41

The Death of Innocence

They parted in the skies, Jotham disappearing over the bay towards his mountain cave in the Enchantments, while Candle flew on alone. Relishing her newfound freedom, she drifted up and over great pillars of cloud and ghosted through crackling thunderstorms. She soared over desolate mountains and swam through rolling breakers far out on the stormy sea. She flew north and explored the coastline there, stopping every now and then to drink her fill from gushing mountain streams. The freedom was intoxicating, and so she flew till every part of her ached and tingled. Once she could fly no more, she collapsed onto the sand of a beach overlooking the great bay and lay staring up at the rain-swollen sky. She sent up a prayer to Ancestors - maybe they couldn't hear her, she thought, but she was so grateful for the gift of flight.

Behind her storm clouds rumbled and flowed across the Enchantments, but the pelting rain troubled her not at all. It was twilight, and she wasn't afraid. She was one with the howling gale, one with the driving rain. She threw back her long, sinuous throat, relishing the patter of the rain on her scales. The sea was dark and choppy, eddies of wind gusting into her face as she lay feeling the storm rage around her. Each angry wave was capped with a foaming white horse as she gazed up into the storm. She shut her eyes and listened.

She listened to the clouds rushing overhead, sensing the strength of the energy that drove them, breathing in the scent of the storm. She drew in a great rush of electric air, gathering it in, feeling it sizzle in her lungs. Her eyes opened with a snap, and she grinned as electricity coursed through her bones. She held it, revelling in it until she could bear it no more. She drew the rune in the air in front of her and was thrown backwards at the force that emanated from it. She lay where she had fallen, laughing into the rain. After a while, she got to examine the deep grooves in the sand, where the bedrock was showing, at the bottom of a pit. She had done that; her whirlwind had done that. She blinked the water out of her eyes. She had done her first ever intentional magic, and it felt amazing. If only it would rain forever, if only she could wash the stench of demon from her.

She breathed in softly, storing a little power in the lines of her body, then drew the rune again. This time it was a soft breeze, just stirring the wet grains of sand, kissing the shells at the water's edge. She looked up, squinting through the droplets. The rain was slowing, and moonlight was cascading through the clouds, limning their edges with silver. The storm was passing, and soon it would be gone.

It was tempting to stay out in the wild, free and flying, and to forget about her human life. Who cared if she couldn't perform magic unless she was wet? No one could touch her; no one would find her. She could live on an island, surrounded by the sea. She enjoyed the fantasy for a few minutes, before looking over her shoulder at the Enchantments. The high peaks were just visible above the low cloud that flooded the valleys. It was so tempting, but she knew deep inside that Jotham was right - sooner or later Rasmus would do something terrible - if he hadn't already. She need to make he didn't hurt anyone else. She didn't want that debt on her soul.

She sighed, glaring at the restless waters. The wind was dropping as the storm passed out to sea, and she watched as the water grew calmer, trying to still the own thudding of her heart.

A strange scent caught her attention. Ashes drifting on the wind, made her lift her head. She sniffed, something was burning. What was burning? The beach was soaked. The storm had blown itself out, and the clouds were lifting. She turned, seeking the source of the smoke with her sharp dragon's eyes. A full moon came out from behind the last of the tattered black clouds, bathing the landscape in luminous silver. Candle's breath caught in her throat, for just visible in the distance, a narrow plume of smoke was rising vertically over the Spear.

Fingers of ice crawling down her spine. Hanternos was burning. Within a moment she was clawing her way through the air towards the dirty column of smoke rising thick and black exactly over the spot where the village stood. Her great wings ate up the miles, crossing in minutes what it would Candle most of a day to walk on two small human legs. But still, she was too late.

A single Lochlanach airship was making its way across the isthmus towards the Lochlanach camp. She debated giving chase, but could not tear her eyes away from the devastating clouds of smoke. The dirty column of smoke was now a belching cloud half a mile wide rising vertically to meet the cold stars. The village was a blackened ruin beneath her.

