Standing at the prow of the song ship, Silus recognised the familiar curve of the north shore of Allantia, but that was all he recognised. Where he expected to see the south of the island curving gently back down to the sea, instead it continued unbroken — its gentle hills dotted with pasture and woodland — all the way to what must be (or would one day become) Freiport. Allantia was thus connected to the mainland, not an island at all, and Silus wondered what cataclysmic future event would lead to its separation from the peninsula.
The fleet hugged the shore as it tacked to the west, eventually entering a half-moon bay. At its head sat the largest harbour Silus had ever seen. Yet more song ships were berthed there in ordered ranks, their tarred hulls gleaming, the odour of magic pouring off them, distinct even at this distance. But even more impressive than the elven fleet was the city that lay beyond the harbour, shining in the midday sun. It marched up the tiers of the surrounding cliffs, each layer meticulously constructed so that nothing was out of place, and carriages ascended and descended the slopes with no obvious means of propulsion.
Silus’s eyes were naturally drawn to the building that graced the headland like a crown, its many wings encircling the entire apex of the bay in marble and glass. Above this palace — for what else could it be? — the sky was just as busy as the waters of the harbour. Tethered balloons bobbed gently in the light wind rolling from the headland, while men with wings of canvas and wood leapt from platforms, swooping over the city before heading out to sea or circling back inland. Silus had heard stories of wondrous elven cities, but the only remnants of these that the people of his own time had found were broken pots or shattered archways, nothing to suggest anything on this scale. He wondered what event would so meticulously remove such settlements from the map and leave little more than dust in its wake. Could the elves or the dwarves have an inkling of the apocalypse heading their way?
The elves on the song ship had been quiet — even dismissive — during much of the voyage, interacting with their human guests as little as possible, beyond making sure they were fed and kept warm. Silus had expected that they would at least be questioned about their presence at the battle, but if the elves had any curiosity about this they hid it well.
“It’s true that I never thought I’d see Twilight again,” Katya said, coming up behind Silus and slipping an arm around his shoulder, “but even if I had, I never imagined I’d see it quite like this.”
Zac clutched her left hand, looking goggle-eyed at the approaching city and squealing with delight when he spotted the balloons drifting high above it.
“It makes our home, our own time, seem dull by comparison, don’t you think?” Silus said.
“I can honestly say that life with you has never been dull.”
There was a rattle of a chain and then a great splash as the anchor hit the water.
Their companions joined them on deck as the gangplank was lowered to the quay. One of the elves gestured to them to disembark; Silus thanked him, and he looked away and frowned as though, in speaking, Silus had somehow offended the elf.
“This is your home?” Illiun said, when they stepped ashore.
“Yes and no,” Silus said. “It is our home, but our home as it used to be a very long time ago. If you see what I mean.”
“No, not really.”
It would take a while for Illiun to get used to their new situation, Silus considered. At least, here, they didn’t have dragons to contend with. He looked up at Kerberos, which appeared almost serene as a skein of light cloud drifted across its face. The god had been silent thus far and Silus had no intention of opening himself up to its influence.
An elf led them to one of the carriages he had noticed earlier. They seated themselves on the low benches and, with a shudder and a jolt, it started moving. Silus turned to see that they were ascending a gleaming set of rails.
The elf stood in front of the door through which they had entered, his arms folded, his expression blank.
“Don’t talk much, do they?” Dunsany said.
“I get the impression,” Emuel said, “that they don’t like us very much. Certainly no one on the song ship would talk with me.”
“They did come across us in the middle of a conflict,” Silus said. “It’s natural they’re suspicious. They probably think we’re spying for the dwarves.”
“I blame Zac,” Kelos said. “I mean, look at him, he looks shifty enough to be a spy.”
“Spy!” Zac shouted, pointing at the elf, and Katya burst out laughing, although she soon stopped when the elf’s expression darkened.
The carriage silently ascended the city and Silus watched as a procession of buildings rolled past. Each tier of the metropolis appeared to have been built to a specific function.
The first level was given over to industry: smoke billowed from workshops and smithies rang to the sounds of weapons being crafted. In an open yard, Silus saw ranks of looms, their shuttles zipping back and forth as the men and women working them produced yard after yard of shimmering material; the same cloth, he realised, that was used for the song ships’ sails.
The second tier was almost as noisy as the first, housing, as it did, the city’s nurseries. The children Silus saw there may have been elves, but they ran and shouted and sang and cried and screamed just like any other infant. Zac reached out as they passed, clearly distressed that he wasn’t going to be able to join in with the fun.
