The Song of the Sycamore, page 3
The Magician drew herself up. ‘With respect, Mr Sebastian, precautions have been taken. I allowed no ghoul to follow this man into this room.’
‘You might as well have. This thing attracts the dead from all places.’
I lifted my head and looked down the length of my body. I was naked. My knife wound had been stitched and the red lines of a spell criss-crossed my already scarred chest and stomach. I gazed beyond my feet, focusing on the far end of the room. A bloated mass was kept suspended two feet off the floor by a host of ceiling chains. Each chain disappeared into a dark, thick robe the size of a two-soldier tent. The mass was so large and misshapen that it couldn’t possibly belong to a human; and yet it was crowned with the triangle of a hood which some inner instinct told me hid intelligent, human eyes.
A man stood beside the mass. He was caked from head to foot in a pale grey chalky substance, dry and flaking upon his skin. A cloth bearing glyphs covered his eyes; a transparent mask covered his mouth. A line of what appeared to be viscous, snaking water flowed from the mask and joined the chains inside the tent-sized robe.
A distant memory reminded me that no one ever saw or heard the highest-ranking Magicians, the Grand Adepts of the Salem. Their every word and mood were channelled through a proxy. Eden had told me that.
The proxy pointed at me. ‘It is an animal. It ate your bodyguard’s thumb.’
My head thumped down to the floor. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth.
The Magician called Dyonne Obor said, ‘Tamara was a fool, Mr Sebastian. He should not have tried to steal from this man and learned his lesson the hard way.’
A derisive hiss came from behind the mask. ‘Why did you bring it to me?’
‘Because he has high value. I had good reason to bring his consciousness back from the brink.’
‘Explain. Quickly.’
‘Three days ago, this man returned from the wasteland carrying a great asset. His name is Wendal Finn, but the dead call him by another name, and it is the same name that we Magicians have all heard whispered in recent times.’
In my head, I begged them not to say it, to preserve the first state of peace I’d known since the war, but the naked proxy drew a shuddery breath and said it anyway.
‘Sycamore.’
That word … how many times had a ghoul wept it to me as though driving nails into my ears? People had died because of it.
‘So, this is him,’ the mass, the proxy – Mr Sebastian – said. ‘The killer who has been stalking Old Castle’s streets – I am not much impressed.’
‘As the Gardeners are my witness, his wrath is mighty,’ Dyonne said in Salabese. ‘Look beyond the host, sense for yourself how many ghouls are seeking retribution from what is inside him.’
‘Yes.’ A silent, contemplative pause. When the proxy spoke again, Mr Sebastian had changed his tone, now accepting yet still suspicious. ‘The host is young. Most war survivors return home filled with patriotism for the Scientists. We cannot be sure where this Wendal Finn’s loyalties lie, what kind of man he is.’
If they had asked me, I would’ve told them that my loyalty was all theirs if they could remove this thing that possessed me. I could feel Sycamore, somewhere deep in my being, slithering like a snake, searching for a weakness in the magic that was keeping him locked down inside me, searching for a way to rise again. Too true his fucking wrath was mighty. Given the chance, he’d have me kill every person in this room.
‘The wasteland changed Wendal Finn in wild ways,’ Dyonne said sternly. ‘The death of his wife has shattered his heart. He has nothing left but his skin and bones and an empty life. Wendal Finn is the perfect host, and we cannot allow him to walk the streets of Old Castle as a freeman.’
‘True, but I am not so convinced of his suitability.’
‘With respect, he would already be dead without my intervention, and I beg the Grand Adept of the Salem to remember the faith he has shown in my judgement in the past. Have I not delivered where others have failed?’ A sly lilt crept into Dyonne’s tone. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to let the Scientists discover Sycamore and convert him into a good citizen?’
‘Or I might prefer to throw the host to the wasteland and end the quandary here and now! Be mindful of who you are talking to, Dyonne Obor.’
Dyonne averted her gaze, suitably admonished. ‘Mr Sebastian, please. My intervention has trapped Sycamore but my spells will not last. They need bolstering with magic more adept than mine. I beg that you cast the Song of Always upon the host before it is too late.’
