Chapter Text
Brin doesn’t make it far in his proposed race to the third marker before he gets distracted. Sylens catches up to him where Brin has strayed toward the edge of the path where the open snow meets the forest. His gaze is transfixed on the edge of the treeline. Following it, Sylens spots the blue glow of machines in the thicket. A pair of Watchers crane their bulbous metal heads, their eyes casting clean rays of light that fan out between the branches.
“Come on,” Brin says, “I want to get a closer look.”
“I thought we were going to the next marker.”
Brin was so eager to get there a moment ago, and so is Sylens, but after beginning the journey with a facade of indifference, he doesn’t want to admit his excitement.
Brin approaches the machines, crouching down at the edge of the forest that stretches longways toward the distant ruins. It seems unnatural; on either side, the forest stops in a precise, straight line. Even the branches bend upwards and away to avoid the air above the snowy plain, forming something of a wall, like nothing dare grow over the soil here. The Werak has passed by this stretch of land for years; did this phenomenon never bother them? Did they never think to investigate the cause? Is this why, on their annual expedition, the caravan always stops their Southern course at the lake behind and bears toward the West?
It’s typical of the Banuk to ignore what they don’t understand. They don’t actively shun the ancient world, but they are indifferent to it. The remnants of past weakness serves as a reminder that only the strong can survive in a landscape so unforgiving. This is a sentiment that their Werak takes dutifully to heart. There aren’t many among the larger tribe that would brave these harsh lands so far from Ban-Ur. The Werak’s suffering is a point of pride.
Sylens prods at the earth, scooping the snow away with his foot and testing the material beneath. In temperatures this cold, it should be packed hard as solid stone, but instead the ground is soft and mulchy. It sinks with a sad, deflated whistle of air. Then it comes again; that skittering noise, like insects fleeing from the point of contact. Sylens scoops up a handful of soil and finds its regular greys and browns laced with the same dark, chitinous particulates that he found by the first beacon. Hard spheres, with a blackish-green shine in the weak light.
“Psst, Sylens,” Brin hisses. He is crouched down by the solid bank of the treeline. Sylens walks up behind him, hoping to hurry him along.
The Watchers are escorting a herd of Lancehorns, and have brought them to a stop by a small frozen pond. There, the tall creatures bend their drill-horned heads to break the surface of the ice, revitalising the waters below. It is from these machines that the Banuk learnt to construct their own ice mechanised drills that they use to prise clean sections from the frozen waters.
“See, I’ll show you what a Watcher sounds like.” Brin speaks from a position crouched below Sylens’ line of sight, and so it is too late to stop him when he realises what Brin is about to do. Brin lobs a stone with uncanny accuracy. It dodges thin, interleaved branches and strikes one of the Watchers on its flank. The machine starts, rotating as it jumps and planting its legs to face the source of the projectile.
“Brin!” Sylens whispers. “What are you doing?”
“Shh, it’s coming over.” Still crouched in the frosty undergrowth, Brin shuffles back, tugging Sylens down with a hand on the fur hem of his overcoat.
Begrudgingly, Sylens relents. “You aren’t supposed to disturb them.”
Brin is lucky that no one else was with them to see him strike the machine. Only hunters are permitted to harm the machines, and even then, only when their salvage is dearly needed. Sylens doesn’t really care about the Shaman’s rules, just as some of their hunters resent the various permissions that must be sought before a party can be gathered, and the rites that must be performed afterwards to sanctify the kill.
At a clanging trot, the Watcher makes its way to the edge of the clearing, stretching its long neck toward the ground and cocking its single, bright eye to one side, searching for its attacker. Before Sylens can intervene, Brin jumps from his hiding place and launches into a clumsy roll, popping out right in front of the machine. The creature jumps again, emitting a two-toned screech. An answering alarm sounds from its fellows further into the forest.
