Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Rising

Serrah remained with her arms outstretched, stunned at not being able to hold her child. For a moment, her grip on sanity seemed just as elusive. ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said.

‘All you have to understand is that I’m here. They brought me back.’

‘Who? How ?’

‘The sorcerers of the imperial court, no less. You’ve no idea the kind of magic they command. Wonderful magic.’

‘You said you were in pain.’

‘Just some discomfort. It’ll pass. The coming back … it was like waking up, that’s all.’

Serrah had never heard of such a thing. ‘But they can’t –’

‘They can. They did .’

‘Why?’

‘For you. Us.’

‘Why would the highest-ranking concern themselves with us?’

‘Because of this situation you’ve got yourself into. They’re showing you a way out.’

‘I must be blind not to see it.’

‘Then look on me as a kind of reward.’

‘For what?’

‘For something you haven’t done yet.’

Serrah was sure she knew what that was, but asked anyway. ‘What do they expect from me?’

‘You have to do as they say, Mother. You have to confess.’

‘Eithne,’ Serrah replied, still feeling strange at mouthing the name after so long, ‘I have nothing to confess to. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘But does it matter if it means I can be reunited with you, that I can live out the life I lost?’

‘There wouldn’t be a life together if I confessed. I’d be locked away, or worse.’

‘They promised me they’d be merciful.’

‘You believe them?’

‘The fact that I’m here proves they’re serious about their side of the bargain.’

‘And if I don’t confess?’

Eithne’s expression grew troubled. ‘That would be bad for me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The spell they used to raise me is temporary. Unless they cast another that makes my state permanent, and soon …’

‘How soon?’

‘Hours.’

To have her back only to lose her again. Serrah felt her eyes filling. ‘That’s what they’re offering in exchange for my confession?’

‘Yes. They’ll let me live again.’

‘Doing it this way, it’s … beyond cruel.’

‘No, Mother! It’s a miracle. Don’t you see? They told me that at worst you’ll spend a short time in prison or a reeducation camp. Then we can be together again.’

A small part of Serrah’s mind marvelled at how she had so readily accepted talking with the dead. Her dead. If this wasn’t madness it would pass for it. ‘Eithne, I –’

‘I forgive you.’

‘Forgive me?’

‘For when I was … ill. When you weren’t there for me.’

It was all the more wounding for being stated so matter-of-factly. Guilt knifed Serrah in the ribs. Her eyes were welling again. ‘I’m … I’m so sorry. I did my best. I tried so very hard to –’

Eithne raised a hand to still her. ‘I said I forgive you. But I don’t think I could again. Not if you don’t do this. Sign that confession, Mother.’

Serrah was taken aback by the severe tone in her daughter’s voice. It seemed out of character. Even in those terrible final weeks Eithne had been secretive rather than manipulative. Could her personality have been altered in some way? By the experience of death and rebirth? By some design on the Council’s part? ‘I need to gather myself, Eithne. I have to think about what you’re saying.’

‘What’s there to think about? My time’s running out, Mummy. You always did seesaw.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Just do it. Or do you want me to face death again?’

Something had been nagging Serrah, just beyond thought. It surfaced. ‘If resurrection really is possible,’ she said, ‘why haven’t they used it on Phosian? I mean, they couldn’t have, could they? Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Eithne replied after a pause. She sounded defensive. ‘I think it might have something to do with the way a person died,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘A lethal wound, too much ramp; what’s the difference? Dead’s dead, isn’t it?’

‘I’m no expert on magic. I don’t care how they did it.’

Serrah played her hunch. ‘What do you think Rohan would have to say about this?’

‘What?’

‘Rohan. He’d have something to say, wouldn’t he?’

Eithne was obviously perplexed but trying to hide it. ‘I don’t –’

‘You do remember Rohan?’

‘Of course! But what’s he got to do with this?’

Serrah’s heart was sinking. But she would see it through. ‘I think his opinion’s important, don’t you? Humour me.’

Her daughter sighed. ‘I suppose … I suppose I’d expect him to say you were behaving foolishly by being so stubborn, and that you should do what’s best for both of us.’

‘And I’d expect you to say, “Don’t be half-witted, Mother; real dogs can’t talk. And Rohan’s a she , not a he.”’ She glared at whatever was calling itself her child.

‘You’re confused.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re doubting me just because I couldn’t remember the name of a dog ?’

‘An animal you were inseparable from all your childhood. Or rather, Eithne was. I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my daughter.’

‘That’s ridiculous. The beating’s affected you. You’re not seeing things straight.’

‘You mean I’m not supposed to.’

‘Look at me; I’m your daughter. How can you disown me, Mother?’

‘Don’t call me that. All I see is a fraud.’

‘Sign the confession. Save us both.’

Serrah had ceased to believe in the illusion. ‘I deny you,’ she hissed.

The girl saw her expression. She began edging away. Serrah noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

They moved at the same time. Despite her aches, Serrah was faster. She caught the pretender by her arms. They struggled. Serrah loosed a hand, drew it back and delivered a hard slap across the girl’s face. A tingling sensation suffused her hand, like transient pins and needles.

‘You stupid bitch !’ the impostor wailed. Her voice was changing, dropping to a lower pitch.

Transfixed by what was happening, Serrah let go of her.

It was as though a seething swarm of golden bees covered the girl’s face. Then the myriad glimmering shards dispersed, flying out in all directions and dissolving.

A partial glamour, designed to enfold its host’s face, and in this instance imitate a dead child. Advanced magic, worth a small fortune.

When the dazzle cleared, Serrah was facing a stranger. A plain woman, not a girl, and quite different to her daughter. Only her build matched. She looked frightened.

Serrah lunged at her. She met a blow to the abdomen. It knocked the wind out of her and rekindled the fire of her earlier thrashing. Gasping, she went to her knees.

The woman was through the door in a flash, slamming it behind her. Serrah scrambled to it and started hammering with her fists. She raged and cursed until her hands were bloody and her voice gave out.

At some point her passion spent itself. She had sunk to the floor, and remained there. The door was bloodstained from her pounding.

Now she hugged her knees to her chest and gently rocked. And due to her masters’ deceit, grieved again. Physical brutality she might withstand. She didn’t think she could take much more of their artifice.

For some while she had been staring at the top of the door frame. The cross-beam projected like a narrow shelf. If her smock was torn into strips and wound together, the makeshift rope could be looped over it. Then she just had to tie a noose, haul herself up, wriggle her head in and let go. There wasn’t enough of a drop to snap her neck. It would be a slow choking. But even that seemed preferable to her present state.