‘Oh, is that so?’
I wasn’t sure what they were talking about. The Song of Always – it rang a distant bell. Had Eden told me about it in the past? One thing was for sure, Sycamore didn’t like it, squirming somewhere inside me at its mention.
‘There is sense to endorsing such an adept spell,’ Dyonne pleaded. ‘Sycamore is ours, for now, but we can only use him in our feuds with the Scientists if he is kept tame and protected. If we do nothing, he will escape to claim a new host or disappear altogether.’
Shit. Feuds? I tried to speak again, but my tongue remained a dead slug in my mouth.
‘This is a dangerous entity that you believe we can tame.’
‘But it is infinitely more dangerous to let him loose. My judgement is sound, and is this not what the Salem desire?’
Mr Sebastian contemplated for a moment. ‘The risk of losing Sycamore to the Scientists is our greatest threat. The Gardeners only know how they might use him. I cannot deny that there is sense in casting the Song of Always to preserve Sycamore and keep him for ourselves, but Wendal Finn is disturbed, delicate. The host is in need of taming himself.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then would you act as his custodian, Dyonne Obor?’
‘Me?’
‘You have an objection?’
‘No!’ Dyonne used the perfect measure of surprise and pride. ‘You … you honour me, Mr Sebastian.’
‘Keep your trickster’s tongue still! Custody of the host is what you came here to claim, and now I entrust it to you. The Salem’s favour has been well earned, it seems, and you damn well know it.’
Dyonne bowed her head humbly.
‘Be warned,’ the proxy continued. ‘No living or unliving thing can gain access to this man unless you are given directive by me. Watch him closely, shield him at all times. If Wendal Finn cannot be controlled, he must die, and the spells cast that will banish Sycamore for good lest he come for us all.’
‘Of course.’
‘You have proved yourself worthy countless times, Dyonne Obor, but you will attend this responsibility with renewed and impeccable vigour. Do not disappoint the Salem.’
Dyonne looked down at me, a smirk on her lips, cold triumph in her eyes. ‘Understood, Mr Sebastian.’
If they said any more, I didn’t hear it. The bitter taste of magic scratched the back of my throat and once again darkness rushed in.
Chapter Six
‘Sycamore. How strange that name must sound from the lips of the living.’
I hadn’t realised my eyes were open until Dyonne came into sharp relief. She had moved me to my home, a sad single room on the third floor of a five-storey lodging house which still held the fading atmosphere of a happier life. Dyonne sat on my bed, and I on a chair within a ring of magical script written in chalk on the floorboards. I had been dressed in a simple shirt and trousers. Beneath the shirt, the spell branded onto my body itched. The stitches in my wounds felt tight. The whole right side of me ached.
There was something out of place in my lodgings, a threatening presence that wouldn’t quite come into view, as if it were shrouded in shadow, but thankfully Dyonne was alone.
‘Wendal, if you’re worrying about Tamara, he is elsewhere having his wound dressed, pining for the time when he had two thumbs, no doubt. I don’t think he and you will be friends.’
My hand was clenched into a tight fist. Fingers unfurled stiffly to reveal a chain sitting on my palm. It was threaded through mine and Eden’s wedding bands. The rings were real metal and the only things of worth that I owned, materially and emotionally. I looped the chain over my head, disturbed that someone else had touched the rings but comforted by their presence as I tucked them under my shirt.
I glared at Dyonne. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Acceptance.’ Amused, Dyonne tapped the books lying on the bed beside her. Eden’s journals, piled up beside the letters I’d written her from the wasteland. ‘It seems your wife had an interest in magic. But she was a dabbler, not even yet a novice.’
My gaze lingered on the letters and journals. ‘Those aren’t for your eyes.’
‘Oops. Too late.’
Dyonne’s voice was fine and smooth as smoke drifting in the air. I felt calm but strange. It was as though the two of us sat safe inside a bubble of stark clarity, beyond which the rest of my lodgings were obscured by a smeared darkness. Ghouls, I quickly realised, pressed against Dyonne’s magic, trying to get to Sycamore but held back in silent turmoil.
