and now he was almost home.
Memories of his previous life – the sad, wasting man who was his father; the dead mother – came clearer in dreams now than in waking hours, an indication that he was leaving his past way behind. It was a long time since he had whispered apologies to his father before dropping into a peaceful sleep.
Sometimes he thought to whisper to that void hiding inside of him instead, but he had long given up trying to understand.
The cart bumped, and the thing it contained thudded against the timber sides. Venden glanced back at it. Every time he looked, his stomach dropped and he felt sick. It was a sickness at his loss of control, at the feeling of
being
controlled. He should never have known where to travel to find it.
It had been the same with every other remnant.
The memory of his longjourney north from Skythe’s southern shore, and what he had found close to the source of the river, was as fresh now as the time he had first relived it. Each recollection seemed to make it more real, as if his mind was solidifying his experience to hold back the subtle madness he felt.
Everyone blessed with genius is also tainted with madness
, his father had told him on the day Venden was accepted into the Guild of Inventors. But that was a continent, and a lifetime, away.
‘I’m not mad,’ he said to the wilderness. Each reiteration chipped away at his confidence in the idea, and the watcher inside had never deigned to offer an opinion.
All through his journey north from Alderia to Skythe, he had suspected that he was being drawn to something. After many days stowed away on the supply ship – fearing capture, stealing food – the open freedom of this strange land had refreshed him. It washed out the fears that had built in him, and the regrets about what he had done. And finding himself somewhere he had dreamed of for years, it had not been difficult to follow the lure.
He guided the cart down the gentle slope, turning so that he was behind it and the weight of its contents pulled it down. Staring at the shape exposed to the harsh sunlight, Venden felt that shiver again, the mysterious sense that this hidden thing was always meant to be found by him. The first time he touched it, the smooth shape seemed to fit his hand perfectly, as if he had always known it. It had lain in the ruin of an old Skythian temple for centuries, buried beneath a fallen wall, swathed with sickly crawling plants, patiently waiting. It had taken only a morning to pull back the rubble and cut away the plants that sought to smother the object, and it had felt like granting freedom.
The length of his arm but slightly thicker, the spine-like object hadfourteen protuberances down both sides, each of them as long as his thumb. They were round and smooth, and pocked with between three and thirteen holes. These holes had been home to crawling things, but since loading the object onto the cart they all seemed to have crawled away. The central trunk was almost circular, with one side slightly heavier than the other. If cut it would have the cross-section of a seagull’s egg, but Venden would never try to cut it. He wasn’t certain it
could
be cut – even after so long, its surface was completely unscarred by anything time, or the falling temple wall, had thrown at it.
With each bump it seemed to slip across the cart’s wooden surface, moving as if alive.
But it was
not
alive. When he’d picked it up it had been cold and still, hard.
The cart jumped over a rock and the ropes jarred through his hand, burning his skin and causing him to cry out. He tugged hard, pulled the axle to the left, and jammed the wheels against a rut in the hillside. Panting, Venden released the cart and sat down. The sun blazed. His water skins were empty. Home was near, but the familiar desire to draw out his journey had been nagging at him for the past two days.
He liked being at his camp, but when he was out looking for a relic he never wanted to get
Memories of his previous life – the sad, wasting man who was his father; the dead mother – came clearer in dreams now than in waking hours, an indication that he was leaving his past way behind. It was a long time since he had whispered apologies to his father before dropping into a peaceful sleep.
Sometimes he thought to whisper to that void hiding inside of him instead, but he had long given up trying to understand.
The cart bumped, and the thing it contained thudded against the timber sides. Venden glanced back at it. Every time he looked, his stomach dropped and he felt sick. It was a sickness at his loss of control, at the feeling of
being
controlled. He should never have known where to travel to find it.
It had been the same with every other remnant.
The memory of his longjourney north from Skythe’s southern shore, and what he had found close to the source of the river, was as fresh now as the time he had first relived it. Each recollection seemed to make it more real, as if his mind was solidifying his experience to hold back the subtle madness he felt.
Everyone blessed with genius is also tainted with madness
, his father had told him on the day Venden was accepted into the Guild of Inventors. But that was a continent, and a lifetime, away.
‘I’m not mad,’ he said to the wilderness. Each reiteration chipped away at his confidence in the idea, and the watcher inside had never deigned to offer an opinion.
All through his journey north from Alderia to Skythe, he had suspected that he was being drawn to something. After many days stowed away on the supply ship – fearing capture, stealing food – the open freedom of this strange land had refreshed him. It washed out the fears that had built in him, and the regrets about what he had done. And finding himself somewhere he had dreamed of for years, it had not been difficult to follow the lure.
He guided the cart down the gentle slope, turning so that he was behind it and the weight of its contents pulled it down. Staring at the shape exposed to the harsh sunlight, Venden felt that shiver again, the mysterious sense that this hidden thing was always meant to be found by him. The first time he touched it, the smooth shape seemed to fit his hand perfectly, as if he had always known it. It had lain in the ruin of an old Skythian temple for centuries, buried beneath a fallen wall, swathed with sickly crawling plants, patiently waiting. It had taken only a morning to pull back the rubble and cut away the plants that sought to smother the object, and it had felt like granting freedom.
The length of his arm but slightly thicker, the spine-like object hadfourteen protuberances down both sides, each of them as long as his thumb. They were round and smooth, and pocked with between three and thirteen holes. These holes had been home to crawling things, but since loading the object onto the cart they all seemed to have crawled away. The central trunk was almost circular, with one side slightly heavier than the other. If cut it would have the cross-section of a seagull’s egg, but Venden would never try to cut it. He wasn’t certain it
could
be cut – even after so long, its surface was completely unscarred by anything time, or the falling temple wall, had thrown at it.
With each bump it seemed to slip across the cart’s wooden surface, moving as if alive.
But it was
not
alive. When he’d picked it up it had been cold and still, hard.
The cart jumped over a rock and the ropes jarred through his hand, burning his skin and causing him to cry out. He tugged hard, pulled the axle to the left, and jammed the wheels against a rut in the hillside. Panting, Venden released the cart and sat down. The sun blazed. His water skins were empty. Home was near, but the familiar desire to draw out his journey had been nagging at him for the past two days.
He liked being at his camp, but when he was out looking for a relic he never wanted to get
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