Even under threat of death, it is rare for the machines to retaliate against their aggressors. They attempt to escape when trapped or injured. They will push back against their attackers to an extent, but rarely with enough force to cause lasting harm. As long as the machine song remains in harmony, so the Shamans say, this docility will last forever. Sylens has never actually heard this machine song, since only initiated Shamans know how to listen.
Sometimes Sylens thinks that Brin can already hear it.
He has a way with the machines, which he displays again now. Sylens’ first instinct was to reach out and pull Brin away from the Watcher. The machines are not to be approached by those incapable of understanding them. But Brin reaches out to the startled creature, placing a small, gloved hand gently against the metal casing around its eye. The machine remains still for a moment, like a person might startle into speechlessness, then it leans slightly into Brin’s touch, pawing at the tossed snow with one scant metal leg.
“Hey little guy,” Brin murmurs in a soft, high-pitched tone.
Sylens sneaks out gingerly behind him, worried about spooking the machine. “I don’t know how you get them to stay still like that.”
The Watcher looks upwards, noting Sylens’ presence, but seems to discount him as a threat. It makes a soft, warbling noise like spinning gears, then bows its head toward the ground before retreating a few steps and turning tail, scampering back toward its herd. The branches scratch at its metal hide.
“You can’t approach them like a hunter,” Brin explains with pride. “You can’t be wary or guarded, looking at it wondering where you should strike first. Just be like yourself, like you’re alone. Like you’re both just animals that have come face to face and the language you speak is the same.”
Sylens stands up, offering a hand down to Brin and making sure to convey his unwavering cynicism. “You sound like a Shaman,” he says, with a hint of disdain.
He knows that a good tribesman isn’t meant to feel anything but quiet respect toward the Shamans, but the ancient head Shaman of their Werak and every one of her snooty, middle-aged apprentices waiting for her to drop dead are so secretive, so insular. They harp on about all the secrets that they alone are blessed to know, the songs that only they can hear. The tales they impart to the unworthy masses are vague and cautionary and recycled by the season. Half of Sylens resents them for lounging about while the rest of the tribe make themselves useful, while the other half is envious of the power they hold. He just knows, if that power was his, he would use it for more than songs and storytelling.
Brin takes Sylens’ hand and lets Sylens pull him to his feet.
“Exactly, that’s why I didn’t expect you to understand.” Brin begins to walk off toward the site of the next beacon.
“Hey, I could be a Shaman,” Sylens says, a little indignant.
Brin scoffs. “You’re too impatient.”
“Only when people are boring.”
“You think everyone’s boring.”
Sylens scowls, because Brin is right. Maybe he wouldn’t mind learning about machines and spirits and ancient history if it wasn’t all tied up in convoluted rites and rituals. And blind old women who love to reprimand him for asking too many questions.
Traipsing oblivious through the snow, Brin continues to himself: “See, you’ll be a hunter anyway, and you won’t have to worry about keeping your place in the Werak. You could even win a place in a better one, a bigger one. Like the White Teeth or the Ram’s Horns or the frosty bloody arse or something.” Brin kicks out at a stone, which skitters a few pathetic inches until it bogs in the snow.
“No one’s going to kick you out of the Werak just because you’re…” He isn’t exactly sure what word he had in mind, what word was moments away from coming out. Odd? Weirdly intent on getting yourself killed?
“No, but, right—the Chieftain is already sizing you up, everyone says so. Out of all the kids in the Werak you’re the best hunter and climber. They’re just waiting for you to grow up a bit and then you’ll run for Chieftain, and, just—” Brin cuts himself off. There’s an edge of emotion in his voice that he does well to snuff out. It won’t do him any good to let that sort of weakness show.
In truth, Sylens feels a bit sorry for him, but pity won’t do Brin any good either.
Sylens says nothing, and lets the wayward thought run its course.
Only the strong survive, after all. Some lessons run too deep to ignore.
