Part 25 (2/2)

*I know.' She sighs. I bet she wishes she had.

As soon as we near the murky green-black of the Mora.s.s edge I tell her she has control.

She squawks, *What do you mean, I have control? What are you going to do?'

I turn round in the c.o.c.kpit and smile at her. *I'm going to see just how fun flying can be.'

I've already unlaced my boots. My feet will be cold but I don't care. When I land I want to feel the ground beneath my bare skin.

*Where are we going to land?' Zoya asks.

I climb out of the pilot's seat and on to a wing. The corvil grips my shoulder. *Go back and stay safe with everyone!' I shout as I drop, as I fall . . . as I soar!

Not for me now the confines of wood and wingspan. Down I dive, trailing a cloak of darkness. I love it a” love this freedom! I'm not buoyed up by air, I am the air. I'm the sky, the night, the wind teasing the treetops. I could fly like this for ever; I could circle the planet, breaking Marina Furey's round-the-world record . . .

Furey.

Her name is a jolt. Others follow a” Ang, Henke, Rill . . . Mama, Papi, Reef . . .

Pain. Loss. Grief. Betrayal.

They're too heavy. I fall. I crash. I break through branches, shred nests and scatter leaves. The ground catches me. It's hard. As soon as I touch earth my senses spread. I reach through roots, round rocks and under still water. This is the forest again.

Home.

I run. The frost-cold forest runs with me. Wolves pace between the trees, corvils skim above them, a croaking wave of black. Eye Bright flies too, smaller than the rest. We follow no path. The path follows me. I blaze my own trail over hill and under night. I come to the lake.

Here we stop, the forest and I. Here we pause. The water is as grey and flat as ever. There are lights in the darkness. *Don't look at the lights,' everyone said. They dance for me now, bobbing in a tired breeze. I start wading. Blind fish swim away from me. The lights get closer. They're made from fragile little bird skulls, filled with wax and lit with wavering flames. They mark stepping stones set just under the water's surface. Soon I make out a shape in the mist a” a wooden house on wooden legs, with a foot-smoothed wooden ladder.

Welcome, Rain . . .

The door is open. I push it wider and breathe in the smell of ancient life and imminent death. There are lifeless rachnids curled in cobwebbed corners, chairs and cups furred with dust, and a bed covered in clumps of dry moss. Under a quilt pieced from all shades of grey an old mother waits.

I take a breath, tasting a torrent of questions.

The old woman raises one bone-thin arm above the quilt. Just in time, she whispers. I sent the forest to find you and bring you home again. Now you've learned how the other world works you'll know what to do with it. She grips my hand in a final, fierce clasp . . . and lets her last breath out. I'm too late. She's gone.

On the sh.o.r.es of the lake wolves begin to howl. My corvil flies up to an onion-hung roof beam. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and pick two thorn-vine flowers from a bush blooming in the hut's stove. I put one orange flower on each of the old mother's eyes and bow my head in a wordless prayer.

The lake water seems colder when I start out over the stepping stones again. Where should I go? What should I do? I was hoping for answers . . . or powers. How can I face one Crux, let alone an army, when I'm just this bare-footed loner?

Back on the rounded pebbles of the lake sh.o.r.e I think back to the last time I was here, when I saw Reef for the first time. I wonder where he is now. Stuck in Sea-Ways with a crowd of hysterical citizens? Resisting the siege with soldiers? I've been trying not to think about the vision I had of his knife-sharp death. Wherever he is, he'll be night-blind until the Eclipse ends. Should I have stayed to find him?

No. I came here to do something about the Crux.

I smell them first, a reek of wrong overlaid with a stink of self-righteousness. They're camped not far from the lake in a vast clearing ringed by torn trees. There are hundreds and hundreds of men, machines, weapons and lamps. As I approach, eyes, lights and gunsights all turn towards me. I brace myself for the shock of sh.e.l.ls and spitting bullets.

One by one the Crux soldiers bend. One by one they kneel. As one they lower their heads and spread their arms. They bow. They submit. To me.

The ground trembles with their devotion.

There's a huge building dominating this living carpet of wors.h.i.+p. Its thick stones are spread with green-weave camouflage nets. As I stand there, stunned, the nets are dragged off and a G.o.d-house is revealed. It takes my breath away. The stones s.h.i.+ne white and the windows are a cascade of colours. One I partly recognise from when I first came to the Mora.s.s a” the picture window I saw wreathed in snow at the edge of the tree-eaten rift. It must have been removed and carried here to be part of this great monument. It shows a young woman stepping out from a black sun. Her hair is a brilliant gold corona.

