Soon the wooden cabins were in the distance, and then there were no more humans. The landscape began to shift. In the morning, they passed meadows spotted with purple and red flowers; he saw a group of human-sized creatures, their skin mottled like bark, dancing to a song he could not hear. But as they sailed north, it grew harsher. As the day went on, the land grew rocky.

  Ratwin launched herself overboard to catch fish, eventually filling a bucket, each fish bearing a small set of tooth marks. Christopher and Mal found knives and began to gut them. He rubbed the seawater between his fingers. ‘It’s changing, I think,’ he said. ‘The water feels colder.’

  ‘The sphinxes are hardy,’ said Irian. She scraped the scales from a fish with long, elegant fingers. ‘And the cold keeps away predators. Dragons prefer warmer breezes.’

  Christopher stared. ‘You’re not seriously telling me that dragons don’t like the cold?’

  ‘They’re cold-blooded – they feel the chill. In your world, you tell stories of dragons living in damp caves; that’s nonsense. They crave sunlight. More cold equals fewer dragons, generally speaking – and it’s colder the further north you go.’

  ‘Except at the farthest north though,’ said Mal. She gave the guts to Gelifen, who took them daintily from her hand. ‘On Arkhe. That’s hot – because of the Somnulum, obviously.’

  ‘The Som-what?’

  ‘The low-slung sun.’ She looked astonished. ‘You know! Where Icarus flew.’

  ‘Icarus flew into the sun.’

  She snorted, and grinned at him. ‘Not the actual sun.’

  ‘Yes! The actual, literal sun. His father made him wings out of feathers and wax, and he flew into the sun, and the wings melted and he died.’ His knife was blunt. He held the fish out to Gelifen. ‘Geli – can you slice along here?’ And he took the griffin’s claw in his hand, and helped him run his talon along the fish’s belly. ‘And he’s a Greek myth, so he didn’t actually do anything.’

  ‘Christopher.’ Her voice was full of sardonic faux-pity. ‘You are aware the sun is very, very far away?’

  ‘I am, thank you! I’m not an idiot.’ He hooked the guts out, and put them in a pile for the griffin.

  She tucked her chin into her neck and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Icarus didn’t fly anywhere because Icarus is a metaphor!’ said Christopher.

  ‘Icarus was not a metaphor! He was a person. He was on the island of Arkhe and he flew too close to the Somnulum.’

  Christopher held out another fish to Gelifen; the griffin sliced it down the front.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Irian. ‘There are good historical records of Icarus’s life. And the Somnulum isn’t really a sun – it’s the purest form of heat, in the sky above the first tree, above the maze.’

  ‘It burns pure glimourie. We learned it at school,’ said Mal. She cut herself on her gutting knife, and sucked her thumb, and then winced at the taste. ‘Ugh! Fish guts.’

  ‘It formed when the ring of protection around the Archipelago was put in place by the Immortal,’ said Irian. She worked twice the speed of any of them. Her fingers were rather longer and slimmer, he realised, than those of any woman he’d known; and faster too. ‘The Somnulum’s gravitational pull holds the protection steady,’ she went on, ‘in the same way that the moon pulls the tides. Your waters, of course, have some glimourie to them too; a trace amount, across the oceans.’ She dropped the last of the fish in the earthenware dish. ‘There. Nighthand can cook these. Haul up some water, and wash your hands in it.’

  Christopher leaned out over the edge of the boat, hauling the bucket. He stared out at the sea. He’d been taught the science of the moon at school. If you thought about it clearly – thought hard and sharp and sideways – it was fully as astonishing as the glimourie: that the moon could move the waters of the Earth. If the glimourie protected the Archipelago, what protected the rest of the Earth?

  A wave cracked against the side of the boat, and he shook himself. There were no boats now for miles, and no people; only the mountains. The landscape had a bleak splendour – rocky cliffs, spotted with hardy-looking trees which grew, windswept, amid the stone. Some of the rocks were black, and some slate, but many were silverish, shimmering with what looked like malachite. It glittered. It was a fierce and dauntless beauty, but it was not welcoming.