They find the next beacon out in the open, stuck in the middle of the white path torn through the forest. It’s the only perturbation in the landscape; there aren’t even pits or stones. After Brin was briefly distracted by the machines, he seems once again eager to follow the path toward the ruin. The marker is in better shape than the others—its head high, encasing its polished glass eye. Its thin steel body gleams.
Sylens reaches out to touch the pad this time; the white lattice pattern stands bright against clean metal.
“Stop.” Brin’s hand is like a vice on his arm.
“What are you doing? Let go” Sylens says, pulling his arm from Brin’s grip.
“You can’t touch it.” Brin looks earnestly afraid; his grey eyes darken as the clouds thicken overhead.
“Why not?” Sylens says, an edge of challenge in his voice. Brin squirms beneath his resolve.
“I-It won’t work if you touch it.”
“Then there’s no harm in trying, is there?”
“There is,” Brin snaps. His thick brows furrow over olive skin pulled waxy and taut by the cold. “You’ll ruin it, and it won’t work. You’ll make it confused.”
“Make what confused?” Sylens remains calm; it’s an invaluable tool against anger. Facing indifference, anger and irrationality dissolve. Unfortunately, Brin knows his tricks well.
He lets out a frustrated, almost wild groan. The wind takes the sound fast. “I knew you’d be like this. I should have gone by myself. I should have gone last night when you were asleep. But I didn’t, because I knew you’d want to see it too.” Brin must still be worked up about his worries for the future, trying to cover his lapse in strength with aggression.
“This is no time for posturing,” Sylens says coldly. “I can go on without you.”
“No you can’t.”
Sylens raises an eyebrow, but flecks of frost weigh it down, forcing his features rigid. “Really, you think I’m the one who needs your protection?”
It would be easy to lunge for the beacon on the ground, touch the grid pattern and feel that peculiar burn that Brin described. Then the green light would flare and it would be his doing.
Despite his longing, something in Brin’s expression stops him. That glint of mischief and fierce joy Brin usually carries with him has gone dead, his pupils replaced by blown-up beads of green-black soil, the type that runs beneath the perfectly flat throughway from the lake to the dead ruins.
“Not my protection, no,” Brin says quietly. “But you don’t have the first idea of what you’re dealing with.”
Sylens doesn’t think that he has ever been wary of Brin before—the scrawny kid with huge eyes and a loose, lopsided grin. Those eyes and those teeth turn on him now, and he backs away.
“What do you mean?”
All Brin says is: “You’ll see.” Then he bends down, removes his glove, and touches the slate of metal under the marker’s eye. His shoulders quiver when his skin makes contact.
The skies are growing wilder. What if they can’t see the next beacon through the drifts?
Sylens didn’t notice the temperature drop, he was too focused on the path ahead.
For any of Brin’s usual stunts, Sylens would likely insist they turn back if the winds got much stronger. But this isn’t just another stunt. This is something real.
The light of the next beacon slices decisively through the gathering clouds, a burning green wedge cut into the sky. It defies the texture of the air, all the better to make itself known. It extends from amongst the hollow relics ahead.
“There,” Brin mutters, standing up and putting his glove back on. “Into the ruins, just as I thought.”
Sylens thought that he was being clever in hiding his suspicion of the true breadth of their impending discovery, but he is beginning to suspect that Brin knows far more than he is telling.
Spirits come from the Blue Light, a different calibre of divine metalwork altogether. But if it isn’t a spirit that has taken root in Brin, leading him along this path, then what has?
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Sylens asks.
With a hint of his usual levity, Brin says, “I really don’t know. Sorry if I scared you before.”
“You didn’t scare me,” Sylens replies, trying to communicate the absurdity of the concept.
“That’s good.” Apparently this constitutes the end of the conversation.
There’s no sense arguing out here in the gathering storm. Sylens would have been worried about the journey back to camp under ordinary circumstances, but he finds picturing their return quite impossible, because the contents of their destination are just as impossible to predict. They don’t even know that the beacons will stop at the next, by the buried, ancient buildings. If they don’t, Sylens knows that Brin will follow them as far as their light extends for as long as he is able. Sylens is obliged to follow.