The walls of the G.o.d-house are still jagged with scaffolding and the roof is unfinished. The doors are open. I pick my way around bomb-slingers, soldiers and silent traptions. I step inside.

The few G.o.d-houses still standing in Rodina when I was little were dreary places, dark with neglect and overrun with rablets. In those dark relics, the walls were hung with paintings of brown-stained, sad-eyed saynts. This place is surprisingly peaceful, with clean walls and not a rablet-dropping in sight, or even a rachnid web. The floor flows with rippled silk. It feels delicious under my bare feet. The painted gla.s.s windows are lit by Old Nation oil lamps. Perfume cones make the air taste rich. I see one chair only a” a marvellous, wide, golden thing set high on a platform with cloud-soft cus.h.i.+ons.

*Go ahead,' says a familiar voice. *Be comfortable. It's yours, all of this. A G.o.d-house needs a G.o.d, after all.'

I turn slowly. Everything about this place is unrushed and unreal.

Steen Verdessica stands in the doorway with his army still bent low to the ground outside. He stares at me like I really am a G.o.d, not a girl with dirty feet and creased combat clothes.

*I hoped, I dreamed you would come,' he whispers. *I knew your culture could never accept you. Can you imagine how I felt when I guessed your true nature?'

*That I'm a monster?'

*That you're a G.o.d. The G.o.d. The Light Bringer.' He laughs and stretches with pleasure. *When I said I could wors.h.i.+p you, it was the truth. What I failed to mention was that the entire Crux nation will wors.h.i.+p you too, starting here in the Mora.s.s. Since the last Long Night we've been planning to conquer this land and offer it back to you.'

*You invaded Rodina just to come here?'

*Just to find you. What do you think has fired us on to fight so victoriously?' Steen gazes at me with sun in his eyes. *It's been worth every sacrifice. We hoped to have your G.o.d-house finished by Long Night, but the war took more resources than we thought. When you come to the Crux homeland we'll wors.h.i.+p you in G.o.d-houses that beggar the grandest palaces. Any one of them a” all of them a” will be yours. Everything we have, everything we are, all of us, all of me a” yours.'

With utter grace he sinks to the floor and spreads himself at my feet. That's quite a sight.

Good G.o.d a” to be a G.o.d! To loll on those cus.h.i.+ons with men at my feet. To be anything, to do anything, with the wors.h.i.+p of millions. Rodina would have to bend their knees and wors.h.i.+p me too. Uncle Mentira would grovel like a wormling if I was a G.o.d. Everyone would be sorry they ever said anything bad about me, or betrayed me or called me a monster. My real friends would think I was amazing, fantastic, the best ever! Reef would find me astonis.h.i.+ngly beautiful, beyond any other girl in the entire world . . .

Reef.

Be careful what you wish for . . .

Crux soldiers are carrying a limp body into the G.o.d-house, bound with bright bane-metal bands. I have to clench my hands so Steen can't see they're shaking.

*We found your favourite Scrutiner wandering blind in the forest,' Steen gloats, unsheathing an impossibly bright knife. *It will be an honour for him to serve as a sacrifice . . . and a pleasure for me to kill him.'

There Reef lies, skin pale and eyes closed.

Why did he return to the forest? Surely not looking for me? He must have heard what people in Sea-Ways were saying about me. He must have known why Uncle Mentira was taking me to Corona. I'm one of the witches he once came to the Mora.s.s to hunt. If he were to die now he'd never see me revealed as a monster. My vision would be fulfilled and I could glory in G.o.dfulness without him. Steen is here, pulsing with admiration a” what more do I want?

Steen holds out the knife blade. I take it. Reef's throat is bare. I could kiss or cut it. The air begins to tremble. G.o.d or monster, what am I?

*Choose whose side you're on!' cries Steen, suddenly impatient.

I take a deep breath in. The G.o.d-house starts to shake. Roots writhe beneath the floor. Outside, corvils hurtle round the clearing. One crashes into the picture window. Blood smears the face on the coloured gla.s.s. My face. Wham! Another corvil collides with the gla.s.s. Another feathered body falls, a dead red-black lump on the ground. Bird after bird follows. The gla.s.s cracks. Shatters. Black-feathered birds come pouring in.

Steen staggers upright and fights them away. Bane-metal bells jangle on his wrists.

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