‘I can make this a permanent arrangement for you,’ Dyonne said. ‘Keep the ghouls at bay for good. Mostly.’
With thoughts clearer than they had been in a long time, I accepted that I was in the shit up to my neck whichever way I looked at the situation. ‘What do you want?’
‘The bigger question is what do you want?’ She gestured to the letters and journals. ‘These belong to a life that is over now, Wendal. I can replace them with whatever you desire. Women? Men? Intoxication? You could live a life of impunity and hedonism. Within reason.’
Within reason … Sycamore remained an ache inside me, like bad food poisoning my gut. But he was still, as though he slept. How long would that last? I was no fool and neither was this woman. Secrets, double-edged pacts and dangerous games – that was what the Magicians were about. Dyonne Obor was searching for whatever would encourage me into subservience, and that was the one thing I thought I’d leave behind in the war.
‘Well?’ Dyonne said softly. ‘What is it to be?’
I was hardly in a position to say no thanks then walk away and rebuild my life as a normal citizen. The Magicians wanted Sycamore and they had used me to trap him. They weren’t letting him or me go now. I supposed Dyonne was offering to help me make the best of a bad situation. She had pulled me back from the brink of Sycamore’s oblivion, given me a second chance at life, but only by dumping me into a no-win scenario. Could I feel grateful for that? I didn’t want to die, but what did I want?
My gaze drifted up to the ghouls smeared blackly across Dyonne’s magic. The wasteland had opened my eyes to many things, most especially the horde of spirits roaming Urdezha. The dead didn’t always journey on to the other side, more often than most realised.
‘I want to talk to my wife.’ The words came unbidden, in a rush, as though thinking about them too long might steal the chance away. I pointed at the dead pressing down on us. ‘She must be among them.’
‘It is possible,’ Dyonne said dubiously.
‘Can you find her?’
‘What makes you think she wants to be found?’
From among the letters, Dyonne plucked out Eden’s official notice of death and sent it fluttering into the air with a sound like crackling flames. People who killed themselves were never happy in the world they had left behind. What had made my wife so unhappy that she had ended her own life?
I stared at the notice on the floor. ‘I need to know.’
‘To what end, Wendal? You can’t change what has happened. Or is Eden supposed to haunt you, her spirit bound to you in … what? Everlasting love?’
‘I don’t know, I …’ I didn’t like this calm; it was unnaturally induced and alien. An effect, no doubt, of the spell seared into my skin. I dug beneath it, discovering ever more of the real me that Sycamore had repressed. ‘I just want to talk to her.’
‘Hmm.’ Dyonne looked unconvinced. ‘The dead occasionally have their uses – they led us to your location in Old Castle, for example. But to seek their help in finding one lost spirit among the infinite horde and chaos?’ She gestured to the ghouls filling my lodgings, her face awed. ‘Look at them all. I won’t deal with the dead so intimately, for every Magician knows madness lies that way.’
Funny how I believed her while wondering if she was telling the truth. My jaw set and my resolve hardened. If any warmth in my heart had been saved from Sycamore, any memory of the good life I had once led, it was because of Eden.
‘You asked me what I want, and I want my wife.’
Dyonne pondered. ‘I suppose I could steer you in the right direction. But this kind of help comes at a price, Wendal.’
The conversation between Dyonne and Mr Sebastian rattled around my brain and I placed a hand over the wedding bands beneath my shirt. ‘What price?’
‘Oh, I think you already know the answer to that.’ The predator returned to Dyonne’s eyes. ‘Sycamore belongs to the Salem, the Magicians. The only question left is how willingly his host will allow us to use the gift he has been given.’
Yes, I knew it, but I recoiled all the same. She was talking about the reason I’d spent the last month wanting to bore a hole in my head and pull out my brain. ‘Fuck you!’
Dyonne clucked her tongue. ‘Do try to retain a little dignity, Wendal. It will make this negotiation far simpler for all concerned.’
‘What negotiation?’ I tensed on the chair and pain flared from my wounds. ‘Cooperate or die – that’s the choice you’re giving me.’