She landed hard in what was once her parents garden, turning human instantly. She stood, despairing and helpless in the acrid fumes. The devastation was complete. The smouldering embers lit up the night sky with a demonic orange glow. She couldn't see any movement, the night was quiet except for the crackle of fire, eating its way through the remains of the cottages.

She cried out, searching for someone, anyone, but no one answered her. She searched, pushing aside smouldering timbers, digging through piles of stones until her fingers bled. None of the buildings were left standing; they had been blasted into fragments, kitchens and hearths spelled against flames the only parts left standing.

She found her father's body crushed and lifeless near the centre of what had so recently been their manse. She gazed down at Lord Enys, having trouble processing what she was seeing. Parts of him were sticking out at strange angles. She muttered a prayer to their Ancestors and then threw up her last meal. There were people, and parts of people everywhere. People she knew, servants, neighbours, friends of her family. No one was moving. No one was alive. The Lochlanach had wrecked not just the people but the very fabric of Hanternos, ripping its existence from reality.

She wandered among the ruins, the sound of the fire and the scent of burning a nightmarish backdrop to the still night. The remains of damp wood and thatch burned sullenly, occasionally belching out great clouds of ash. She watched it rise, up towards the unfeeling stars, tears streaming down her face. She looked up at Dawn Watch and wondered if anyone had watched the tragedy unfold from above. Had they even been keeping watch?

She searched for a long while, calling out, but never being answered. Her sister and mother were missing which gave her a faint hope. But even that hope was dashed when she found Ishbel's body near the centre of the explosion. What used to be Ishbel, identifiable only by the braids of her wheat coloured hair and the bloody silk of her favourite blue dress.

She sat next to the lifeless body of her sister, holding a piece of her dress gently between finger and thumb. She felt very strange, as if a fog was settling across her brain. She felt like she should do something, but wasn't sure what, exactly it was. She sat for a long time with Ishbel, until her reverie was disturbed by a faint moan sounding from a few feet away, jolting her into action. Candle let her sister's dress fall from her hand and crawled towards the sound.

Her mother lay, under a pile of wreckage. Candle saw at a glance that she was mortally wounded, her lifeblood spilling out from the wound in her chest, but her eyes were open, she was breathing. Lady Enys looked up at her with blue, unglamoured eyes. Blue eyes that were twin to the ones Candle saw whenever she looked at her reflection. It was strange to see them in her mother's face.

“Mama!” Candle whispered, “Mama, I’m here.” She reached out with her fingers to caress her mother's hair. Morwenna Enys turned her head towards her youngest daughter, and Candle saw the side of her head was bright with blood.

“Bel?” she said, her voice low, her eyes glazed with pain. She clutched at Candle. "Where's Bel?"

“Bel's dead, Mama,” said Candle, “everyone’s dead.”

Her mother’s eyes swam into focus and fixed on Candle’s face with such an expression of loathing that Candle shrank back.

“Candle?” her mother whispered, “Is that you? What cruel trick is this? Why are you alive when they are dead? Why not you instead of them?”

She took one last gasp of air, and it rattled in her throat. Lady Eny's beautiful blue eyes glassed over, and Candle reached for her limp hand. She stared at her mother's face for long moments, a knife twisting in her heart. Stripped of glamour her mother's face was so like her own, it was uncanny. She had never seen the likeness before. It was like looking into her own cold, bitter future.

She sat in the wreckage, holding her dead mother in her lap and watched the fires burn down. It was ironic, she thought dispassionately, that all the magic in the world couldn't save you, not from the kind of destructive warfare the barbarians brought. The village was spelled against shades, flood, bugs and illness. She thought of her father. He knew about the barbarians but considered the violence a distant, uncivilised thing that happened to other people. He had been so comfortable in his power, aetheling lord, King's adviser, member of the Kenning and Gifted scion of great Ancestors. He thought he was prepared, for what chance had brute violence against the collected sophistication of the Havi? He was arrogant in his comfort, she thought, and Hanternos and everyone in it had suffered for it. Were her people destined for destruction? The only one who might be a match for the Lochlanach was the demon-possessed woman who called herself the Mester. The woman who the Kenning had so recently deposed.

