Mark Chadbourn - The Burning Man

All he could see was a silver clasp at the shoulder of her dirty, torn dress; tentatively, he reached for it.

The clasp became fluid, turning into a silver egg that sprouted eight legs. Mallory snatched his hand back.

‘It is a Caraprix,’ Jerzy said. ‘All the gods have them. Companions, confidantes … they have a strange power all their own.’

‘She wants me to take it.’ Mallory hesitated, then held out his hand palm upwards. The silver spider scuttled onto it, throbbing with light and power, though cool to the touch. Mallory held it up to eye-level.

Before he could react, it leaped, the sharp, silvery legs clinging to his face as it forced his lips open, then his teeth. He gagged, tried to rip it out, but it was like mercury, sliding through his fingers into his mouth and down his throat. The bulk of it closing his airway brought panic. Clawing at his throat, he saw stars, and then felt a sharp stabbing pain. A second later he was unconscious.

But the darkness led instantly to light. Fractured images passed before him, a world seen through oil, with a silvery landscape and a silvery sky merging into one. Enormous creatures moved against the distant skyline and after a while Mallory realised they were Caraprix, but greater and more powerful than he would ever have believed. With the vision came the knowledge that he, and everyone, had misjudged them: not pets or parasites, companions or confidantes. They were greater than anything in the Fixed Lands or the Far Lands, greater perhaps than everything.

He heard a voice saying, ‘The closer things are to the heart of Existence, the more fluid they become.’

But then the image shifted, and in that dreamy vision he saw warriors dressed all in black with hoods over their heads. Flashes of perception: the warriors running through the Court of Peaceful Days; Rhiannon’s warriors falling beneath sword and axe; and then the warriors advancing towards him, and Mallory realising he was seeing the scene through Rhiannon’s eyes. Another flash. Frightening yet incomprehensible images, and then a slow, subtle revelation …

Mallory came round with a concerned Jerzy leaning over him and the Caraprix scuttling away from his mouth and back to Rhiannon.

‘We have to get at the sword. We can use that to free Rhiannon,’ he said.

‘How do you know these things?’

‘It told me.’ Mallory examined the box again. ‘Touch this the wrong way and it’ll release a blade that’ll take your hands off at the wrist.’

‘You could just blow it up with gunpowder,’ Jerzy said archly.

‘Sarcasm. Good. You’ll be one of us in no time. Actually, that wouldn’t be a bad idea except I know for a fact that there’s only one way into it.’

Mallory steeled himself and went over to Rhiannon. Of all the Tuatha De Danann, she was one of the most compassionate and it was a tragedy that she suffered so. The hope in her wide eyes made it even worse.

‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ he began. ‘The only way to free you without killing you is with the sword. And the only way to open the box is with your hand. That’s the trick of the trap. Here you both are, a few feet apart, yet it’s a puzzle that’s impossible to solve.’ He took a deep breath to hide the tremor in his voice. ‘Or nearly impossible.’

She was trying to read his face, but couldn’t see the answer.

‘I can open the box if I cut off one of your hands.’

Her eyes stretched wider than he would have thought possible. The whine in her throat grew high-pitched once again. He wanted it to stop.

‘We don’t have to worry about shock or blood loss killing you. Your kind are tougher than that. But the pain will be unbearable. No anaesthetic, nothing to dull it. It could scar your mind for ever.’ He fought to calm his pounding heart so that he didn’t make it worse for her. ‘Do you want me to proceed?’

Her eyes continued to scan his face, searching for another way, hoping against hope. Finally she signalled her agreement. A single tear trickled from the corner of one eye to the edge of her mouth where it moistened the dry stitches.

‘Left or right?’

She indicated her left.

Mallory nodded as dispassionately as he could and turned to talk quietly to Jerzy. ‘Bring me a boning knife from the kitchens.’

‘Good friend, are you sure you can do this?’ Jerzy whispered.

‘The sick thing is, I’ve done much worse than this in my life. I can’t afford to be pathetic. I have to do it for her.’

‘You spoke of the pain scarring her mind. But this act will scar your own mind.’

‘Just fetch the knife, Jerzy.’

Jerzy returned with a leather-bound box. He tripped and the glittering contents skidded across the flags, cruel blades all, with barbs and serrations and razor edges.

‘Cool move, Jerzy,’ Mallory muttered.

Jerzy frantically gathered up the knives and Mallory took them out of Rhiannon’s view. He selected the one he thought would be quickest and cleanest and hid it behind his back.

‘Still a chance to back out,’ he said.

Tears swam in her eyes, but she indicated for him to continue.

‘I’d do the same in your position. You’re very brave.’

Mallory rested the edge of the knife on her wrist. It was cool, her skin smooth and delicately shaded. He fought to stop his hand from shaking.

The next five minutes were lost to him. He vaguely remembered the sounds that came out of her, but they would return to haunt him during the nights to come.

Then he turned, holding it, and what brought it all home was Jerzy, the jester, usually filled with life and dance, on his knees, sobbing hysterically, yet still grinning through it: an image of the insanity to which they had all been brought.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhiannon, her head slumped on her chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her. At the box, he placed the stiffening hand on the spot the Caraprix had shown him. The lid sprang open with a flash of blue sparks, and there was the sword, calling to him. In his hand, it felt warm, easing his pain. With one sweep, he severed the clasp that held the iron sheath in place. The second sweep cut the chains and Rhiannon fell into his arms. She was barely conscious.

Mallory laid her on the flags and took another of the kitchen knives to cut the thread sealing her lips. But as the first stitch was severed, her eyes fluttered shut and her head lolled to one side.

Jerzy leaned forward to test the shallowness of her breath. ‘A secondary enchantment. When you cut the thread, it put her into the Sleep Like Death.’

‘So she couldn’t tell us what happened,’ Mallory said bitterly. ‘Can we help her?’

‘Perhaps. Back at the Court of the Soaring Spirit — Math the Sorcerer could help.’

As Mallory carried her through her desolate home, a cold desire for revenge filled him. Nothing would deter him from it.

In the warm womb of her room, Sophie lay back on the cushions before the fire and watched the cat move across the furniture, its shadow sometimes swelling to panther-size. Sophie had summoned it with her will alone, and while she had tried to pretend it was a normal animal, she only had to glance into the depths of its eyes to know the truth.

It was a simple trick, a testing of limits to see if she was still able to manipulate the Craft, and her skill had exceeded her hopes. It was a product of memory and emotion. Regaining the knowledge of who she really was — artist, romantic, wanderer — and bringing Mallory back into her heart had opened up the wondrous landscape of her abilities.

Pleased with herself, she left the room and made her way along the cramped, dark corridors, still flushed with love from her sudden and surprising reconnection with Mallory. As she reached the level of the main court rooms, she heard the sound of crying. Cautiously, she entered the stifling heat of one of the chambers and found Niamh curled up in a chair so large it made her look fragile and childlike, her head buried in her arms.