Titanchild - Jen Williams - E-Book

Titanchild E-Book

Jen Williams

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Beschreibung

The stunning sequel to Talonsister, full of romance and treachery, powerful magic and devastating choices. Perfect for fans of Andrea Stewart, John Gwynn and Samantha Shannon. The Othanim have conquered Brittletain. Their murderous leader, Icaraine, plans to feed Brittletain's queens to her monstrous son. But total victory over the othanim's ancient enemy, the griffins, still eludes her. If Brittletain's resistance can secure an alliance with the griffins, they may still stand a chance of defeating the othanim. Envoy Kaeto has returned to the Imperium, hiding Felldir and Belise in a ruined castle. He believes both his friends and his attempt to murder Gynid Tyleigh have escaped the Empress's notice. Yet secrets are not so easy to keep in the Imperium. Kaeto will do anything to protect Felldir and Belise – and so finds himself en route to Brittletain as ambassador to the Othanim. Leven, Cillian, and Ynis have spent the last two years tracking Ynis's griffin sister, T'rook, a prisoner of Gynid Tyleigh. But Ynis has secondary motives for pursuing Tyleigh. Meanwhile, Leven's health is deteriorating, and Cillian – exiled and disgraced – is tormented by strange voices, who tell him of the return of the mythic Green Man to Brittletain. There is no hope for humanity in a world ruled by Icaraine. But the price of defeating her might be almost too heavy to bear.

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CONTENTS

Cover

Praise for The Talon Duology

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: In Which A Great Power is Summoned

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Part Two: In Which Choices are Made That Cannot be Unmade

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

Part Three: In Which A Hunger Grows

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

Part Four: In Which Many Things are Lost

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

PRAISE FOR THE TALON DUOLOGY

“An intricate and compelling new tale from one of the great original voices of fantasy. Full of fascinating ideas, engaging characters and magic.”

ADRIAN TCHAIKOVSKY, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF SHADOWS OF THE APT

*   *   *

“Talonsister is wonderfully rich and inventive, it takes familiar things and places to make them new and interesting and the tone is perfectly balanced. I hugely enjoyed it.”

MIKE BROOKS, AUTHOR OF THE GOD-KING CHRONICLES

*   *   *

“One of my favourite books of the year so far, Talonsister shows Jen Williams at the peak of her powers. An enthralling tale split across a cast of complex and fascinating characters, each flawed yet loveable in their own way... I was left bereft by its conclusion, and cannot wait for the second part.”

DAVID WRAGG, AUTHOR OF THE ARTICLES OF FAITH

*   *   *

“Talonsister has all the hallmarks of a Jen Williams novel: a fast pace, humour, slick and sure worldbuilding, but most importantly it’s driven by characters you immediately adore… I was utterly charmed by the world and people of Talonsister and I am certain you will be too.”

LUCY HOLLAND, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OFSISTERSONG

*   *   *

“Dizzyingly inventive and packed with mythologies familiar and strange, Talonsister is Jen Williams at her storytelling best.”

ANNA STEPHENS, AUTHOR OF THE GODBLIND TRILOGY

*   *   *

“Talonsister sweeps readers into a fantasy world both delightfully familiar and brilliantly unexpected, brimming with griffins and broken warriors and forests filled with uncanny beasts. Williams knows her craft, and her confidence and ingenuity shines through every twist and turn.”

H. M. LONG, AUTHOR OFHALL OF SMOKE

*   *   *

“This is an author going from strength to strength. An unforgettable magical fable from Britain’s Queen of fantasy.”

FANTASY HIVE

*   *   *

“I thoroughly enjoyed Talonsister. It’s perfectly balanced between whimsical and gritty, with characters so skillfully drawn you even have sympathy for the villains (well, most of them). A superb piece of fantasy storytelling by a writer at her peak.”

JAMES OSWALD, AUTHOR OF THE BALLAD OF SIR BENFRO

*   *   *

“Like all the best fantasy Talonsister goes for the heart. Relatable characters in strange situations, a rich world painted with a wry sense of humour, and more cool creatures than you can shake a stick at.”

PETER NEWMAN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE VAGRANT SERIES

LEAVE US A REVIEW

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Titanchild

Print edition ISBN: 9781803364384

Broken Binding edition ISBN: 9781835412978

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803364391

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: November 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Jen Williams 2024.

Jen Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Mrs Mongon, Mr Mealingand Mr Brannigan – with thanksfor opening that door.

PART ONE

IN WHICH A GREATPOWER IS SUMMONED

PROLOGUE

2,000 years ago

The god-boar have breached the gate.’

Areel turned away from the window to see if Icaraine had heard him, but she was fussing over the baby, picking the child up and jostling him so he would giggle. It made Areel nervous, to see the priestess like that. They were in the middle of a war, one he was no longer certain they could win.

‘Icaraine…’

‘I heard you.’

She joined him at the window, the child – Malakim – now settled in the crook of one powerful arm. Areel glanced at it, then away.

‘So they come,’ Icaraine said, eventually. ‘It makes them easier to slaughter. Our soldiers simply step out onto their own doorsteps to kill them.’

‘Hmm.’ They were in the tallest building in the Black City, the palace that had once belonged to the old queen. From here they had a fine view of the western-most gate – or at least they had, until the god-boar crushed it under their hooves. The room itself had once been the old queen’s dining room, with views to every side of the Black City; now it was Icaraine’s nursery, Icaraine’s war room, Icaraine’s most exclusive chamber. Scattered around the room were chains forged from Titan ore, each link as thick as Areel’s wrist. The old queen’s belongings were long gone, discarded when Icaraine had dragged the woman out by her hair some years ago. Queens were born perhaps once every five hundred years or so; they were larger than normal babies, with greater appetites. When two were born in the same period it tended to cause… problems.

‘We should get you and the child out of the palace,’ said Areel. The fighting was still distant, but he could hear the bellowing of the god-boar, and the roaring of the bears. Othanim soldiers flitted over the city, guarding against attacks from griffins and fire birds, both of which were deadly. ‘Get you to the Undertomb, or out of the city altogether.’