‘Yes, we would kill you, if you left us with no option.’ Dyonne’s smile lacked kindness. ‘It is also possible that we would lock you up in a room which never sees the sun and take what we want anyway. You heard what Mr Sebastian had to say, Wendal – if you insist on acting out like a fucking idiot, then this won’t end well for you.’
I chewed on my words for a moment. A game was nearly always won because a player understood the rules better than her opponent. Eden had told me that. I’d been losing this game since the day Sycamore had possessed me out on the wasteland.
‘You have become a unique creature, Wendal Finn, and what I’m offering is not your best but your only way forward. I will save you, if you’ll let me.’
‘This isn’t fair.’ Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. I did not want to die, but – ‘I never wanted this.’
‘Yet it is yours nonetheless, bright and terrible, and we Magicians are so thankful that we found you. We have need of Sycamore’s wrath, but we cannot allow him to roam free.’ Dyonne stood up, approached me, face sympathetic. ‘The war has filled the wasteland with the spirits of the dead, but this city has its own ghouls. They are imprisoned by the rage of their murders. Sycamore would give vengeance to them all if left unchecked. The Salem wishes to be more selective with his … clientele. In the meantime, you and I are to be his tamers.’
I wasn’t blind. Dyonne was offering me my sanity, control of my body – for the most part. The spells on my skin, the magic which had been forced upon me – they would keep Sycamore locked down, dormant inside his host, until such a time that the Magicians had need to let him out of his cage. To spill blood with my hands.
‘Think of Eden.’ Dyonne pursed her lips. ‘I will help you find her spirit, and all I ask in return is your obeisance. Is that really so bad?’
Fuck it all. Without this Magician there was nothing for me but darkness and a lonely death. No pleading, no bargaining would get me out of this, and Dyonne knew the name of the only woman who could hook my cooperation.
‘So, what do you say, Wendal? Have we reached an accord?’
I nodded and wept into my hands.
Slowly, tenderly, Dyonne pulled them away and stroked my hair. ‘You’re a lucky man.’ I half-laughed, half-cried at the absurdity. ‘It’s true. You are a romantic fool but lucky. I have never loved anyone as deeply as you love Eden. However …’
She stepped away and considered the ghouls with her back to me. ‘I trust you, but Mr Sebastian is concerned that the host for his asset is so damaged that he will prove to be a liability. Therefore, he has prepared a rare spell that will alter your perception of mortality.’
Dyonne opened her hand. On her palm, a crystal had appeared. It was uncut, jagged like a miniature mountain range, and gave off a faint rose-tinted silver hue. It was ether. A crystal of that size was worth more than everything anyone owned in this lodging house combined.
‘A safeguard for our deal, Wendal.’ Dyonne crushed the ether as though it was no tougher than dry sand and released the spell it held.
I knew what magic felt like; I’d experienced the vibrations and pressure on my skin and the dryness in my mouth in the past when I had been around Eden’s experiments. But the magic Dyonne summoned in that moment damn near ripped the air from my lungs. So powerful and elemental. Sound and vision became painfully sharp with an abruptness that made me groan.
The ghouls fled, retreating to the corners of the room.
Unnatural light glared off Dyonne’s bald head. Her pupils were so wide that her irises were thin hazel rings. For the first time, I noticed the scars on her hands, words of magic cut into her skin; and in one of those hands a weapon had materialised.
Short and silver, embossed with dark lines in a design that looked like foliage growing along its barrel – this was no ether-cannon, no kind of projectile weapon that I’d seen before. It looked ancient even by ancient’s standards. Dyonne aimed it at me. Fearful, confused, I stared into the black hole at the end of the barrel.
‘The Song of Always,’ Dyonne announced before pulling the trigger.
The weapon’s hammer fell upon a dirty, powdery combustible that ignited with a roar of thunder. I raised my hands but nothing hit me, and time slowed. Fire ballooned from the weapon with fluid grace; smoke rolled like waves on a grey sea. A shower of red sparks poured from the barrel, and through the smoke and fire came a spinning ball of metal.
