined her. When she remembered that she returned quickly to her tower, pulling off the cloak, and all her clothing, and scrubbing herself clean - either from the dust of the street or the scent of the palace.

"I saw sixteen men today who lost legs serving me, and are begging on the streets," she said to Blithe, who held her dusty clothes as she bathed.

"I saw dozens of orphans, whose parents were slain at my hand."

Blithe was silent. "I saw a girl, younger than you, who was heavy with child after being attacked in that city I burned. You know that city," Journey went on deliberately, but the scribe did not make a sound.

Then Journey sighed. "They say the Conqueror must die."

"Perhaps she must," the girl agreed surprisingly.

Journey's face turned sharply up to that of her friend.

"What?"

"Perhaps the Conqueror must die, for all the things she has done," the scribe told her softly. "Perhaps she must, so that Journey might live."

Journey listened carefully, washing out her oiled hair, combing it gently through.

"Or perhaps those who plot against me must die," Journey suggested carefully. "So that the others are free to obey me."

"Can you conquer souls, Conqueror?" Blithe asked her seriously. "You only own all of me if I give it to you -"

Journey lifted herself from the bath and encased her body in a wide linen towel. "You give me words and ideas that once meant nothing at all to me," she admitted. "I didn't know there were other ways of dying, or living."

“Yes, you did,” Blithe returned. “Because you lived a different way before.”

She did not come his room that evening, nor the following. Ardour watched her, waiting, discovering that he could feel afraid.

It was nearly a week before she opened the door and picked up the heavy icon. She waited a moment and called his name.

"Here," she said, almost before Ardour had had a chance to materialise.

She grabbed his hand, though he had appeared standing behind her, and placed his two fingers to the place above her collarbone. "Press here," she said, "and that’s the only way you’ll release me from my guilt."

Ardour was still a moment before he moved around and looked at her directly.

When she saw his eyes her face changed, and she dropped his hand, looking away.

"Did you expect I would know nothing of guilt?" Ardour asked.

Her mouth was dry, suddenly, and she wanted nothing more than to grab his hand again, and to look back at his face, at his eyes which followed her everywhere.

“What do you mean?” she whispered, and turned, grabbing at the icon, as though she could forget who he was.

“I saw you on the plains, and I brought you to the city. Do you think I should not be ashamed?”

His power had surged through her, just as it had the night in the city, when she held him in her arms, closing her eyes –

Suddenly she dropped the image to the ground and fled.

Ardour could not move. He knew his tamed bird was learning her freedom. His heart thudded too loudly for thoughts. He could not move. Now he wanted to see her again as he had at first, the lone woman on horseback, her hair flying out wild and free behind her. He knew that the Conqueror would never be seen like that again.

They came for her three weeks later; they turned against her, every one, and stormed the tower, killing the scribe who stood in front of her, unarmed. Her blood spilt over the cloak, and soaked the brightly-coloured cloths that covered the bed.

It had been late; she had dismissed her court, and had gone upstairs to her tower, finding Blithe poring over a scroll filled with stories. Blithe had found it deep within the recesses of the palace library; ancient stories, legends, and they both laughed and wondered at them.

Then the palace had shaken, and there had been shouts, and Journey had moved over to the window, to see what was happening in the city. But it seemed unmoved. When she turned back it was to see the soldiers standing at her door, and then entering her chamber with ugly cries, and faces transformed by bitter laughter. Her friend had jumped in front of her, and a soldier had run her through without a thought.

The girl had cried out her name.

At the sound of her voice they had cut her again, and then she died.

Journey had remembered that Blithe had told her she must die. But they did not kill her. They bound her and took her to a dark place beneath the palace, where they hurt her. It seemed unnecessary to Journey, because they had done everything to her they could, once Blithe was dead.

The little dungeon had been unknown to Journey. It was a cold place, built like the rest of the palace within the thickness of the stone city walls. It was windowless, and had a door of oak. She was hung up from the small ceiling, and burned, and cut, and mocked, and hit. But she had already been hurt.

Everything in the city was changing above her, while she was away in the recesses of the earth, in the silence just before death. New men, new women, were being appointed to rule the land, whether for good or for ill no one would know, not for a long time. Those who had whispered in corners and who had met in darkness were now shouting in the light, were standing up for all to see. But she remained in the dark.

On the third day Journey took a sharp nail which had been embedded into her flesh, and cut at the ropes which held her. At dusk she fell to the ground, unhindered. She waited for the guards to change, then began to shout filthy insults through the door, until, infuriated, the man stormed in to silence her.

After he died she climbed up the stairs and out the first window she saw.

The moon was full and bright. The stones of the tall towers glowed, and she saw that her friend hung there. Her body was so broken that Journey was glad she had seen her die.

There were lights in every other place, but the middle tower lay in shadows. So they had left it, because of fear of the sorceries she had done there, or fear that whoever stayed there would be tainted with her memory. It was well for her. She remembered the secret ways she had come and gone from the tower, cloaked, and so she moved again, up to her room, where she found her own plain leathers to clothe herself, and out to the window, where she pulled her friend from the wall and into her arms.

Journey reminded herself that she had seen her die, and die quickly.