Icaraine flexed her wings, smiling her wolfish smile.

‘You are afraid for me, Areel?’

Areel frowned. He was aware that it sounded ridiculous, when Icaraine was fully two feet taller than him and entirely capable of picking him up one-handed.

‘Or are you afraid for your lover, out there on the front line?’

‘Felldir is strong, and fast,’ Areel replied firmly, trying to make himself believe the words. ‘None of these lesser Titans could possibly cause him difficulty. It’s you I’m worried about, Priestess. Our people need their leader.’

Icaraine had been given the title ‘priestess’ by the old queen, a sop to keep her from challenging the throne. It hadn’t satisfied Icaraine for long. Areel was beginning to think nothing could. In these days of war and domination she kept the title of priestess as a kind of grisly joke.

‘You worry too much, Areel.’ Icaraine turned her attention back to the child in her arms. The baby was wrapped in a white shawl embroidered with scarlet threads, only the pale blond hair on his head and one chubby arm visible. ‘Malakim here will be the sword that cuts through all these lesser Titans. He will forge the chains that hold the human races where they belong – below us, always below us. We feed Malakim the bones of our enemies and he becomes stronger every day.’ She grinned. ‘The more of them that die, the more powerful we will be, Areel.’

As if encouraged by his mother’s praise, Malakim reached out with one tiny, grasping fist. On the far side of the room, one of the Titan-ore chains slid across the floor towards them. It was only a couple of inches, but it was unmistakable. Areel felt his stomach roll with something he was beginning to suspect might be panic.

‘There! Did you see that?’ Icaraine kissed her baby on the very top of his head, taking care to avoid the multiple scarlet eyes. ‘We will pull the very bones from their bodies!’

1

It has been two years since the Othanim were first sighted off the coast of Wehha by Queen Ceni herself, and we have been on the back foot ever since. What are the Druin for, if they cannot protect our borders? Brittletain has become a battlefield.

Extract from a letter signed with the seal of King Eafen of Mersia

My lord, we cannot keep this up! We must retreat!’

The Druidahnon glanced at the thicket around his feet. Elder Kirka’s face was smeared with blood, the skin across her eyes green with the forest-fury. Around her, the Wild Wood teemed and seethed, both with the other Druin warriors and the magic of the wood itself as they commanded it; roots grew and slithered from the ground as vines shot, whip fast, into the sky. But it wasn’t enough. The Othanim, the old enemy, only came within reach of their magics when they intended to kill.

‘If we’re not careful we shall retreat ourselves right into the sea,’ he bellowed back. The Court of Bears was long lost to them, and they had been gradually pushed east, setting up their makeshift camps in the woods of Wehha. At any other time, they would have been a force to be reckoned with: the Druin rangers and warriors, the last of the armies of Londus and Galabroc, fighting alongside the last Titan bear, twenty feet tall with claws as long as a human forearm. But their enemy was too lethal.

The Druidahnon looked back up to the overcast sky, where clouds hid the Othanim until they were ready to strike. Even the weather had turned against them. If my brothers and sisters were alive… he thought. But they were not: the final generation of bear Titans had died in the first Titan war, and it seemed that their last scion would die here, in the second.

A darting shape left the clouds and struck. One of the Druin rangers was taken, kicking, into the sky. The Druidahnon reached for her, too late; blood laced the air, sharp and unmistakable, and then more Othanim fell on their ragged party like locusts.

‘Get back!’ This was Aeden, a Druin he vaguely recognised – not especially talented, but loyal. He had given up on his Druin arts and taken a spear from one of the fallen soldiers; he was using it to defend an injured comrade, poking desperately at the flying shapes around them. The Othanim were eerily expressionless, each of them wearing an elaborate silver helm that covered much of their faces.

The Druidahnon reached over with one vast paw and knocked two of the flying pests out of the sky at once. They crashed into the undergrowth, feathered wings broken, but three more took their place. He snapped his jaws at them, catching the leg of one and severing it in one neat bite. Hot Titan blood gushed down his throat, and he felt as though he could taste the hot jungle air of Houraki again, the dust of the Black City stinging his eyes. Elder Kirka’s writhing vines shot up into the air, circling around the waist and legs of another Othanim, dragging him closer to the ground; Aeden buried the point of his spear in the man’s gut. But still they came.

‘It is hopeless,’ cried Aeden. The small man’s arms were shaking with the effort of holding the spear.

‘No, my friends,’ said the Druidahnon. ‘There is still hope.’

He led them back, further east, while the Othanim continued to harry them, as persistent and seemingly mindless as midges over a swamp. Wehha was not a kingdom known for its hills – beyond the Wild Wood, it was a wet, marshy land – but there was one high place, and this was where he led them, opening Paths as easily as breathing. As they emerged onto each new Path, the Othanim would appear again, and they would fight them off as best they could. That is the thing about war which the peace-born forget, thought the Druidahnon. How quickly it becomes drudgery. The sight of blood and reeking guts spilled on the floor becomes commonplace, and all that matters is the next breath you take. Survival.

When they reached the hill itself, the Druidahnon was pleased to note that the mark of Hickathrift was still there – a great white horse with eight legs, carved into the chalk of the hill.

‘My friend,’ he murmured. He placed one great paw on the gritty chalk. Around him and above him, the battle continued. ‘I promised not to wake you, but my children are dying.’

With one of his own wickedly sharp claws, he cut into the fur above his paw, digging deep into the flesh and splitting it open. He saw a brief flash of silvery blue, his own bone, and he shuddered with revulsion – but this was what was needed. You couldn’t wake the bones of the earth without showing your own.

Blood gushed across the grass and over the chalk, staining it scarlet and black. Kirka, who had been trying to keep at his side, as if she could protect him somehow, looked with alarm at the wound.

‘What are you doing? My lord, you have been hurt…’

‘Be careful, Kirka, the ground here is liable to be unstable.’