The tiers became less noisy as they ascended. The pale marble buildings of the upper levels were light and airy, sporting many archways and windows. Within, elves were engaged in a variety of studious activities. Scholars strolled through sun-lanced cloisters, their attention focused on the texts raised before their faces, while in another district there was the unmistakable staccato flash of sorcery being used and strange chemical smells wafting from open windows.
The penultimate tier was where the city barracked its army. Silus saw into a courtyard packed with soldiers in orderly ranks, listening to the bellowing of an elaborately uniformed man as he strutted before them like an enraged peacock.
The carriage finally came to a halt at the apex of the city and the door opened onto a wide, tree-lined avenue leading all the way to the palace entrance. Their silent chaperone was the first to alight, and he led them at a brisk pace towards the vast building.
It was then that they got their first glimpse of the only humans, besides themselves, they had seen since arriving.
Stooped amongst flowerbeds or perched on ladders high within fruit trees, the men and women looked up as they passed. They appeared surprised — even shocked — to see the entourage being led towards the palace, but when the elf leading the visitors glanced their way, they instantly dropped their gazes and engaged themselves intently in their tasks. There was something strange about these humans’ appearance: their noses were wide and slightly flattened, the irises of their eyes so large and dark that they almost occluded the whites, while their flesh was pale with the slightest hint of blue.
“Excuse me,” Silus said, hurrying to catch up with the elf. “Who are those people?”
There was no reply. Instead, the elf strode up to a pair of massive double doors and rapped upon them, before briskly turning on his heel and marching away.
“Nice to meet you too,” Dunsany shouted after him. “Thanks awfully for your hospitality.”
The doors were opened by two simply-dressed and equally silent elves, who seemed to be struggling to hide their disdain for the humans before them. They nodded once in acknowledgement before turning and striding down the great hall, looking back over their shoulders once, briefly, to make sure their charges were following.
On the walls of the hall hung enormous portraits — darkened with age, their oils cracked and flaking — depicting what Silus assumed were elf nobles. In recesses at regular intervals were all manner of dull-looking antiquities: cracked urns, vases of dark-green stone and tarnished weapons. Overhead, the ceiling had obviously once been a riot of colour, but the fresco that adorned the stonework had long since fallen into disrepair, the fantastical creatures and beings that looked down upon them appearing almost saddened by the decay.
They reached the far end of the hall and the elves opened another huge set of double doors. Inside, the gloom was even greater than that through which they had just passed. Silus blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and wondered what the function of this chamber could be, until, at the far end of the room, two chairs resolved themselves from the surrounding darkness. Upon them sat an elderly elf couple, staring dead ahead, their expressions fixed, as if they had been sat like that for quite some time. They wore plain grey robes and on their heads were copper crowns, unpolished and unadorned. Scattered around their feet lay what appeared to be the remains of previous meals: small bones, dried fruit peel and curled husks of bread.
Their chaperones bowed to the regal couple before departing.
Silus waited for the elves to speak and only when he cleared his throat was there the merest glimmer of acknowledgment in their eyes.
The man seated on their left took an unsteady breath. “The humans,” he said.
“Yes,” Silus said, and for a moment it seemed like that was to be the entirety of their conversation, but then the woman blinked and shook her head.
“We do apologise,” she said. “We have been meditating for such a long time that we were, at first, unaware of your presence. Please, let us provide you with refreshments.”
She pulled a bell rope and moments later a human servant entered (as pale and stooped as her companions outside), carrying a tray of cups. Silus had expected the proffered drink to be a fine wine or sherry, but it was water: lukewarm and somewhat brackish. He saw several of his companions subtly pouring it on the floor, rather than allowing it to pass their lips.
“I am Llorithrian, ruler of this city,” the man said. “And this is Nualla, my wife and commander-in-chief of our armed forces. I must say, you were the last thing our sailors were expecting to find in the midst of the conflict. Have you come from one of the camps, on the east coast, perhaps?”
“Camps?” Silus said. “No, we didn’t come from a camp.”
“You seem unusually… evolved,” Nualla said. “I had heard rumours that the humans were developing at a more rapid pace that we had at first anticipated, but you are the first we’ve seen to give credence to the rumours.”