Up close, the ruins which were only ever smudged decoration on the horizon grow in depth and detail into haunting, blackened artefacts. They, like the bare winter trees, are thin and black and twisted. The storm huddling in front of the sun causes lumped, erratic shadows to form, passing grey over the flat snow, which has spread itself in perfect evenness across the plains in an impressive and unnatural show of discipline.
The settlement itself is larger than it looked from afar, because only the central cluster of tall structures were visible over the lip of the basin they dwell within. A dead bowl where nothing grows but that central edifice and the flat tops of many squat, uniform boxes spiralling from the central mass. Most of it is buried under the snow.
The children head for the tower. It seems the obvious place to go, the grand feature of the landscape. It even resembles a marker itself; the top is bulged in a way that once might have been circular, but rust has long since turned it malformed and tumorous. How bright must its light have been?
Brin drops his uncharacteristic solemnity throughout their journey down the slope, all animosity forgotten. Maybe he thinks it’s comforting to act like his usual excitable self, but Sylens finds it unnerving. It is so obviously an act. Whatever eagerness Brin is feeling, it runs deeper than exclamations and bouts of sudden energy.
They find the final beacon beside a deep rupture in the basin. A clean split runs through the ice, like a harsh toothless grin. Its newness is evident by how perfectly it separates either side of the earth. The force bending either side of the crevasse has not yet built enough to drive further grooves outward from the cross section, like infection from a new wound.
“There, see,” Brin says excitedly, as if Sylens needed it pointed out for him.
“It must have opened last night.” Sylens reasons.
“When it saw me,” Brin adds in an undertone.
Was this the cause of the quake? But it sounded so close, as if it were happening right under the lake.
Brin touches the metal grid. It feels like a formality at this point, some form of appeasement. The rupture in the earth is so obviously their destination. If the blue light was born through and beside the strength of humanity as it rose from the ruin of its past, then this other brand of metal, this new shade of light, was born from the graves of the ancients. Born from their weakness.
Instead of another beacon, the marker sets the stone walls within the rupture alight in a faint glow, like sunlight on wet stone. Sylens might have mistaken the effect as just that if the sun was not now completely covered in ripe grey clouds.
Behind the opening in the ground, more of the ruined structure is visible, though most of it is blanketed over in snow. Sylens traces the origins of huge, gnarled metal spalls where they snapped from the tower like branches from a rotted tree. Disappointingly, it looks just as broken and lifeless as any ruin of the Old World.
Testing the ground’s solidity first, Sylens steps over to the edge and peers down into the crevasse. The descent made by the shifted rock is gradual, as if deliberately fashioned, like steps carved into stone. Below, the beacon’s glow strikes across a metal floor, smooth and grey as machine armour.
“I can go first if you’re scared,” Brin says nonchalantly, already putting a bracing arm on the edge of the gulf, about to lower himself inside.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sylens asks, exasperated. This is part of the usual routine, though his heart isn’t in it.
“I’m taking a look.” Brin turns around. Standing on the first level of the convenient natural stairway, only his head and torso is visible over the cusp of the opening.
“No. We’re going back to camp. There was a quake here that just tore a huge hole in the ground, and you want to go down there? You’ll get trapped, or crushed, and with the rest of the building iced over there’s no way anyone will be able to get to you.”
Brin takes another step down into the hole. Now he is just a daring, flushed face peeking out over sheer ice. “Well, if you come with me and we do get trapped, I’ll let you eat me to survive longer. I won’t even try to kill you first.”
“You wouldn’t be able to kill me even if you tried.”
Brin takes another step, and only the tip of his hood is visible, a floating mound of snow. “I’d do it when you were sleeping. Hurry up.”
Pretending for the sake of them both that he has no interest in finding out what lies below, Sylens follows Brin into the ruin.