‘What do you—’

The grass under their feet rippled, then jumped. The chalk horse began to fall apart as the ground split and fell away. The Druin and the soldiers scattered, fleeing back down the hill. Above them, the Othanim darted back and forth from their cloud cover, but the Druidahnon noticed that a few of them had paused in the air, watching the breaking ground with interest.

Where is she? Where is the one who called herself the bringer of light?

Of their leader, there was no sign – from the messages they had received at Dosraiche before they were driven from their tree-city, Icaraine rarely left Londus-on-Sea – but the Druidahnon had believed she would come to him eventually. He was sure she could not resist watching the last of her old enemy die.

I am afraid I will have to disappoint her, then, he thought bitterly.

There was something crawling out of the hill, something even larger than the Druidahnon. The great old bear moved back, ignoring the searing pain in his wrist. Pieces of hillside crumbled into rubble.

‘What’s happening, lord?’ Aeden had stumbled to his knees.

Kirka bent to help him up. ‘It’s the giants,’ she said. Despite everything, there was a note of wonder in her voice. ‘He’s raising the giants.’

‘Just one of them,’ said the Druidahnon. ‘I don’t have enough blood for them all, and they sleep all over Brittletain. We shall have to hope one is enough.’

A vast figure rose from the hill, standing black and stormy against the clouds. It was roughly humanoid in shape, and covered in thick brown and greenish hair, which was clogged with mud and stones and grass. Overly long arms with grey skin hung at its sides, and from within the shaggy head of hair it was just possible to make out two great eyes, glowing red like embers in the fire, and the suggestion of a pig-like snout framed with yellowed tusks. It did not look pleased to be awake.

‘Hickathrift!’ cried the Druidahnon.

‘Thou hast woken me from mine slumber.’

The giant’s voice, unheard in Brittletain since its earliest days, was just how the Druidahnon remembered it: a rumble like a glacier collapsing.

‘We need your help, my hairy old friend!’ The great bear held his bleeding paw to his chest; he was losing enough blood to drown the people below him. ‘Our island is being invaded.’

Hickathrift lifted his shaggy head. He was so tall that the Othanim hovering in the sky were much closer to him. Already they were pointing their spears and swords in his direction.

‘Is that so?’

The giant bent back to the place where he had been buried, and drew from the ground a huge, notched blade that widened to a blunt end with a single, wicked-looking tooth. The weapon was streaked with rust and dirt, but it looked solid enough, and it was almost as long as Hickathrift himself.

‘A slaughter then, it shall be.’

Moving much faster than it seemed he should be able to, Hickathrift hefted his huge blade and swung it in a great arc through the air. The sky hummed with its passing, a hot, trembling sound, and Othanim fell from the sky in pieces. There was a ragged cheer from the surviving humans. Even the Druidahnon felt a flicker of hope as Hickathrift set about cleaving the winged Titans from the skies.

The elation was short-lived. Hickathrift struck many of them to the ground, so many that a mist of blood soon hung over the shattered hill, but the Othanim were quick and seemingly fearless. As the Druin and the Druidahnon did their best to continue fighting, their enemy drew back from them, instead creating a vast swarm that surrounded Hickathrift. The old giant began to bellow as they stung him like a cloud of wasps. Wounds from hundreds of swords opened up across his dusty grey flesh; his matted hair grew heavy and black with his own blood. Hickathrift howled with fury and struck repeatedly with his blade. The Druidahnon tried to reach him, to help his old friend, but very quickly the giant was on his knees. Blood coursed down the hill in waves. One of the Othanim, taking advantage of his weakened state, landed on the giant’s snout and thrust her sword deep into Hickathrift’s eye socket. The fiery red glow flickered and grew dark.

Slowly, like a great tree felled before its time, the giant crashed to the ground, his tusks bared to the sky in a useless, silent snarl. The Druidahnon felt his own heart thrum in his chest, as though it might splinter into pieces.

‘Ah, my old friend, I am sorry. I woke you to your death.’

‘We’re done for.’ Aeden was covered head to foot in Hickathrift’s gore. ‘This is the end.’

‘No, not quite yet,’ the Druidahnon answered. ‘There is one last thing I can do. Children, go back to the Wild Wood, and hide. You must recover what strength there is left to us.’

‘But, my lord,’ Kirka did not look at him as she spoke; her eyes were on the enemy above, who were preparing for another attack, ‘you can’t mean to stay here alone? Now is the time to fight!’

‘We have fought, and we have bled.’ The Druidahnon looked at the bodies of the Druin scattered around him. It was too close to the pain he had felt in Houraki, as each of his siblings was cut down by Othanim blades. ‘Now is the time to retreat, Kirka. It pains me to say it, but you must do as I ask. Go. Hide. Wait for the one who comes.’

Kirka looked at him sharply. ‘Who? What are you talking about?’

He wouldn’t elaborate. Kirka led the remnants of their fighting force back into the Wild Wood, with those Druin who still had some strength providing cover from the Othanim as they moved. The Druidahnon climbed the rubble of the hill, stepping around the body of Hickathrift, until he stood at the summit. It was harder going than he expected with his injured paw still leaking blood.

Or perhaps I am just old, he thought ruefully. Perhaps it is time, after all.

He stood up on his back legs, and bellowed a challenge to the Othanim that swarmed through the air like gnats. One of them peeled off from the rest and came to address him directly, taking off his helm as he did so. He was pale-skinned, with hair like burnished silver. He grinned widely at the bloody bear.

‘You have decided to surrender, beast? Icaraine will be pleased when I take you to Londus in chains. She wanted to kill you herself.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Remielle, harbinger of the third battalion.’

‘Do you ever wonder, little flying pest, why she makes you kill for her? You are no more than tools to her. That’s the way it’s always been.’ The Druidahnon sighed. ‘What happens when there are no more wars to spend you on?’

