‘A kreel,’ he whispered in amazement. He smiled, delighted with the sculpture and wondering what Gilwyn would think of it. He continued, and soon came across a statue smaller than the rest, of a tiny girl at prayer. Locked forever in a kneel, her eyes eternally closed, she seemed perfect in the square, totally silent and reverent. Lukien moved on.
Deeper into the city, he left the square behind and entered an avenue of homes and overgrown, abandoned gardens. With daylight quickly fading, he considered going into one of the homes for shelter, but then decided against it. None of them looked particularly stable, and the thought of being surrounded by ghosts unnerved him. He stopped his horse at the
gate of one of the homes, somewhat grander than the rest, with a large garden out front and the pillars of a gate, the wood from which had long ago turned to dust. Lukien dismounted, studying the place as he tied his mount to one of the pillars. The two-story structure held the familiar markings of Akari architecture, with long, graceful arches and rounded turrets. A rich man’s house, Lukien supposed. The garden itself was at least a half an acre in size and studded with tall trees that had grown up through the carefully laid bricks. Birds nested in the trees. For the first time, Lukien noticed their songs.
‘Here, then,’ he declared, supposing it as good a spot as any to wait out the night. He could not make it through the city in the dark, and he was bone-tired from his long day of riding. Tomorrow he would continue on, searching for the Serpent King, but tonight he would rest among the Akari ruins. And, if he was lucky, he would have another dream to light his way. Deciding to explore the garden before settling down, he walked to the threshold of the old home. Where once a wooden door had stood, now only iron hinges hung, uselessly rusted. Lukien peered inside.
‘Hello?’
The darkened interior echoed with a cavernous yawn. Lukien didn’t bother stepping inside. In his younger days he might have enjoyed exploring the home, but now he was tired, and the emptiness of the place only made him feel more alone. He retreated from the threshold, stepping back into the garden. An iron trestle, rusted and dilapidated, caught his eye at the far end of the yard. A clearing had been made there. Lukien studied it as he neared the flat ground. Once, the area had been lovingly tended, or so he imagined, full of roses and fragrant plants. Even now, a few hearty ancestors of those plants rose up from the weeds, bursting brightly into colour. It was the only real life Lukien had seen in the city, and the flowers made him grin. He went to them, pushing past some thorny shrubs, and stuck his nose into a yellow bloom. Along with the birdsongs and light breeze, he heard bees making music. Because no one had told them the city had died, they went on about their busy work, hopping from flower to flower.
Lukien returned to his horse to collect his saddle bags and bedroll. He had a meagre meal planned for himself, just the dried out things he had collected in the last town a week ago, but he knew that soon he would be able to hunt in the forest. Tomorrow, he would have fresh meat, and this thought buoyed him as he laid out his bed for the night. He would make a small fire, too, have his poor supper, and sleep well in the garden of this dead rich man. But as he began unpacking his bags, he noticed another feature of the garden he hadn’t seen before, near the trestle. What looked like a grave marker jutted from the earth, mostly hidden behind bramble.
Lukien pushed aside the thorny sticks with his boot, kneeling down in front of the stone. It did indeed seem like a tombstone, but it was rectangular, like a pillar. About half as tall as Lukien, it had been carved with hundreds of words, long lines of them travelling its entire surface. Lukien ran his hand over the rough stone, feeling the carvings. They were Akari words, he supposed, similar to Jadori symbols. Since he couldn’t read Jadori, either, he couldn’t guess at their meaning. Names, perhaps. He looked down at the ground.
‘Of the people buried here?’
He backed away from the marker, unsettled by it but unwilling to find himself another spot for the night. He was too tired, and whoever might be buried here was too long dead to trouble him. Deciding it better to stay put, he sat himself down on his bedroll and stared up into the darkening sky. He had already laid some food next to him, and as he watched the stars he ate of his dried meat and hardtack, sipping water in between bites to soften the unpalatable fare. The sky quickly darkened as the sun finally faded completely. Lukien chewed slowly, listening as the birds fell silent and the insects took over, chirping and buzzing. An orchestra of stars came out, one by one twinkling to life. They were different stars then he’d seen up north in Liiria, though much the same as they appeared in Jador, and seeing them comforted Lukien, for he knew that he was not far from Minikin and Gilwyn and all the others he had left behind. As he stared into the sky, he imagined their faces in the constellations – little Minikin, with her upturned ears and sharp, knowing smile, and Gilwyn, too, so quickly becoming a man. Lukien, whose left eye was gone and covered with a patch, focused his good eye on the stars and tried to picture Cassandra. She was there, he knew, somewhere.