Candle looked again at her mother's face. It was ironic that her mother had been killed by her own countrymen. Perhaps she might be alive if she and her husband had been prepared, if they had had less distaste for violence. If they had fought back. They had died, Candle thought, holding the high moral ground but now they were gone, their time in the sunlight was done. It was time for them to move on to the Night Nation.

Candle sat with her mother watching the smoke drift. Some time went by, it might have been ten minutes or several hours, but the next thing she knew someone was beside her, and the fires had burnt into ashes. The horizon was glowing with the approach of the dawn.

"Meraud," said the voice. The name was familiar, but it wasn't hers, so she didn't respond. "Candle? Come away, it's not safe to stay here..." someone put their hand on her shoulder and tried to pull her away.

"My mother is dead," she explained and looked up into a familiar face. It belonged to a man she knew. Locryn. She remembered Locryn.

"Come away, Candle," he said, his face strained and pinched and covered in ash. She reached up and brushed some ash off his cheek.

"I don't want to leave my mother," she explained. "Or Ishbel. I don't want to leave them alone."

"It's not safe to stay here," said Locryn, pulling her up with gentle hands.

"My sister," she said, standing carefully, in case her legs gave out. "She's over there-"

Candle blinked at him and took an unsteady step. He swore, then put one arm around her waist heaving her away.

"Where are we going?" she asked, in surprise as he half carried her through the ruins.

"We need to hide," he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Why?"

But he didn't reply, just concentrated on running with her through the ruined village.

"The well," she said, pointing, since hiding seemed important to him. It was the only structure still standing. The Ancestors had known how to make things last, she thought, vaguely.

"What?"

"It's a good place to hide," she mumbled, "I've done it before."

"Why in the Night would you hide in a we-" He stumbled, and they both went flying, sprawling face down onto the ground as they were knocked off their feet from behind.

Rasmus. She knew it was her brother before she turned her head. She stood up slowly, shaking gently and watched him stride through the wreckage of their former home. She eyed the well, wondering if she could get to it in time and started towards it.

He was flanked by several men and women wearing Ancestors Own uniforms, their faces hard, their eyes cold and unfriendly. One of them she recognised from the cells beneath Gwavas. One of the Unrepentant murderers. He had a small demon perched on his shoulder. Another had the shiny silver eyes of a moonsilver addict, his lips gleaming with metallic powder. He stared at Candle with round eyes as if she was from another world.

"I knew you'd turn up," said Rasmus, casually, as if he wasn't standing in the ruins of his home surrounded by the bodies of his friends and family. His eyes were shining blue and unglamoured; his hair was shot through with streaks of white. He was making no attempt to hide the marks of his possession.

"Get behind me," said Locryn, out of the corner of his mouth. His lip was bleeding. Candle moved, not behind him towards the well. If only she could get to the water, but it was on the other side of the courtyard.

"Where do you think you are going?"

Rasmus twisted his hands, and she froze to the spot, unable to move her legs.

"They're dead, Ras," she said. "I saw them."

Belias loomed over them blotting out the stars. The inky shadow of him merging into the cleaner velvet of the night sky.

"Leave us alone," said Locryn, shoving Candle behind him. His shove broke whatever compulsion was on her legs, and she staggered. Rasmus blasted Locryn out of the way with a casual burst of fire from his hand and Candle ran. He was on her in a second, lifting her by her shirt and shaking her till her teeth rattled. She kicked at him and felt a momentary triumph as her foot made contact with his face.

"Little sister," Rasmus hissed. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

He backhanded her across the face and darkness closed in.