The Othanim only grinned all the wider. ‘We will not stop until all of Enonah is within our grasp and every false Titan’s bones are ground into powder. Now that the child is awake—’

Using the last of his strength to move as quickly as possible, the Druidahnon snatched the talkative Othanim out of the sky and snapped his head off with one bite. He chewed and swallowed, glad that the creature had done him the favour of removing his helm first, and threw the rest of the body onto the dirt below him. As he knew they would, the Othanim in the sky descended upon him in a storm, blades flashing as they screamed oaths at him.

‘Yes!’ he bellowed, raising his front legs even as he felt swords plunge into his flesh. The bites of pests, he told himself. ‘You will not take me alive, you rogues! You blackguards!’

More came, flying into his side with enough force to make him stagger. He stayed upright with some difficulty; he could feel his blood flowing back into the earth as Hickathrift’s had. He could feel the earth responding, quickening as it sensed what was about to happen. There would be a great deal of magic at hand, and he would only have one chance to use it.

One life to give.

One of the flying Titans got a good grip on his shoulder, and from there thrust a long blade into the Druidahnon’s throat. There was a terrible tearing sensation, and the hot flood of life’s blood as it began to rush out of him at speed. He heard them cheering, the Othanim, the shininess of their helms dulled with the blood of the last bear Titan. The Druidahnon lifted his head so that he could see the Wild Wood beyond the hill, so dark and so green and so still. When he spoke, he seemed to speak to the trees themselves.

‘I call you here now, Walker of the Paths! I call you now, Forest Father! The Wild Wood needs its protector, Green Man!’

There was a tremble beneath his feet, and then the Druidahnon fell to his knees. He did not get back up again.

*   *   *

From her vantage point in the trees, Kirka watched him fall, a cold hand around her heart. Next to her, Aeden was weeping.

‘He has left us,’ he said. ‘Left us when we needed him the most.’

‘No, you fool.’ Kirka spoke softly, too aware of the sorrow every Druin would be feeling in their hearts. ‘He’s giving us a reason to fight on.’

As they watched, the great form of the fallen bear began to crumble and fall apart, disintegrating into a vast cloud of wild-flowers: buttercups, daisies, foxgloves, dog violets and clover, leaving only his bones behind. The wind picked up the blossoms and carried them to the waiting wood.

2

Icall you here now, Walker of the Paths.

Cillian startled, almost losing his balance on the slippery roof. Next to him, Leven was a still shape in the darkness.

‘Did you say something?’ he whispered.

‘What? No,’ she whispered back. ‘We’re supposed to be quiet, remember?’

A steady rain was falling, chill and grey, soaking them to their skins. They were perched on one of the roofs of a complex of buildings that clung to the very edge of the sea cliffs of Blessed Gäul; just behind them was a sheer drop into the churning water. Cillian knew that if he turned and looked out across the sea, the maelstrom of the Titan’s Eye whirlpool would be visible, with its rills and swirls of angry white water; he wouldn’t even need to borrow Inkwort’s eyes to see that monstrosity. But ahead of them the complex, with its tiled roofs and neat gravel-covered courtyards, was quiet. The guards were all hiding from the rain under the eaves. Somewhere down there was Gynid Tyleigh, the woman they had spent the last two years tracking across multiple countries, both Blessed and Unblessed. And more importantly, somewhere within this warren of buildings was T’rook, a young griffin neither he nor Leven had set eyes on before.

‘I’m sure I heard… a voice.’

He looked around for Inkwort, in case the little jackdaw had made one of her rare attempts to communicate with him, but there was no sign of her. It was likely she was hiding from the rain, too.

‘It can’t have been Ynis,’ said Leven. ‘It’s too soon.’

Thanks to a childhood spent in the mountainous region of Yelvynia, Leven’s younger sister was an exceptional climber. It had been decided that she would go ahead of them, moving quietly through the buildings until she had some idea of where T’rook, her griffin-sister, was located. A soldier more used to being on the vanguard of every battle, Leven herself was to wait until Ynis gave the signal – which was to be one of her alarming, bird-like cries.

Cillian shook his head. ‘It wasn’t that. I half think I knew the voice. It was very faint.’

‘Can’t hear anything in this bloody rain.’

Cillian shook his head, droplets of rainwater flying from his horns.

‘Perhaps it was just…’

I call you now, Forest Father.

This time Cillian gasped, almost rising to his feet. The voice in his head was louder, a kind of thunder that seemed to flatten every other thought. And there was a greenness to it that he almost recognised; he felt something inside him shift, responding automatically. Leven grasped his arm.

‘Cillian, are you alright?’ In the gloom he could just about make out her grey eyes. She looked worried. ‘Is it… the thrawn?’

‘No. I don’t know what it is.’ He took her hand and kissed it, tasting the mineral tang of rain and the scent of her skin, a scent he never seemed to tire of. ‘Ignore me, love. We’ve more important things to do here.’

She didn’t look convinced, but nodded. ‘We’ll want to be as quick as we can,’ she said. ‘We don’t know what sort of state T’rook will be in when we reach her, but we’ll have to move her out of here fast.’ Leven went over the plan again. They’d discussed it many times over the last few days, but she was nervous. Two years of hunting out leads, chasing after rumours and hearsay, and it all came down to this single night. If they didn’t get it right, that could be the end of it. Leven had confided in Cillian that if they showed their hand too early, it was likely Gynid would simply kill T’rook – out of spite, or a need to cover up her tracks. It was a miracle she hadn’t killed the griffin already. ‘Can you sense anything?’

Cillian held himself still, putting the mysterious voice from his mind for the moment. He did not have the connection with this land that he had shared with the Wild Wood of Brittletain, but since he had gone thrawn, his abilities were both powerful and unpredictable. Nearby he could sense human beings – their labyrinthine minds forever closed off to him – and a handful of dogs, kennelled close to the entrance to the complex. There were birds too, tiny warm points of life that clustered together in nests tucked away in a variety of dark, cosy places. Behind him, the vast unknowable sea, a world that swam with presences that made little sense to his dry, green mind. A sea eagle coasted over the waves, hunger drawing it further and further from land.

‘Nothing important. How are you feeling?’

She grinned at him in the dark.