‘In the land of the dead,’ he whispered to himself.
That’s what she had said when she had come to him. And he had been with her there, so close to death himself that he had breached the wall between their worlds.
‘Cassandra, are you there?’ he asked the stars. ‘I know you are. I know you can see me. I’m close now. I’ve made it to Kaliatha. Soon I’ll find the Sword of Angels.’ He smiled, sure that she heard him. Cassandra was like an Akari now, out of sight but only just beyond his reach. He continued, ‘I’ll find the Serpent Kingdom, Cassandra, just like you told me. I’ll defeat Thorin so we can be . . .’
He stopped himself, blinking at the sky. She didn’t want them to be together, not that way. Not until his time had come.
Lukien swallowed his last bit of beef and closed his eyes. Feeling sleep quickly overtaking him, he wondered if Amaraz would come to him again, the way he had so many nights before. It was not like being talked to, but rather a feeling of being pulled. In all their time together, Amaraz
had never addressed Lukien directly. Being so ignored had embittered
Lukien, but tonight he welcomed the Akari into his mind.
Lukien slept.
Hours passed quietly, and Lukien did not awaken while he slumbered. His exhausted body craved the rest, making him sleep deeply and dreamless. At well past midnight he finally stirred, sensing a presence around him. He tried to open his eye but could not. Then a voice sounded, sweet and calming. Not Cassandra’s voice, and not Amaraz’ mighty boom, either. It was a voice Lukien had never heard before, and it snatched him from sleep into something just on the verge of wakefulness.
He sat up, looking around, and yet he knew he had not truly awakened. A man stood in front of him, smiling, his face and hands shimmering like light on water. Neither old nor young, his features bore the same sharpness as the Akari statues Lukien had encountered in the square, with a long, dimpled chin and slightly turned-up ears. His clothing seemed Akari too, mostly loose-fitting robes pinned with a broach at his chest and sandals on his feet. His eyes were wide with curiosity.
‘What is this?’ Lukien asked. At once he heard his voice, echoing the way it had when he’d encountered Cassandra. ‘Is this the place of the dead?’
‘No, it is not,’ the man replied. ‘You are in your world, the world of men.’ He laughed happily. ‘You are the first to come here in more years than I could ever count! Who are you?’
‘Who am I? Who are you?’ Lukien got to his feet, keeping his distance. ‘I’m not awake, am I? This isn’t real.’
‘It isn’t a dream, if that’s what you’re thinking. You are still asleep, my friend. And you were the one who came to me, remember?’ The man pointed at the grave marker. ‘You touched my story stone.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lukien offered, not really sure why he was apologizing. ‘I didn’t know . . . story stone?’
‘There,’ said the man, again gesturing at the marker. ‘But you’re not an Akari. You don’t know what a story stone is, do you?’
‘It looked like a tombstone to me. I didn’t mean to disturb it.’
‘You delight me, friend. You didn’t disturb me – you called to me.’ The man who was not quite a man came closer. ‘My name is Raivik. I am an Akari. You know what that is, don’t you?’
Lukien nodded, still confused. ‘You are an Akari? Yet I can understand you. How is that possible?’
‘You wear something around your neck,’ said Raivik. ‘A relic of my people.’
‘You mean the Eye of God.’ Lukien touched the amulet immediately. In this dreamscape, his hand felt real and unreal at the same time. ‘Yes, I see. You are speaking in my mind.’
‘That’s right,’ the man assured him. ‘You have an Akari with you now. I sensed it the moment you called to me. I can feel him now. He makes my words real to you.’