  Ratwin appeared, Nighthand with her. Nighthand had been drinking the night before, hunched over a bottle of whisky and two glasses. One of the glasses, set out opposite him, where Warren should have been, remained empty. His face now was the same green as the ratatoska’s fur.

  ‘We’re very close,’ Ratwin said, assessing the mountains on the coast. ‘It’s impossiblated to moor at the foot of their mountain, so you’ll have to drop anchor further out. You can row-boat in. I shall guard the ship. If marauders come, I shall eat them.’

  Christopher looked out at the rocky waters. ‘It looks – that bay, there – quite sheltered?’

  Nighthand smiled. ‘It does. But when Ratwin says it’s not possible, she means that the waters will not allow it. The sea in the Archipelago is opinionated. Only small boats can moor at the foot of the sphinxes’ mountain.’

  ‘Some islands make it impossible to land at all,’ said Irian, joining them. ‘You would simply sail and sail and never reach the shore.’

  ‘On the Island of Murderers,’ said Ratwin, ‘it’s the opposite-face. Any boat can approach and land, but nobody – no boat, no mans, no ratatoska, no flying or swimming creature – can ever make it out again. The reef would suck you into the seabed and keep you there forevers. And that,’ she said to Christopher, ‘before you go asking with your but-what face and your no-really eyes, is purest fact.’

  ‘Except dryad-wood,’ said Irian. ‘I once read an old text that said a dryad-wood ship can sail in and out, being wood with a heart of its own.’

  ‘That’s a children’s tale.’ Nighthand gave a snort. ‘And I thought you were a scholar? There’s no such thing. Let’s go, before my hangover gets worse. I feel like a lavellan is eating my eyeballs from the inside.’

  Nighthand rowed, clutching oars which looked like cutlery in his huge hands, Gelifen perched in the bow. The closer they got, the more wild and forbidding the mountain looked. A short beach of grey-white sand led to the cliff edge, which rose, a great face of variegated rock, for fifty feet. There were shrubs clinging to the surface, and birds perched on occasional outcrops – crows, a nest of sand-martins and a flock of four silver-grey hawk-like birds Christopher had never seen before.

  Nighthand leaped out into thigh-deep water and dragged the boat up on to the shore. Irian approached the rock face, and ran careful fingers along it.

  ‘We’ll have to climb.’ A heavy brown vine wound over the rock, and she snapped a piece of it off. ‘This is greensword. It shouldn’t be brown: it’s evergreen. Alive all year round.’

  ‘Which means?’

  Irian shook her head. She put the piece of vine in her pocket. ‘I’ve never seen it dead, like this. It worries me.’

  Christopher approached the rock face. It had good handholds, but they were far apart. He was nearly as tall as Irian, but both would have to stretch. For Mal it would be impossible. And the fall – if they fell – would be deadly.

  ‘Mal will ride on my back,’ said Nighthand. He turned to the wall with a face impassive as granite. ‘Unless you can fly?’

  Mal licked a finger and held it to the air, her face careful: a connoisseur of wind. ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said. ‘Not for more than maybe a few seconds. It’s too erratic.’

  ‘Then climb on. The sphinxes await!’

  He bent for Mal to climb on to his massive back. He was so tall and so broad that it was a scramble for her.

  She held on gingerly to his shoulders, Gelifen clinging to her. Nighthand shook himself impatiently. ‘Hold me round the neck – you won’t hurt me.’

  ‘We need to move fast,’ said Irian. ‘The sphinxes will know we landed. It’s best not to keep them waiting. An impatient sphinx is a dangerous thing.’

  Nighthand climbed first. He climbed with the confidence and speed of what he was: a person who has never once in his life contemplated the idea of falling. He appeared not to feel Mal’s weight.

  Irian went next: Christopher followed. It was painful, difficult work. The grips were often jagged-edged, and cut at his fingers. But he made progress – slowly he ascended, breathing hard. Ten feet, fifteen, twenty, thirty.

  Then, just as he was nearing the top, a piece of rock he had gripped in his left hand began to crumble in his fingers. He twisted to the left to look; the greensword had burrowed into it, through the cracks, and now the rock was disintegrating into pieces. He had just time to register that the rock was coming away in his hand when his foot slipped from under him.

  He fell.