‘Aside from the usual aches and pains? Spectacular. Very soon I could be hanging Gynid Tyleigh up by her ankles before asking her some pointed questions about what she did to my father. What she made me do to Ynis.’

‘What she did to you,’ Cillian said.

Leven nodded. ‘A lot of pointed questions, at the end of my pointy blade. She’s going to regret ever fucking—’

When the voice came a third time, it felt as though something enormous had crashed into him. There was a light the colour of the morning through dappled leaves, a rushing sound – desperation, magic, death.

The Wild Wood needs its protector, Green Man!

Someone was with him in the dark, someone huge, and another presence, somebody dangerous and strange. He realised that he had stood up; he was moving, shouting wordlessly. He heard Leven calling him, and then he dropped, falling into open space.

‘Shit!’

The night lit up with the shining blue luminescence of Leven’s Herald magic. She had sprung her wings and jumped after him, catching him by the back of his jacket before he could hit the ground. Now they were both hanging in mid-air, lit up like the caul of stars for all the guards to see. The warm human shapes he could sense in the night were all converging on their location, swords and spears and curved knives glinting with raindrops.

‘Stars’ arses,’ hissed Leven. ‘I told you I wasn’t made for stealth!’

*   *   *

Ynis hung beneath a windowsill, her fingers gripping the clay lip, her feet braced against the slick stonework of the wall. There was grit under her hands and she disliked the smoothness of the surfaces, but compared to climbing the peaks of Yelvynia it was a sunny day in spring. This window looked in on a storeroom full of crates and boxes, so she swung herself along to the next one, moving silently in her soft leather boots. It had taken her some time to get used to these human nest-pits – or buildings, as her human sister insisted on calling them. The openings and exits were too small, and barred with doors or big stretches of glass, and inside they were so full of things. At home in the Bone Fall, the nest-pit she shared with T’rook was practically bare: there was Ynis’s leather bag, her tools, the blankets she had made from furs and stolen feathers, her claw-knife. T’rook had scratched a few shapes into the rocks and ice that served as their walls; that was all they had in way of decoration. But humans…

Ynis heaved herself up so that she could peek over the sill into the next room.

There was no one in there, but the place was crammed with stuff. Fascinated, she pulled herself up further so she could look properly. There were tall shelves pushed against the walls, and odd pieces of furniture scattered about: a huge, overstuffed sofa that had evidently once been green, but was now covered in dubious stains; a leather armchair in the corner; a wide wooden table; a desk with a large oil lamp; a great ball with a map on it, spinning in its own frame. And as if this wasn’t enough, every surface was scattered with more things: paper, parchment, ink stones, bottles of liquid of all colours, shallow clay bowls filled with grey ash, books, knives – these Ynis looked at very closely – and greasy-looking jars. On the odd bit of wall that wasn’t taken up with a shelf there were more maps, and a few objects hung on nails that she didn’t understand at all: an elaborate silver helmet that looked too big for a human and too small for a griffin, and the shining purple carapace of a huge beetle.

‘What do they do with it all?’ Ynis murmured to herself. The rain was growing heavier, although she barely felt it. ‘They must spend all their lives looking at the things they’ve collected. Like magpies.’

The door on the far side of the room opened. Ynis ducked back down out of sight, where the shadows were darkest. An older woman shuffled into the room, moving slowly, as though every step pained her. As she came closer to the oil lamp, Ynis felt a dark thrill of recognition: she had no memory of this woman, but she had seen her in Leven’s memories. It was Gynid Tyleigh, the alchemist they had spent two years looking for. My human mother, she reminded herself.

In Leven’s childhood memories Tyleigh had still been a young woman, sharp-boned and fox-faced, with an untidy mess of red-brown hair. Now she was hunched and small and wiry, her hair shot through with grey and white. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she leaned heavily on a stick to walk. She had a long pipe of black wood stuck in the corner of her mouth, and as she shuffled across the room she puffed on it, chewing the stem. The smoke that came out of it looked strange – not like woodsmoke, but yellowish, greasy.

It is her.

Ynis tried to swallow down her excitement. If Gynid Tyleigh was here, that meant that T’rook must be close. They knew from the information Leven had gathered in Stratum that Tyleigh had an adolescent griffin, one that had been captured and kept alive on her specific instructions. They knew that Tyleigh had moved her workshop out of Stratum to some secret location. And they had finally found it. If they had still been uncertain, the gossip she had overheard by the kitchens had dispelled that: every day they butchered goats and sheep for Tyleigh’s ‘pet’, and at night they could hear it screeching, loud enough to wake the ancestors they believed were the stars.

I’m coming to get you, sister.

As she watched, Tyleigh went to one of the shelves and pulled out a jar of something brown and fibrous. With a sharp, practised movement she struck the end of her pipe on the table, removing a small pile of blackened, smoking material, and replaced it with fresh stuff from the jar, tamping it down with her thumb. Ynis had learned about this foul substance in Stratum – it was some kind of weed that could be burned and inhaled. Tobacco. When she had it lit and smoking again, Tyleigh took a breath on the pipe, pulling the smoke deep into her lungs before letting it out. She picked up a book from the table and made to leave the room, her movements a little smoother than they had been.

Ynis scrambled to follow her, pulling herself along the ledge to the next room. Here she caught a glimpse of something like a corridor, dimly lit by a single oil lamp, and then her quarry vanished through another door. Beyond that the windowsill ended, and Ynis felt a drop in her guts – what if I lose her here, after everything? But there was a clay drainage pipe running down the brickwork, and she used this to climb up to where longer, narrower windows started. What she saw through them made her stop, heart pounding in her chest.

It was a much bigger room than the others she had seen so far, with a high ceiling and a lot of empty space. There were a few wooden buckets scattered about, dark with bloodstains, and a number of sturdy chains hung from the ceiling beams. In the middle of the room there was a large, free-standing cage made of a silvery-blue metal that looked familiar. And even more familiar than that, her sister stood inside it, her proud head held high, the feathers around her neck and chest puffed out with indignation. It was the same old T’rook – eyes like golden autumn leaves, feathers and fur brown and black and white, lethal blue talons – except that she was different, too. A little older, a little larger, the muscles across her shoulders and flank more developed, the small crest of dark feathers on her head a little longer. Ynis felt her throat close up with feelings she barely understood. She has become an adult, she thought, and I missed it.