Silus remembered what Kerberos has revealed to him all that time ago; that the human race had been created by the elves, evolved by magical means from the dying aquatic race known as the Calma. Which would be why, he realised, the unusual appearance of the humans he had seen in the city. They were considerably closer to their aquatic roots than the humans he knew. But what was this talk of camps, and why had the humans they had seen all been engaged in servile tasks? Had the elves created the human race only to use them as slaves and menials?
“If you are not from one of the camps,” Llorithrian said, “then where are you from?”
“Here. Twilight,” Kelos said. “But a Twilight far in your future. I used sorcery to create a rift in time and space, attempting to send us all home, but instead we find ourselves stranded, thousands of years in our past.”
“ You are from our future?” Llorithrian said.
“Yes.”
“Then what can you tell us of the elven race millennia from now? Have we finally vanquished the dwarves? Has our empire gone from strength to strength? Have we-”
“Llorithrian, please!” Nualla said, cutting off her husband’s stream of questions. “Can you not see that our guests are tired?”
“Of course, of course. I’m sorry. These are questions our scholars will no doubt ask you in the fullness of time. Such an extraordinary claim will have to be thoroughly investigated. For now, you must remain in the palace. We will, of course, see that your needs are attended to.”
Llorithrian pulled the bell rope again and the same servant who had earlier served them drinks entered.
“Please show our guests to their quarters.”
Silus was more tired than he had ever been, and he was looking forward to snuggling up in a luxurious bed beside his wife, while Zac slumbered contentedly nearby, but the room to which they were led would have looked more at home in a boarding school or a barracks than a palace. There was to be no privacy; ranks of narrow single beds marched away from them, covered with thin grey blankets and straw-stuffed pillows. Beside each bed was a battered steel chamber pot and a pitcher of water. There were no windows and the room was barely illuminated by the tapers that flickered and guttered in the candelabra high above them.
Silus was about to turn and ask the servant a question when the door was closed and locked from the other side.
“Wow. Talk about hospitality,” Dunsany said.
“At least we’re safe,” Illiun said. “Even this is preferable to what we have been used to over the past few days.”
“True,” Silus said. “I’m sure that they will give us our own rooms once they’ve had a chance to talk to us properly.”
The faces of his companions told him they weren’t quite as sure as he.
Sixteen of them had made it through the time rift. Besides Illiun, only five of his people had survived the attack of the dragons: Rosalind, Hannah, Shalim and two harrowed-looking men. None of the silver-eyed men had made it, though Illiun was still in possession of one of their translation staffs. Ignacio and his company of Swords had been similarly decimated, with only three Final Faith warriors now amongst their number. Emuel, Katya, Zac, Dunsany, Kelos and Bestion all looked ravaged by the trials they had been through, and their desire to return home and be done with all this was written plainly on their faces. But here they were: a hundred miles or more and thousands of years from their homes. Silus realised that they would probably never return, and there was nothing he could do; he could certainly no longer turn to his god for help.
He settled himself on one of the cots and looked up at the wavering darkness above them.
“Well, we may as well get some rest while we can,” he said. “I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
Some time later — Silus wasn’t sure how much later, though he noticed that only one of the candles above him was still lit — there was the sound of the door being unlocked and a female elf entered, dressed in plain clothes and carrying a sheaf of papers. These she consulted before looking out across the room.
“Kelos.”
“Yes?” the mage said.
“Will you come with me, please?”
Kelos looked at his companions, as though unsure as to whether he should resist or not.
“Go on,” Dunsany said. “What harm can they do? They’re elves. History talks of them as a genteel race.”
“Yes, quite right. Please, lead on.”
Kelos watched the woman lock the door before following her along a wide corridor, up several flights of precipitous stairs and to a light airy room that looked out over a view of the city.
“Impressive,” Kelos said, standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows. A gull rose beyond the edge of the cliff, riding a thermal in front of him, before turning to catch the wind.
“Please,” the woman said, “be seated.”
She gestured to a chair in front of a desk and then sat herself on the opposite side.
“I understand that you used sorcery to” — she paused to look at her papers — “create a rift in space and time, which brought you here. What were you trying to escape?”
“A god.”
“A god?”
“Yes, Kerberos.”
“Interesting. I understand that some do indeed believe Kerberos to be a deity. The worship of Kerberos has become particularly prevalent amongst the humans. Do all worship Kerberos in your time?”
“Most people don’t have a choice.”
“And why were you trying to escape the god?”
“We angered Kerberos by harbouring fugitives that He had been seeking to destroy.”