It was not far from her tower room to the dark recess where she had placed the featureless icon. Pushing open the door, she saw the figure had fallen to the ground, but that the hard wood was unbroken. She took it in her hand and opened her mouth to call Ardour.

He did not come.

Journey found herself trembling; she found that her entire body was shuddering, and that she could not keep her eyes away from Blithe’s face. The girl was so light. She balanced easily in her arms, even with the hardwood icon heavy in her hand.

“Ardour, come – I have need of you –“ she repeated unsteadily, but she could feel that his presence had left the dark place.

They had snapped her neck, as though they were afraid she might still live, after a sword thrust through the stomach, after another through the heart. The terrible wounds gaped on her naked body. And her head lolled – they hadn’t even closed her eyes –

“Ardour –“ Journey gave a gasp and could not go on. With all the strength she had left, she threw the black figure at the wall, hoping for the satisfaction of a crash, a crunch of wood, some destruction. But it remained unmarred.

Instead she fell to her knees, her arms pressing Blithe to her entirely, her head bowed, her eyes squeezed shut. She took great shuddering breaths, and then let out a cry that echoed throughout the tower.

“My friend! My friend my friend my friend . . . my friend is dead. My friend is dead, dead, dead . . .”

She found herself rocking endlessly, she found herself unable to breathe, to see, to hear, to do anything other than cry out again and again in her loss. There were no tears for her, and there was entirely no hope. This time she was completely alone.

She felt unsteadily amongst her clothes for a dagger, and clutched it, but before she could make any further move, he appeared to her.

He had not been there when the soldiers had thrust the blade into the scribe, into Journey’s heart; he had not been there when they hung the queen in the dungeon and beat her cruelly.

He had not heard her when she grabbed the icon, when she uttered petition for his presence. If he had ever been god, or spirit, or in any way a piece of blackened wood in her hand, then he was no longer.

Else he would have been there.

She had a dagger in her hand, and he wondered quietly whether it was to cut herself and swear vengeance, as she had once done, or whether to do away with herself altogether. He put his hand on the blade; he did not want to know.

She looked up, her face swollen with grief, her black hair tumbling around her shoulders, a mass of knots, sticky with blood. This woman had done magic. She had transformed him from a stone into something miraculous.

He saw she opened her mouth to speak again, and he stopped her, afraid of what she might ask. To be changed into stone or earth or fury –

"Promise me your body, and your scribe shall live."

The words fell from his mouth unbidden.

"You can bring her back -"

He was no longer wood or stone. In her arms he had become transformed; and so in his she would change also. He had caught and imprisoned her, as surely as a man catches a singing bird and cages it for his own pleasure. Now he would set her free.

"I can," he assured her, although he did not tell her how. Then he repeated his request, and saw her stare at him in confusion. He knew that it would have been a something small from any other - but she hesitated.

"Don't ask me this," and she touched him on the arm. "We have always been –" and then she did not know the word to use, for surely it was not appropriate to say friend to the spirit of war . . .

But he would ask her, because without his touch she would not know she was loved; without his touch she would not know she was free.

"Very well," Journey said coldly, "but give her to me."

Ardour laid his hand on the scribe and she opened her eyes. Her first sight was his face; the mortality in his face.

He took them then to a mountain far away, on the other side of the land, leaving the city to rage itself into wholeness. He was as ancient as the mountain – or had been – and she was as young as the trees which sprung up from it. There were a thousand thousand of them, but she was greater than even the mountain.

That night Journey came to him dressed in a strange white garment, as though she were come to the sacrifice. She had the words ready to say, that she had promised him, that she had given her word.

"Come," Ardour said quietly, and held her by her hand, a little distance away, letting her remove the white thing from her body.

His tenderness disarmed her. She had never feared him, he knew, not the once, but he could see her terror now, on her skin, where her pulse throbbed. She could scarcely breathe. And not once did she distance herself from him with a smile. Ardour knew she was not in fear of her body, but of her heart.

"What have you done to me?" Journey asked, holding his hand where it had fallen. As though Ardour had placed her under an enchantment. She could not help shaking. She knew that if any other man had asked for her, she would have been scornful, she would never have trembled. But somehow she knew he was not asking for her body; but for something else she had, locked far away, afraid to loose.

"You’re cold," he said, and he laid her down on the blanket. He found that he was frightened, too, but he knew he could not say such a thing to her. She had already changed him; he knew that she could only alter him further and that it was dangerous folly to continue.

She seemed terrified of him moving so close that she could no longer deny he was there. For an instant she closed her eyes, but when he touched her again – soft – her eyes opened once more, this time pleadingly. She did not want him to continue.

Ardour stayed sitting beside the folded blanket, while she lay back. He waited for her. He would wait for her forever.

"I gave you my word," she said, knowing there was only one way out. That was for him to release her from her bargain. Even then, she would still be in his debt.

"This will destroy us," she said. Then her eyes widened, as though she finally understood what was happening, what bond she had just acknowledged. She threw her right hand across her mouth, curved across her mouth, and she bit down on her own thumb.

Ardour bent down his head to the breast that lay in his hand. He pressed his lips once against it, warm, soft, and she gave out a cry like a bird. Then she moved like a wild thing into his arms.

...h.o.m.e...
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