One of the narrow windows was propped open by a book. Ynis scooted along so she that she could hear her sister’s voice as well as see her.

‘When I get out of here, human, I will eat your liver first.’

Gynid Tyleigh came into view, still puffing on her pipe.

‘Is there any particular reason for that?’ asked the human. ‘Do you gain a certain strength from eating human livers?’

‘No, I would simply enjoy rooting around in your guts while you are still alive.’

Tyleigh gave a laugh that was more of a cough, and winced.

‘Do you ever get tired of thinking of new ways to kill me?’

‘Is that some kind of weak human joke, you ground-stuck parasite?’

Hanging from the window ledge, Ynis smiled to herself. In some ways T’rook had clearly not changed at all.

Tyleigh sighed. ‘Two years. I would have thought even a griffin would get bored. But it seems your reputation as the most stubborn breed of Titan is well deserved.’ She shuffled over to a three-legged stool and sat on it. For a moment she leaned forward, clutching her stomach, then whatever ailed her seemed to pass, and she sat back up. ‘Tell me what you know about the other Titans.’

T’rook snapped her beak derisively. ‘I will tell you nothing. About anyone.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Tyleigh. ‘I had some rabbits and goats brought over from Brittletain. A taste of home, I thought.’ She grinned, a brief flash of teeth. ‘For us both. And it’s a bloody nightmare getting anything out of that poxy little island these days, what with the Othanim occupation. They are your old enemy, aren’t they? I know about the war with them, the attack on the Black City. How you drove them underground. What are they? Who is their leader, this Icaraine?’

T’rook was quiet. Ynis imagined her sister knew as little as she did about the strange new Titans currently attacking Brittletain, but she would not want to appear ignorant in front of the human.

‘Food scavenged by humans is not fit for a griffin to eat,’ she said eventually. ‘We hunt. We kill. We eat fresh meat, with the blood hot. As I will eat you when I get out of here.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Tyleigh. ‘All the more rabbit stew for me.’

Ynis leaned back, easing the tension on her arms for a moment – and all hell broke loose. From somewhere behind her she heard the sudden panicked shouting of men and women, followed by some very loud swearing that could only have been her human sister. Sapphire light, like water running over the heart of a glacier, splashed against the walls. Leven had summoned her Herald powers, and their cover was blown.

Ynis, who had learnt a number of interesting new words over the last couple of years, muttered ‘fuck’ to herself before scrambling back down the wall.

3

To the south-east of Stratum, there was a region of land known as the Breaks.

Hundreds of years ago, when the Imperium was a burgeoning state with some grandiose ideas, the emperor of the time had ordered this stretch of land to be mined for Titan ore. They were still unearthing plenty of Titan remains from the crater that would eventually become the city of Stratum, but the Imperium had always had eyes bigger than its belly, and they were keen to expand their efforts. Great machines were built that were capable of breaking open the earth, and the Breaks – then known as the White Steppe – became the landscape where all of these diabolical contraptions were tested. In the end, only minimal Titan remains were recovered, but the land itself was irretrievably broken. A desolate place.

Kaeto didn’t know if many people had lived on the White Steppe before it was broken by the Imperium, but he thought it was extremely likely – people would, in his experience, attempt to live anywhere that wasn’t actively underwater. The Breaks made him think of the town he had once lived in with his parents, which had been flattened to make way for the Indigo Sky Palace, one of the empress’s favourite haunts.

Here, rather than a flat and featureless desert, he rode through a landscape of jagged broken pieces; vast edifices of blue and brown stone thrust up out of the ground, while to every side there were great chasms. He imagined that from above the place must look like an intricate piece of lace.

The horse he rode was one of his favourites, a feisty black mare with a wild look in her eye, but even she was quiet when they travelled through the Breaks. He wondered if she could sense the dizzying drops that waited for them if they took the wrong path.

‘Nearly there, girl.’ Kaeto put his hand on her wide neck, feeling the movement of her powerful muscles beneath the skin. ‘And we don’t have to hurry back.’

In time they came to a chasm that cut directly across their path. It was one of the largest in the region – the other side was, Kaeto knew, just over a mile away. And perched on the edge of it was a ruined castle.

There was a cry from somewhere in the sky above, and a shadow skittered across them, too big to be a bird. The horse whinnied and took a few hurried steps backwards.

‘Come on, now.’ Kaeto leaned forward so he could speak softly into her ear. ‘You should be used to this by now. A big brave horse like you.’

‘Chief!’ Belise landed just ahead of them in a thunder of wings, bending her knees to brace for the impact. She didn’t quite land as she wanted, stumbling forward on the stony ground, but a second later she was up and trotting towards him, a big grin on her face. ‘I hope you’ve brought something interesting to eat. It’s been bloody goat meat for weeks. Felldir says I have to learn to hunt because providing for yourself is a useful skill.’

‘He’s right,’ said Kaeto. He looked up at the broken castle. Much of one half still stood on the edge of the cliff, while the other half had partly crumbled, catching on a series of ledges that jutted out into the crevasse below. Belise and Felldir had spent most of the last year making the place as habitable as possible, repairing what they could and adapting it for two people who were larger than the humans who originally made it. ‘Where is he?’

‘Up in the bell tower.’

Kaeto grimaced. The bell tower was the highest accessible point in the castle, but as a normal human without giant feathery wings to help should he lose his footing, it wasn’t his favourite place to visit.

Belise grinned at him in an infuriating manner. ‘I’m sure he’ll come down for you though, chief.’