Seeing the expression of confusion on the woman’s face, Kelos explained about Illiun and his people; how Kerberos had consumed the god that once looked down on their planet and how Illiun had lead a group of exiles into the void, hoping to escape the anger of the usurper god, only to be pursued across the millennia.
“I can’t claim to fully understand you,” said the woman, “but I do know someone who will want to talk to you.”
The elf walked over to the wall, where an extendible brass tube sat in its housing. This she raised to her lips.
“Keldren, please. Yes, I do mean Keldren. Thank you.” There was a long pause, during which the woman looked at Kelos, her gaze unwavering. The mage felt like he was being stripped bare by her scrutiny. “What? Yes, it is she. I have someone I believe you are going to want to talk to. It concerns Kerberos, amongst other things. Yes, we’ll wait.”
The woman slid the tube back into its housing before re-taking her seat. She didn’t say anything, but instead resumed her study of Kelos. He began to squirm under her gaze, before looking out of the window and humming a tune to himself.
Eventually the door opened and an elderly elf male entered. He blinked and shielded his eyes against the light flooding the room. “You wanted to see me?”
“Keldren. Your studies take in Kerberos, and related religious belief within human culture?”
“I thought that no one cared. I must admit, I’m somewhat flattered.”
“I make sure I know of all our academics and their studies, Keldren. At any rate, I believe that you will want to speak to our guest, Kelos. It sounds like he’s had rather an interesting experience concerning Kerberos.”
The elderly man shuffled over and brought his face close to Kelos’s own. “What an unusual example of his race.”
“Kelos is something of a special case. He claims to come from the future, having been displaced in time due to sorcery.”
“Really? How extraordinary.”
“Indeed. I believe that you two have much to discuss. Keldren, if you wouldn’t mind?”
The woman bent to her papers again, making it clear that they were both dismissed.
“A human sorcerer, ” Keldren muttered to himself as he led Kelos through the palace. “How extraordinary.”
“Then the humans amongst you aren’t magic users?” Kelos said.
“No. Nor would they be allowed access to magic even if they had the ability to wield the threads. I must say that you are most eloquent for a human.”
“Thank you, I think.”
They had descended so far through the palace that Kelos reckoned they must now be deep within the cliffs upon which the city was built, perhaps even below sea level. Indeed, there was a distinct briny odour to the air and, in places, the stone walls were covered with barnacles.
“I know,” Keldren said, noting Kelos taking in their surroundings. “It’s not ideal. The atmosphere plays havoc with my texts, and these tunnels are often flooded. If it weren’t for the protective wards I commissioned — at my own expense, I must add — my library, and I along with it, would have been washed away long ago. My area of expertise is rather obscure, so, alas, I find myself relegated to the sub-levels. I suppose I should be grateful that I have a room in the palace at all.”
The room was hardly in the palace, Kelos considered, but he didn’t say anything as the silver-haired man unlocked a door slimed by gelatinous moulds and ushered him into the damp room beyond.
Despite the less than ideal surroundings, Kelos had to admit that Keldren was in possession of a most impressive library. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled every wall, and he couldn’t help but examine the wealth of literature with avarice. With an academic thrill, he recognised some of the titles on the spines; works that would, in his own time, be some of the most sought-after magical texts. And here they were, in pristine condition.
“My gods,” Kelos said. “You have Treatises on Dwarven Stone Magic and… and is that Calma Theology and Related Aquatic Magical Thinking and Practice? I’d heard, but never, ever thought I’d see…”
He was momentarily struck dumb by wonder as he fingered the binding of the legendary work, noticing, as he did so, that the gold foiling appeared to be brand new.
“What? Oh, yes, I had that bound last year. But how can you have heard of it? I only had five copies of the work produced and I’m fairly certain I’m the only one to have actually read the thing. Sad, really, seeing as I’m the author. But, like I said, my studies do tend to be confined to the more obscure subjects.”
“Hang on, you’re the… Of course, why didn’t it strike me earlier? You’re Keldren Dremos Enthrold!”
“You have heard of me?”
“Heard of you? Your name is legendary amongst practitioners of sorcery, your works the most prized! I must say that I’m a massive, massive fan. I adore Sea Water: Divination, Transformation and Communication. I practically based my entire study of elemental magic on it!” Kelos saw the blank look on Keldren’s face. “Oh… of course. Sorry, you probably haven’t written that one yet. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Anyway, Dwarven Stone Magic is equally as brilliant.”