  THE OPPOSITE OF FALLING

  The thought went through his head, far faster than speech: This can’t be happening. And: I’m going to die. And: Dad will never know. He’ll have to wait, forever, not knowing if I’m coming back.

  And then he jerked, suddenly, to a hard and painful stop.

  He had landed on a shrub, growing from the rock; he caught hold of it with one hand, snatched at it with the other, and held there. His lungs were in his throat, his stomach somewhere near his knees. The shrub – which was, up close, a stunted little tree, smaller than him – grew from a ledge: four foot across, and ten inches deep. He scrambled for a foothold and stood, waiting for his breath to return, both arms embracing the tree.

  He forced himself to steady; worked his way up from toes to knees to elbows, willing each joint and muscle to stop shaking.

  ‘I’m alive,’ he breathed.

  He looked down, which was a mistake. The drop was forty feet. But before terror could take full hold of him again, he heard shouts from above, where the others had completed the climb.

  ‘Christopher! Are you hurt?’ called Irian.

  Only Nighthand sounded untroubled: ‘That seems an eccentric place for a rest stop.’

  Mal’s face appeared; she crouched right at the edge of the cliff, holding on to the rock. ‘Don’t do that! I thought I was going to be sick: I turned round and you were falling,’ she said. Under her imperious tone he could hear a tremble. There were frightened tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’m not hurt,’ he said. It wasn’t true – he was bleeding from both knees and would have a bruise that would purple his whole shin – but he was alive.

  Nighthand’s low voice came on the wind: ‘Can you see a handhold? Can you get up?’

  Christopher looked. All the handholds in reach above and below had collapsed with the rock; the only grips looked like they would crumble if he touched them.

  ‘The stone’s unstable,’ said Christopher. ‘It won’t hold.’ He reached out one hand, and gripped at the rock face. He tugged it, hard, and it came away in his fingers.

  ‘Then I’ll have to come down,’ said Nighthand.

  ‘Don’t!’ said Irian. Her usual calm was shattered. ‘The rock won’t take you both – you’ll both fall!’

  Then there was a hiss, and an ‘Oh!’ – the sound of an idea taking shape – and Mal called down. ‘Christopher! I’m going to throw down my coat. Are you ready?’

  She lay on her stomach, her head and shoulders hanging out over the drop. She bundled the coat into a ball.

  ‘Wait!’ he called, as the wind gusted, blowing dust from the rock into his eyes and mouth – but it was too late. She dropped it.

  The wind caught at the coat and pulled it sideways. He let go of the shrub with one hand, lunged, and snatched at the sleeve as it fell.

  He heard Mal gasp and hiss in fear, and then in approval: ‘Now put it on, but don’t button it.’

  One hand at a time, he did as she said. He tried not to look down.

  ‘Then you take hold of the edges – where it would button – and you spread your arms – and the wind will lift you. It’s not a good wind, but it’s better than falling.’

  ‘Are you sure this works for other people? Not just you?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ This, although he did not know it until later, was a lie. Mal had never shared the coat before. There hadn’t been anyone worthy of sharing it with; nobody she had cared about enough, until now.

  The worst moment was when he had to let go of the tree, to take hold of the insides of the cloth.

  He opened his arms and felt the wind catch at the coat. Then there was a tug, a sudden pull at his whole body, and he felt his feet leave the ledge. He shot upwards, lurching sideways, first away from the cliff and then – astonishingly fast – towards it. He dipped his left arm down and spun away, sideways, down low, and then up again.

  He could feel, suddenly, how it worked – how to angle the way the air hit the shape of the coat. He swooped upwards, and Mal gave a great whoop of triumph, as he soared past her, past Irian’s smile and Nighthand’s crooked eyebrow.

  ‘Come down!’ called Irian. ‘Before the wind drops!’

  But there was nothing in the world he wanted to do less than come down. He soared up, and the wind was whipping his hair into his eyes, and it felt like pure glory – his legs out behind him, his whole body as light as air. He angled higher, up towards the birds, which flew with a cacophony of squawks to greet him.

  ‘Christopher!’ called Irian.

  He pretended not to hear. Glee tore through him. He whooped.

  ‘Christopher, the wind is falling!’

  ‘Get down!’ called Mal. ‘She’s right!’

