garden and fan the smell of nectar.
The Ublisi’s tall form seems to float across the lawn to where the stone knot has been extricated from an overgrowth of black pimplota. The Ublisi holds the bright red book in her hands. Its corners are shod in sparkling metal where proud Nekrytian serpents tense in intricate designs.
Arrian knows about this book. It is occasionally still called the Gymre Ta, the Banishing Book: because of its role in locking D’loig in a prison in the stars. Its creation supposedly took a thousand years. But these days, it is simply called the Cisrym Ta, the Red Book—not only for the color of its cover, but for its fearsome results in the ongoing Yilthid War.
The Ublisi stretches her arms beneath the moons and all the guests grow quiet.
Only the glasta still flutter.
Arrian stands near her father, his large hand clasped over hers. She can feel his anxiety. He has helped with the study and the preparation for this night, being a great mathematician. He waits now, breathing hard, for the golden lights that will soon fill the courtyard.
The Ublisi begins to speak in the Unknown Tongue. Her numbers fill the air, bloodless and clean. Her voice sounds like a chyrming creature far away on the mountain of Soth. For an instant, molten glassy shapes distort the courtyard air. A sudden plunge in temperature reveals every exhalation. Inaudible frosty notes pluck a staccato stillness in the yard.
The formula does not last long, but the moment of silence that follows feels eternal. One guest looks to the next, anxiety smoking between their lips. Arrian’s eyes meet Corwin’s and she sees a ghost of apprehension, a sailor’s instinct, perhaps. His body shifts in that infinite moment of doubt as he begins his first step toward her.
The old obsidian-crusted mountain seems to shiver with the sudden chill. Then the world shakes itself like a wet dog. Stars become slits of light that streak two directions at once. The great horned mountain of Soth cracks open like a jungle flame. Rocks three times the size of Jorgill Deep tumble down into the fissure where the fortress stands.
Arrian’s eyes sweep the yard in desperation. Amid the roar, she sees her father unscrew a metal capsule. He tips it into his mouth.
Then the clouds of ash sweep in. The Ublisi stands in a halo of soot and rose-colored fire. Shards of granite and molten flowers of glowing rock rain down in every direction. The heavy hail stones the guests to death then prudently piles them under rocky graves.
Arrian is knocked into an alcove where great falling boulders have already formed a cave of sorts. Someone has pushed her. She turns to see Corwin’s eyes. They are large and wet and desperate to help. A great jagged stone comes down. He disappears into ashy blackness. All of them are crushed like sweet-figs in a pie, buried in the courtyard in a great round of clay.
Arrian’s eyes soak up the blood and broken bones, the fallen rock and glowing embers. Beyond the horror of their death, she sees the most terrifying thing of all. The Ublisi formula is still unwinding. The knot of stone has come undone, the whorl of colored rock, where one of the chambers left its mark, has opened, stretched itself into a hideous hole, as if the world is giving birth. Then, in grotesqueness too ripe to describe, abortive things haul themselves out. Great, translucent, protean limbs, eely monstrosities wrangle from the void and ooze and lurch and burble. The sweet stink of their decay fills the air. The gardens and the glowing moths wilt beneath rocks and huge putrid carcasses that cannot walk, but hump and slither across the liquefied land.
My daughter must have used up every lamp and candle. And when the final wick burnt low, she must have screamed and clenched her teeth as she entered a darkness that would last twenty thousand years.
She is a Gringling. An Eater of Time. Her blessing and her curse: to outlast the darkness.
All of us were burnt and
The Ublisi’s tall form seems to float across the lawn to where the stone knot has been extricated from an overgrowth of black pimplota. The Ublisi holds the bright red book in her hands. Its corners are shod in sparkling metal where proud Nekrytian serpents tense in intricate designs.
Arrian knows about this book. It is occasionally still called the Gymre Ta, the Banishing Book: because of its role in locking D’loig in a prison in the stars. Its creation supposedly took a thousand years. But these days, it is simply called the Cisrym Ta, the Red Book—not only for the color of its cover, but for its fearsome results in the ongoing Yilthid War.
The Ublisi stretches her arms beneath the moons and all the guests grow quiet.
Only the glasta still flutter.
Arrian stands near her father, his large hand clasped over hers. She can feel his anxiety. He has helped with the study and the preparation for this night, being a great mathematician. He waits now, breathing hard, for the golden lights that will soon fill the courtyard.
The Ublisi begins to speak in the Unknown Tongue. Her numbers fill the air, bloodless and clean. Her voice sounds like a chyrming creature far away on the mountain of Soth. For an instant, molten glassy shapes distort the courtyard air. A sudden plunge in temperature reveals every exhalation. Inaudible frosty notes pluck a staccato stillness in the yard.
The formula does not last long, but the moment of silence that follows feels eternal. One guest looks to the next, anxiety smoking between their lips. Arrian’s eyes meet Corwin’s and she sees a ghost of apprehension, a sailor’s instinct, perhaps. His body shifts in that infinite moment of doubt as he begins his first step toward her.
The old obsidian-crusted mountain seems to shiver with the sudden chill. Then the world shakes itself like a wet dog. Stars become slits of light that streak two directions at once. The great horned mountain of Soth cracks open like a jungle flame. Rocks three times the size of Jorgill Deep tumble down into the fissure where the fortress stands.
Arrian’s eyes sweep the yard in desperation. Amid the roar, she sees her father unscrew a metal capsule. He tips it into his mouth.
Then the clouds of ash sweep in. The Ublisi stands in a halo of soot and rose-colored fire. Shards of granite and molten flowers of glowing rock rain down in every direction. The heavy hail stones the guests to death then prudently piles them under rocky graves.
Arrian is knocked into an alcove where great falling boulders have already formed a cave of sorts. Someone has pushed her. She turns to see Corwin’s eyes. They are large and wet and desperate to help. A great jagged stone comes down. He disappears into ashy blackness. All of them are crushed like sweet-figs in a pie, buried in the courtyard in a great round of clay.
Arrian’s eyes soak up the blood and broken bones, the fallen rock and glowing embers. Beyond the horror of their death, she sees the most terrifying thing of all. The Ublisi formula is still unwinding. The knot of stone has come undone, the whorl of colored rock, where one of the chambers left its mark, has opened, stretched itself into a hideous hole, as if the world is giving birth. Then, in grotesqueness too ripe to describe, abortive things haul themselves out. Great, translucent, protean limbs, eely monstrosities wrangle from the void and ooze and lurch and burble. The sweet stink of their decay fills the air. The gardens and the glowing moths wilt beneath rocks and huge putrid carcasses that cannot walk, but hump and slither across the liquefied land.
My daughter must have used up every lamp and candle. And when the final wick burnt low, she must have screamed and clenched her teeth as she entered a darkness that would last twenty thousand years.
She is a Gringling. An Eater of Time. Her blessing and her curse: to outlast the darkness.
All of us were burnt and
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