The Deathless. Peter Newman
eyes attended her as she spoke. He is such a bright little thing. Chandni knew he could not understand her yet, but she liked talking to him and believed that, on some level, the spirit of her words was sinking in.
‘Our thoughts are with Lord Vasin and his hunters tonight. May they hunt well and thorough.’
When Satyendra gave a soft gurgle, she took it as agreement and planted a kiss on his forehead.
The rest of her walk passed peacefully, and soon she was back where she’d begun, at the stairwell.
Satyendra yawned and, a moment later, she found herself stifling one of her own. If she went back to her chambers now, she might have time for a few hours of sleep before the rebirth ceremony.
She turned to give Ji a goodnight wave before going inside. He was not the man he used to be, but he had served loyally and she was fond of him.
Halfway through the gesture her hand stopped, confused. Ji was nowhere to be seen. His post empty.
Though she knew in her heart that things were bad, Chadni took the time to check Ji had not simply slipped away to relieve himself or take refuge from the cold. He had not. She checked again. Then she ran.
The Chrysalis Chamber was glass on three sides, letting sunslight pour into the space. Even on a dawn like this one, when only the weakest of the suns, Wrath’s Tear, was peeking over the horizon, the heat was palpable, like a wall that Vasin had to press through.
Normally, sapphires adorned the back of the chamber, slowly spreading in pools of milky liquid, but on hunting days all was cleared away save for a single stand of armour and the two Gardener-smiths ready to help him change.
Each life that Vasin lived demanded a new set of armour, the crystals picked and grown by the Gardener-smiths the day his newest vessel was chosen, taking years and a great deal of skill on the part of the smiths to form it to the individual and establish a firm bond to the body. Though he preferred to be reborn as an adult, Vasin had gone through several childhoods and could recall little more tedious than the long modelling sessions.
Luckily, his last rebirth avoided the whole mess, his descendant having reached maturity before the soul was replaced with Vasin’s. This meant, thankfully, that it was his descendant, rather than him, that had spent several hours a day wearing each piece of crystal as it was grown and cut to fit.
It resulted in armour that fit so close and so naturally it was like skin.
More than that though, each set was grown from crystals harvested from the set before, and over time, they developed a personality of their own. For Vasin, putting the armour on was like reconnecting with the best part of himself. It was like coming home.
He raised his arms, assuming the ritual stance, and the Gardener-smiths took a little blood from his palms, daubing each piece with it, waking the crystal to his presence.
As the drum beats continued, nearing the point where the third and fourth drummers would join, the Gardener-smiths helped him into his Sky-legs, a pair of boots ending in long curving blades that would allow him to land safely, or bound easily into the air. Once mounted, he stood several feet higher than them. This was one of the things Vasin enjoyed most when hunting, the feeling of becoming something greater. Once, in better times, he’d talked about the feeling with his mother, and she’d told him it was the closest they came to being like the gods they were descended from.
The rest of the armour was then attached. He shivered as the crystal greaves were locked into place. At first he could feel them, cool against his calves, and then it was as if they had melted and become part of him.
Plates were attached to his thighs and groin, to his chest and shoulders, arms and hands. He turned his head from left to right, catching a glimpse of crystal wings, feather carved, curved and blade thin, sprouting from his back. Unlike those of birds, his were rigid.
At last a helm was placed on his head. Open-topped to let his hair spill out like a waterfall down his back, the crystal was thinned to give only the slightest tint of blue to his vision, and grown to leave breathing space at his nose and mouth.
Into his outstretched hands they placed a long silver-handled spear with a sapphire tip. His fingers moved naturally to the trigger set halfway down the shaft.
‘Hunt well and thorough, my lord,’ said the Gardener-smiths together, bowing low.
Vasin saluted them, pleased with their workmanship, and made his way to the edge of the Chrysalis Chamber, being careful to take small steps so as not to engage his Sky-legs too early.
As he approached, the Gardener-smiths backed away and the glass went with them, sliding aside to allow him onto a balcony overlooking the central courtyard of the palace.
People had gathered below, their adoring faces peering up at him. A block of hunters stood in the centre, their spears and wings glinting proudly in the sunslight. They were armoured in leather, not crystal as he was, and their Sky-legs and wings were lesser, the most their limited skills could handle. It was not their fault, there was simply only so much that could be achieved in a single lifetime. Vasin did not judge his mortal followers for it as some did. In fact, it made him proud how far his people managed to get within so few years. According to his mother, Gada had taken two lifecycles to reach their standard.
About the hunters were their families, and about them a greater crowd of staff and visitors, traders and children. All were dressed in their finest, a shimmering display of silks and crystal, sparkling, joyous.
Vasin raised his spear, and the third and fourth drummers joined in, one deep like the first, and one lighter like the second. The resonance was growing, the faster beats beginning to build, forcing him to lean forward as his wings were pulled back by each wave of sound.
It would not be long now.
‘Who has made the call?’ he said, and it took all of his skill to project his voice high enough and far enough to be heard below.
‘The people of Sagan!’ came the choral reply. Sagan, a sister settlement of Sorn. He wondered if the plight of one had become the plight of the other.
‘And who has answered the call?’
‘We have!’ bellowed the hunters.
‘Then there will be a hunt. And who will lead the hunt?’
‘Vasin,’ replied the crowd as one, ‘Lord Vasin, Lord Vasin of the Sapphire Everlasting, it is he who leads the hunt.’
‘And what will carry him through the Wild places?’
‘We will!’
‘And with what will you carry him?’
‘With song and heart and blade and blood.’
‘Prove it!’
And with that he leaped from the balcony.
The drums paused for the slightest part of a second, long enough for the crowd to take breath, and for Vasin to plunge down. He held his arms out, straight and still, and closed his eyes.
Wind whistled by, hurling back his hair.
Then the drums played again, all seven this time, a frenetic blast of sound, with the higher ones dancing over the lower, and the crowd’s cheer blasting over that.
Each of the sounds came together to form a net, swelling beneath his wings.
There was a moment of utter weightlessness in the gasp that came between falling and soaring, like the moment between one life and the next, and then Vasin was skimming over the heads of the crowd, spear thrust in front, calling for the hunters to join him.
And they did, each step a sailing bound, bobbing beneath him as they raced towards the outer wall. When they reached it, the hunters threw themselves over the edge, trusting to their wings and the essence that rose up from far, far below. For directly beneath them was a great split in the rock, a chasm that led into fathomless depths. The sides of the chasm