Keldren grinned, the delight transforming his face into the features of one more youthful. “I say! I didn’t think anyone cared. It’s marvellous, just simply marvellous, to meet one such as yourself who appreciates my studies. It’s nice to know that I make a difference. My works persevere, even if the elven empire doesn’t.”
“That’s a somewhat pessimistic view to take, don’t you think?”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?” When Kelos didn’t answer, Keldren nodded. “Which bring us to Kerberos. Tell me, what do you know of that most unusual entity?”
Kelos told him of everything he and his companions had been through: how Silus had developed a unique ability to commune with the god; how Kerberos had used its powers to save Twilight from an invasion of the Chadassa, and how they had discovered a more sinister side to the god when they had met Illiun and his band of interstellar refugees. He also told Keldren of the Final Faith, and how it used military fear to enforce belief in Kerberos as a god.
“I have certainly observed the roots of the Final Faith in the humans of our time,” Keldren said. “And I can understand why some may consider Kerberos a god. But the central tenet of the Final Faith is incorrect. Kerberos is not the one true god. Kerberos is just one of what was once a pantheon of beings” — Keldren moved over to one of the bookcases — “and, if I am correct in my supposition, there were twelve such entities.” He reached up and tugged at the spine of a huge book, which shifted a few inches before becoming jammed. “Would you mind…?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.”
Kelos helped the academic wrestle the mighty tome out of its niche. When they finally freed it, it took the two of them to lug it over to a bookstand. The boards of the cover had become warped, no doubt due to the damp atmosphere, and when Keldren threw open the book, a shower of dead silverfish drifted to the floor.
“Now, where were we? Rather interesting volume, this, you know. Found it in the remains of an ancient ship. Anyway… Ah yes, one of the twelve, but we only know the names of five of the pantheon. Kerberos you know. There are — or rather were — also Chazra-Ney, Rehastt, Faranoon, and Hel’ss. Of these, only Kerberos and Hel’ss remain.”
“What happened to the others? Were they consumed, just as Kerberos consumed the god of Illiun’s homeworld?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, my friend. You see, the beings of the pantheon are constantly at war. Academics have speculated, of course, but the origins of this antagonism are simply unknowable. What we do know, however, is that during the course of this conflict several of these beings have consumed each other. In doing so, they grow in power.
“These beings — gods, if you like — thrive on the life energies of the planets they shape. For instance, Kerberos feeds on the energy of the departing souls of this world. So, your Final Faith has something when they say our souls fly to the clouds of Kerberos when we die. Without us, Kerberos’s power would diminish and it would eventually perish, burning out like a dying star. And the conflict is far from over. The two remaining entities covet each other’s creations and the lives that enrich them, and it will only be a matter of time before Hel’ss shows its hand and launches an attack on Kerberos. When that happens, it could mean the end of everything.” Keldren noticed Kelos blanch. “Oh, there’s no need to be alarmed. Hel’ss won’t enter the orbit of our world for a good long while yet.”
“How long do we have?”
Keldren opened a drawer and took out a long vellum scroll, which he rolled out onto a table. Kelos saw star charts and calendars inked on the soft leather.
“Hel’ss will enter Twilight’s orbit on… well, see for yourself,” Keldren said, pointing to a date on the scroll.
“That’s… why, that’s next year. I mean… I mean it will be next year, in our time, as it were. There must be something we can do! It… we have to get back. Warn everybody.”
But even as he said the words, Kelos realised that there was genuinely nothing he could do. He just didn’t have the power to take them all home. Just as the god of Illiun’s world had been consumed by Kerberos, Kerberos would be consumed by Hel’ss. Their world would end.
“Take comfort in the fact that you are safe here,” Keldren said, laying a hand on Kelos’s shoulder. “You shall die long before the final battle between Hel’ss and Kerberos. Anyway, that is entirely by the bye, since you and your companions will not be allowed to leave the city.”
There was something Kelos didn’t like about Keldren’s tone, and he turned to see that the academic’s expression had darkened.
“You can’t keep us here, surely?”
“Oh, but we can. You are humans; you were created by the elves to serve. And, besides, as unusually evolved examples of your race you must be studied.”
“This is outrageous! We’re not subjects in some scientific experiment.”
“All I can promise is that I will supervise your treatment myself, Kelos, along with those companions of yours… Emuel and Silus, was it? As magic users, they too must be studied.”
“And what will happen to the rest?”
“They will go to the camps. They will be treated well.”
Having already seen the humans in the city, Kelos doubted this very much.