‘You mean he’s translating?’ asked Lukien, pleased at the prospect of Amaraz helping him. ‘That could be, yes. But I didn’t call to you. Or at least I never meant to. I’m just travelling through here. I didn’t even think this city still held life.’
‘It does not,’ said Raivik. ‘We are all dead.’
‘Then this is the realm of the dead.’
‘No,’ the Akari corrected. ‘This is your world. You summoned me here. I am Raivik, and that is my story stone.’ He pointed at the marker. ‘And there is my house and this is my city, such as it is. When I was alive, like you, I dwelt in this place.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ said Lukien. ‘If this isn’t the realm of the dead, then how are you able to speak to me? You are not my Akari; you’re not bound to me. I’m confused, Raivik.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ laughed the spirit. ‘You carry an Akari with you, yet you do not understand our ways? Strange.’ Again he gestured to the odd piece of rock. ‘That is my story stone. My family planted it there when I died, so that they could speak to me. They were summoners. Do you understand that much?’
‘I think so,’ said Lukien, remembering what little Minikin had told him of the Akari. The Akari of Grimhold were all dead members of Raivik’s race, willing to bind themselves to the living to help them. Summoners were the magicians among them. Amaraz had been a summoner, as had Kahldris. ‘A summoner was someone who could commune with the dead. But I’m not a summoner – how can I be talking to you?’
‘Through the story stone. That’s how it is here. If a summoner makes a story stone . . . well, look here . . .’ Raivik moved easily through the plants, pushing them aside, then knelt down next to the marker. ‘Come, friend, let me show you.’
Lukien went to stand beside the man. The whole thing seemed unbelievable, yet he had experienced so many oddities since meeting Minikin that this one seemed almost prosaic.
‘Those words,’ he said, pointing out the symbols carved along the stone. ‘What do they mean?’
‘That’s my story,’ Raivik declared proudly. ‘All about me. My family made this stone. They told my story here.’
Intrigued, Lukien knelt near the stone. ‘What does it say?’
‘It says that I am Raivik and that I was a great merchant. I sold garments and fabrics from all around this part of the world, and that I was trusted by my customers.’ Raivik’s face grew calm as he told the tale. ‘I had two sons and two daughters, and a wife named Jinia, my beloved. I brought this house for her when we were married.’
The story delighted Lukien. ‘Go on.’
Raivik caressed the stone as if it were an infant. ‘It says that I was loved.’ There was an odd silence as the Akari stared at the stone. He seemed to sigh. ‘But that is all over now. All gone.’ His hand fell away from the stone. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘I am Lukien, from Liiria,’ Lukien answered. ‘But I’m also from Jador and Grimhold. You know those places, yes?’
Raivik wrinkled his nose. ‘I know those places, but how can you be from both of them? Grimhold is an Akari place, an outpost. Jador is, well, Jadori. The Jadori are our enemies.’
The statement puzzled Lukien. ‘Enemies? No, not any more. Not for hundreds of years.’
‘Because they killed us.’
‘No, because they have changed,’ said Lukien. ‘They’re not warlike any more. They’re peaceful. Don’t you know that?’
‘Lukien of Liiria, I know nothing more than what happened to me when I died. When the Jadori killed my people there were no more visitors to my stone to tell me what had happened in this world. You are the first.’
‘But how can that be? You’re an Akari. All the Akari know what’s happened. They—’
He stopped himself, remembering what Minikin had told him. Only the Akari of Grimhold lived in both worlds. It was one reason why they helped the Inhumans, so that they could live on in the normal, living world they adored.
‘Apologies,’ said Lukien. ‘I didn’t know. In Grimhold, where I come from, the Akari speak to the people. They have hosts, like me, and they live in the world.’ He gestured to the dark landscape and stars. ‘This world.’
The news enchanted Raivik. His face grew curious, then sad as he touched his story stone. ‘The people of Grimhold were slaughtered by the Jadori. They were among the first to die. Some of us could put ourselves into objects, but they were the summoners. Only the strongest of summoners, in fact.’ He reached out and nearly touched Lukien, letting his fingers hover over his chest. ‘This amulet you wear – it holds a summoner.’