They took the horse to the space they had made into a stable – once a sprawling kitchen, the outer wall long since fallen into rubble – and Kaeto followed Belise into what was technically the interior of the castle, although there was rather too much sky on display through the partially collapsed walls, and certainly far too many glimpses of the chasm itself. As they made their way through the ruins, Kaeto noticed the small ways in which Belise and Felldir had been making themselves at home: a space cleared and dusted and filled with cooking implements; a bench for Belise to repair her weapons; a small collection of books on a shelf, all of which Kaeto had brought from Stratum for them; a neat stack of notes nearby that suggested Felldir had been learning about the two thousand years of history he had missed while confined to the Black City.

They made their way into the old hall where the pair of them spent much of their time now. Once, it had been someone’s throne room, with high ceilings and fireplaces; now it contained the best of the furniture they had scavenged.

Felldir met them there. ‘I heard your voice,’ he said. ‘We thought you might arrive today.’

Kaeto nodded, looked away. He had grown used to Belise’s new body relatively quickly. She had accepted her change of circumstance with her usual pragmatic optimism, and hearing her voice, there was never any doubt that she was exactly who she’d always been. Felldir though… Felldir’s presence still unnerved him, filled him with feelings he wasn’t quite sure he understood. Whenever he returned to the broken castle and saw him again, he remembered how he had first met the Titan: in a tower room, his hair loose, his eyes as yellow as a wolf’s, his hands covered in dried blood.

Kaeto had provided him with new clothes, shirts, furs for the cold nights, proper leather boots and good, practical woollen overshirts. Standing in the hall with his long white hair pulled back into a neat braid, Felldir looked well-groomed, handsome, civilised; as though he were a relatively well-off warrior from some Unblessed land. But the wolf eyes remained.

Kaeto put the bag he was carrying down on the table, and Belise began unpacking it with the enthusiasm of the fourteen-year-old she actually was.

‘I know I’m a little later than I promised.’ Kaeto untied his riding cloak and threw it over one of the chairs. ‘The Envoy office is extremely busy. Busier than I’ve ever seen it. Celestinia is eager for any information she can get about the Othanim, and everyone travelling through Stratum is either being watched or questioned. We’ve dispatched a special unit to San Rosen port to catch those refugees coming from Brittletain, and the stories coming out of that island are only making Celestinia more paranoid.’

‘My people have gone to war,’ Felldir commented dryly.

‘Indeed.’ Kaeto thought of how Gynid Tyleigh had warned him not to release Icaraine, the lethal high priestess of the Othanim. It seemed she had been talking sense after all. Not that Kaeto had had any real choice at the time. ‘It’s been my job to collate this information, cross reference, draw conclusions, present my findings.’ He sighed and stretched his arms up to the ceiling until the small bones in his back clicked. It was good to be away from his desk, and away from the dungeons under Stratum.

‘And what are your findings?’ asked Felldir.

‘We have many interesting fragments that don’t yet add up to a full picture. Icaraine has taken Londus-on-Sea and her warriors attack the rest of the island apparently at random. Queen Broudicca is believed to be a prisoner in her own palace, and it’s unclear what has happened to her numerous daughters, but it seems the island was in the midst of a civil war when the invasion—’

‘There’s soap,’ Belise interrupted brightly. ‘And sugar and butter. Fell, we can try making those pastries I was telling you about.’

Kaeto felt an odd constriction in his chest. Fell? She had a nickname for their Othanim friend. As well she might, he reminded himself. He guided her spirit to this new body, which is as much a Titan as he is.

‘There’s more in the packs we took off the horse,’ he told her. ‘Cheese, some jars of double cream. You’ll want to get them into the cold store quickly.’

Belise gave him a quick nod. Rather than walking back the way they’d come, she climbed up a broken portion of wall to a sizeable hole, through which he could see a bright square of blue sky. She unfurled her grey feathered wings and was gone.

‘How is she doing?’

Felldir smiled fondly, and again Kaeto felt that strange constriction in his chest. Was he jealous? Jealous of what, or who, exactly? He couldn’t help noticing that there was a new softness to the Titan’s face when he smiled. It made him look more human.

‘She is a worthy student. Everything I tell her, she remembers, and when she does not immediately grasp something, she comes back to it from another angle.’

Kaeto nodded, pleased. Felldir had been teaching Belise about the Othanim, their history – which was now her history – as well as more technical things, like how to fly, how to land, how to hunt from the air, and how to sleep when your back had two extra limbs.

‘She always was a fast learner.’

‘She has missed you,’ Felldir replied. ‘You’ll be staying the night?’

‘Yes.’ To avoid looking directly at the Titan, Kaeto went to one of the small tables and helped himself from a dusty decanter of wine. ‘The Envoy office believes me away on some kind of top-clearance mission for the empress. I won’t be missed for a little while at least. Would you care for a glass?’

Kaeto poured Felldir’s wine into an oversized wooden goblet. Normal glasses looked much too small in his hands.

‘That is good.’ When Felldir took the goblet, his hand brushed against Kaeto’s curled fingers. ‘That you can stay for a while. Belise prefers it when you are here.’

‘I would be here all the time, if I could.’ Kaeto cleared his throat. Something about being in Felldir’s presence made him admit things he wouldn’t utter to another soul. ‘But Stratum would have questions if I spent too long away. They might start looking into my recent movements more carefully. You’ve seen no one in the Breaks? Not even distant travellers?’

‘No.’ Felldir sipped his wine. ‘You chose this place well. The only other living things we have seen are the red birds that roost in the bell tower, and the wiry little goats. And this castle is a good place to hide, should anyone come looking. It’s not easy to traverse for people without wings.’

‘Good. If the Imperium should find out I’m hiding two Othanim under their noses…’ Kaeto tried to make it sound light-hearted, but the reality was grim. He would be executed for treason. If they took Felldir and Belise alive, no doubt they would be carted off to Tyleigh’s new secret workshop, where she could cut them up into as many pieces as she liked. The empress’s desire for knowledge of these new Titans allowed for no mercy.

