The Diamond Isle (d-3) by Stan Nicholls

Author:Stan Nicholls [Nicholls, Stan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_heroic

20

It took several days for Darrok’s aquatic glamour to reach Bhealfa’s shores.

At the coast, the glamour nosed its way into the mouth of an estuary and entered the island’s river system. Other fish shunned it, or perhaps they couldn’t see it. And as it had no need for rest and sustenance, nothing obstructed its journey through the wintry waters.

Following its charm-induced instincts, the glamour went unerringly to the branch of the river serving the capital. But having achieved Valdarr’s main port, it could no longer fulfil its mission in its present state, so a transformation was triggered.

There was turbulence, erupting bubbles and bursts of light. A different creature broke the surface of thewater and rose out of it, dripping wings spread wide.

The bird was something like a raven, though not enough like one to convince anybody. But as it was about to enter a city swarming with glamours it was unlikely to be noticed. Soaring high, the illusion circled, alert for psychic scent. Then it knew its path, and set off at speed.

The sector neighbouring the docks was mean, all narrow winding lanes and rowdy inns. Here the throb of magic was weak, and the militia patrolled in mobs. Acres of dour warehouses ruled the manufacturing district. The adjacent cattle-yard marked out its corrals with multi-coloured glamour orbs. Commerce shaded into residential districts, unremarkable suburbs lit by the prissy blush of respectable magic. They gave way to wealthy sectors, where the illumination of sorcery was at its most extravagant.

The pretence of a raven flew on.

Rich quarter or poor, the city’s infatuation with magic was unabashed. Emporiums of illusion catered for the well-off, while lesser clientele were served by humble charm shops and dubious street vendors. The glamoured gambling dens did brisk business, with hex-powered fortune wheels and cards that turned of their own volition. In the smart parlours of fashionable couturiers, living mannequins modelled the latest gowns. On the streets, the needy rummaged for scraps.

The raven homed in on a safe house, ready to tell its tale and die.

On the opposite side of the city, an hour or so after the glamour’s demise, wintry sunlight bathed the Pastures of Sleep. No such luxury existed in the catacombs beneath; only man-or magic-made light pushed back the gloom there.

A single charmed globe gently lit one particular chamber. Within, two sleeping children shared a cot, while Tanalvah sat on the only chair, head in hands. Had she sobbed, it would have been quietly, for the sake of the children, but she had reached a place beyond tears.

Teg and Lirrin were all that had stopped her from confessing. Her terror of what might become of them, and of the child she carried, was the remaining brake to her admission of guilt. But under the weight of the secret she carried, her thinking had changed. How could she subject them to life with a murderess? What kind of existence would they have when she might be exposed at any time? Above all, how could she

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