Day of the Domicile Fintrothas (the Obscure)
THE FRESH, WARM WATER OF THE RIVER BECAME THE DEMON’S BLOOD, a vessel along which it climbed, the current pushing round it. Somewhere ahead, it now knew, lay a heart, a source of power at once strange and familiar. Its master knew nothing of it, else he would not have permitted the demon to draw ever closer, for that power, once possessed, would snap the binding chains.
Something waited. In the buried courses that ran ceaselessly beneath the great city on the banks of the river. The demon was tasked with carrying the fleet of ships – an irritating presence plying the surface above – to the city. This would be sufficient proximity, the demon knew, to make the sudden lunge, to grasp that dread heart in its many hands. To feed, then rise, free once again and possessing the strength of ten gods. To rise, like an elder, from the raw, chaotic world of long ago. Dominant, unassailable, and burning with fury.
Through the river’s dark silts, clambering like a vast crab, sifting centuries of secrets – the bed of an ancient river held so much, a multitude of tales written in layer upon layer of detritus. Muddy nets snagged upon older wreckage, sunken ships, the sprawl of ballast stones, ragged rows of sealed urns still holding their mundane riches. Bones rotting everywhere, gathered up in sinkholes where the currents swirled, and deeper still, in silts thick and hardening and swallowed in darkness, bones flattened by pressures and transformed into crystalline lattices, arrayed in skeletons of stone.
Even in death, the demon understood, nothing was still. Foolish mortals, short-lived and keen with frenzy, clearly believed otherwise, as they scrambled swift as thought above the patient dance of earth and stone. Water, of course, was capable of spanning the vast range of pace among all things. It could charge, out-running all else, and it could stand seemingly motionless. In this it displayed the sacred power of gods, yet it was, of itself, senseless.
The demon knew that such power could be harnessed. Gods had done so, making themselves lords of the seas. But it was the river that fed the seas. And springs from the layers of rock. The sea-gods were, in truth, subservient to those of the rivers and inland pools. The demon, the old spirit-god of the spring, intended to right the balance once more. With the power awaiting it beneath the city, even the gods of the sea would be made to kneel.
It savoured such thoughts, strange with clarity as they were – a clarity the demon had not possessed before. The taste of the river, perhaps, these bright currents, the rich seep from the shores. Intelligence burgeoning within it.
Such pleasure.
‘Nice stopper.’
She turned and stared, and Tehol smiled innocently.
‘If you are lying, Tehol Beddict…’
Brows lifted. ‘I would never do that, Shurq.’ Tehol rose from where he’d been sitting on the floor and began pacing in the small, cramped room. ‘Selush, you have a right to be proud. Why, the way you tucked in the skin around the gem, not a crease to be seen-’
‘Unless I frown,’ Shurq Elalle said.