The thought of Tyleigh turned the wine sour in his stomach. He had thought he’d left that snake to die in Houraki, but she was as tough and as unkillable as the cockroaches of Stratum. ‘The empress and the Imperator have been reading all the reports I’ve given them. There have been a number of heated arguments. Imperator Justinia, predictably, believes we should act against the Othanim while they are distracted with Brittletain, crush them with our new Heralds and take their bones for ourselves. The empress, though… she has always been a careful woman. She wants to wait, to carry on gathering knowledge, learn what we can about the Othanim.’

‘She will be disappointed,’ said Felldir quietly. ‘There is little depth to what Icaraine wants. An end to the other Titans, the enslavement of humans.’

‘What would you advise?’

Felldir tipped the goblet back to drink the last of his wine. Kaeto had a moment to observe the fine line of his jaw, the smooth column of his neck. ‘I would advise you to leave your Stratum and your empress behind. Come here, and the three of us will head west, to the lands beyond the Broken Sea.’

Kaeto smiled lopsidedly. ‘I meant what would you advise the Imperium to do.’

‘I do not care about the Imperium.’ Felldir put the goblet down and fixed him with a look that made Kaeto’s heart beat a little faster. Does the wolf wish to eat me? he thought. Or does the wolf wish to…

Belise came back in through the shattered doorway, her arms full of provisions.

‘We’ll be eating well tonight, Fell! There’s a whole side of rolled pork in this bag, with a layer of fat that’s going to make the best crackling. Chief, are you staying the night?’

‘I am, and I was thinking about roasting that pig the whole way here. Help me set up the cookfire.’

*   *   *

Later, when Belise had eaten a frankly worrying amount of roast pork and blackened potatoes and passed out in her cosy nest-like room in the bell tower, Kaeto took himself to one of his own favourite haunts in the broken castle. It was a room still accessible on foot, but with one wall entirely missing, so it was possible to look out across the yawning chasm. The sun had set, leaving the sky rinsed almost green in the twilight, a shower of stars overhead. All around him he could hear the occasional chirp of the birds that nested in the castle at night. He sat with his legs dangling off the side. After a little while, Felldir joined him, sitting next to him on the ledge in companionable silence.

‘Do you ever regret leaving Houraki?’ Kaeto asked eventually. ‘You did not have to come with us, after all.’

‘Sometimes, when I am instructing Belise, she asks me if something is a “trick question”. Is this one of these?’

Kaeto laughed quietly. ‘In the Black City I asked what you would do, if your obligation to Icaraine was finally ended, and you said you would die. You sounded glad of it. What’s changed?’

‘I was a fool,’ said Felldir. ‘I’d forgotten that the rest of the world existed, that there were things beyond the Black City that could still bring me joy. All that time I spent as a living curse, as a guardian that dealt only death. I had forgotten how to feel.’ He gestured out at the ever-darkening night sky. ‘This world is still so new, and I’d have missed it all. If I’d stayed there, I would not have discovered the joy of teaching a child.’ Somewhere in the dark, a nightbird cried out. ‘When Icaraine freed her Othanim army she freed me as well, yet it was you who truly gave me freedom, Kaeto. You showed me there was a new kind of life to live.’

A gust of wind barrelled up from the chasm below, blowing a scattering of feathers and old, fragile leaves onto their secluded platform. There was a rustle at their backs, and Kaeto realised that Felldir had extended one of his wings around him, sheltering him from the worst of the wind and debris. That feeling in his chest again: hard, brittle, exciting. A complication he could never have anticipated.

When the silence between them had grown too loaded to bear, Kaeto got to his feet, and Felldir withdrew his wing.

‘I’m going to get some rest. I wish you a goodnight.’

The Titan watched him leave without speaking.

4

You requested a full rundown of the abilities and restrictions of the Heralds. Here it is. I don’t know why you couldn’t have just retrieved the information from my extensive notes on the matter, going back years, but I suppose I can’t expect people in your position to actually read. Do let me know if you’d prefer it written in crayon.

-Wings of blue light can be summoned at will. They last a few hours, so not suitable for travelling extreme distances or over the ocean.

-A sword of blue light can be summoned at will. Never needs to be replaced, never needs to be sharpened or carried. I think even you must see the benefits.

-Heightened strength and healing. What more could you want in a warrior?

-Memory loss. As far as I can tell, subjects lose all memory of anything that happened to them before the augments are grafted into their skin. As most of them are prisoners you’ve dragged out of a hole somewhere, this is no great loss.

-Inability to get pregnant or carry a child. I can only see this as a plus for soldiers. And certainly it means the Heralds can enjoy their leave without consequence.

-Eventual mental and physical degradation. After around eight years or so, it appears the ore-lines start trying to retake their original forms. This can lead to pain, confusion, and possiblythe resurgence of lost memories. Eventually, madness and death. Again, given many of your ‘volunteers’ are criminals, I think this is a reasonable payoff for a legion of untouchable warriors.

Note from Gynid Tyleigh to Imperator Justinia

Leven dropped Cillian safely onto the courtyard flagstones, spreading her blue glass wings wide before folding them away again. Once they were gone, she summoned her magical blade to her hand; having both her wings and sword burning at the same time cost her too much these days. Ahead of them, three guards were racing into the yard, the light of her blade lighting up their armour with flashes of sapphire.

‘Who are you?’ one demanded, in a strong Stratum accent. ‘You’re trespassing.’

Another, slightly faster on the uptake, drew his sword slowly. ‘That’s a bloody Herald, that is. One of the old ones.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ said Leven.

‘And she’s got one of those horned devils from Brittletain with her,’ the guard continued.

The first guard raised his voice. ‘Are you here to see the bone crafter, then?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Leven. Next to her, she could hear Cillian breathing rapidly. Something was wrong. Or at least, something was wrong beyond him falling off a roof.

‘There’s no one permitted to see the alchemist.’ The second guard raised his sword as the third came around the side of his companions. ‘No one’s even supposed to know where she is.’ He shot an irritated look at the first guard. ‘We’ll have to kill them now, so word don’t spread.’

‘I’d love to see you try.’ Leven darted forward, knocking the man’s sword into pieces with her own blade, before neatly



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