Read Online When the Heavens Fall by Marc Turner - Free Book Online Page B

sculpted to resemble a row of fangs, making it appear to Ebon that he was stepping into a dragon’s maw. Beyond, the passage ran arrow-straight into the gloom.
    The sounds of the palace faded behind until the only noise was the tread of the prince’s footsteps.
    It was years since he had last ventured into this section of the fortress. Running his hand along the wall, he could find no cracks or joints, as if the entire building had been carved from a single piece of rock. Over the years a handful of servants had disappeared in this labyrinthine part of the palace, though whether they had become lost or fallen victim to something prowling the leagues of corridors was not known. Ebon had always smiled at the more lurid tales of their fates, yet today he found himself grateful his destination lay but a short distance ahead.
    He passed through a second arch and began counting passages to the side. The way sloped downward. As he descended he felt a draft against his face. It strengthened as the moments passed, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Like breathing. The voices in his head had receded to a murmur. He took the next turn on his right and entered a huge chamber. Dark and featureless, the only light came from long, linear openings in the roof. The wind passing through them carried on it sounds and scents that changed each time the breeze veered: first an icy tingle of mountain air; then a dry rasp of windblown sand; then a moist tang of salt like a memory of the sea.
    A crumpled robe lay discarded in the center of the floor. Looking up, Ebon saw Mottle floating naked, high above. The old man’s arms were outstretched to form a cross, and his body was slowly spinning round. Ebon cleared his throat.
    Mottle continued turning for a few heartbeats before starting to descend. Barefoot, he touched down beside his clothes.
    â€œI hope I am not interrupting anything,” Ebon said.
    â€œOn the contrary, my boy,” the mage replied as he donned his robe. “Mottle is glad you are here. Your coming is like a pebble dropped in a pool of water.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    The old man straightened. He had put his robe on back to front, but either had not realized or did not care. Spreading his arms to take in the chamber, he said, “Your presence has sent ripples through the Currents. An image was beginning to take shape, but now all is confusion once more. The fragments are scattered anew, the pieces yet to settle.”
    No arguing with that. No understanding it either. “Speak plain, mage.”
    â€œPlain? Why, Mottle is the epitome of clarity and eloquence, though his mind does on occasion wander paths that others cannot follow…” His voice trailed off. “Ah, what was Mottle saying?”
    Ebon sighed. “Pebbles.”
    â€œOf course! The stone that triggers the avalanche, yes? It seems you have a pivotal role to play in what is to come.”
    â€œAnd that is?”
    â€œUnknown, at least for now. Patience is called for. The pattern is still forming, the final picture only hinted at.”
    This is like trying to catch a fish in my hands. Every time I think I have him, he wriggles free. Ebon looked up into the empty gloom. “What are you talking about? I see no pattern.”
    â€œNo pattern?” Mottle said, aghast. “Why, it is all around you. Can you not sense it? A tremor in the air, a snatch of sound—they are like threads of a tapestry still in the weaving. Some fragments are as young as the words we speak, others as old as time itself.” The old man’s voice was bright with excitement. “The fall of civilizations, the machinations of gods, the endless grinding turn of time’s inexorable wheel: in the end, word of all things reaches this place. No secret can stay hidden forever from Mottle’s perspicacious regard.”
    Ebon paused to listen but could make out nothing above the mournful whispering of the spirits in his head.