  Regretfully, he angled downward and landed on his feet. It jarred one ankle, but he stayed standing. He took off the coat, and handed it to Mal.

  ‘That was incredible,’ said Mal. ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.’

  Nighthand nodded at him. There was admiration in his face, an expression it was patently unused to. ‘I congratulate you on not dying,’ he said.

  THE WRITTEN MOUNTAIN

  What Christopher might have said in reply will never be known, because there was a noise among the small, wind-stunted trees on the clifftop, and out on to the rocky stretch of ground came a creature that silenced him completely.

  It was vast. Its body was leonine, deep yellow, with paws as large as Christopher’s torso. Its face was as if a human consciousness and human eyes had been laid upon a lion. Folded along its back were wings, vast and feathered and sand-coloured. Its tail was long, and lay behind it on the ground. He knew at once what it was.

  Next to him, Mal hurriedly wiped her hands in her heavy black fringe, and stood as straight as if in the presence of royalty. She smoothed Gelifen’s feathers, and stepped closer to Christopher.

  It came nearer. A thrill of adrenalin went through him. Nighthand put his hand to the glamry blade at his belt and stepped in front of Mal. He sniffed. ‘Smells like a cat,’ he said.

  ‘Strangers,’ said the sphinx. Its voice was low and rough. ‘What have you come for?’

  ‘For information,’ said Mal. And then she added, in the face of so many teeth, ‘Please.’

  ‘Then you have come to solve a riddle? We do not give information without trial.’

  ‘But why not?’ said Irian. Christopher was startled to see how unafraid she seemed of the sphinx. ‘Isn’t that the point of knowledge – to pass it on?’

  ‘We ask riddles for two reasons.’ The sphinx’s voice was strangely staccato, as if human language were not the tongue it was used to, but its English was perfect. ‘We would be swamped by visitors – inundated with seekers after trivial knowledge that they could have found for themselves. The risk of death –’ and its long tongue came out, and licked the top of its nose – ‘whittles down the numbers.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Irian. Her tone was bone-dry. ‘I can imagine it would have that effect.’

  ‘And second, why tell truth to those not yet prepared to receive it? The riddles ensure that we tell our secrets to those who have already learned how to think.’ Its yellow eyes grazed over Christopher, over Mal. ‘And thirdly—’

  ‘You said two reasons,’ said Nighthand.

  ‘Third,’ the sphinx said, louder, and its wings opened for just one moment, a great sweep of feather and threat, and the air shook, ‘because it is a way of attracting food.’

  ‘We’ll answer the riddle,’ said Christopher. ‘That’s why we’ve come.’

  The sphinx bowed his head. ‘And if you get it wrong, perhaps we will eat you.’

  ‘Perhaps?’ said Mal.

  ‘It is not my choice. If it were, there would be no perhaps. But it will be the choice of Naravirala, my mother, leader of our clan. My name is Belhib; I am her fourth son.’

  ‘Would you eat all of us?’ said Nighthand. He sounded interested. ‘Or just the one who gets it wrong? It’s important to be precise about these things, I think.’

  ‘All of you,’ said Belhib. ‘And the griffin. My mother will be interested in the griffin. Follow me.’ And he set off at a swift lope across the rocks.

  The cliff was part, Christopher could see now, of a huge mountain range. There was one great peak ahead of them; the incline was steady at first – rock and grass and lichen – and then steep, in sharp jags.

  ‘Quicker,’ said Belhib.

  Christopher and Mal climbed side by side, both breathing hard, talking – when they spoke – in whispers, heads close together, so that the sphinx could not hear. Gelifen curled around Christopher’s neck. Christopher could feel his beak vibrating against his ear. Untroubled by the sphinx, the griffin, one of life’s great anticipators, quivered with hope at what might come.

  Irian followed, scrambling up scree fast, but rendered clumsy by the newness of her boots. Once, she slipped, both feet giving way at once, and Mal and Christopher twisted to help, but Nighthand, seemingly without looking, shot his left hand out and caught her round her upper arm.

  He let go of her very swiftly, once she was back on her feet. ‘You hurt?’

  She had scree cut into her palms, but she shook her head. ‘Just a little grated.’

 

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