Глава 13

And once he's done, <i>then</i> I'll turn his skull into fireworks.

Finding you was the right choice. I'll take your plans as the stance of... Babel's survivors, and inform the Liches.

Thank you.

But you blew up my cube! How do you want me to get back, on foot?

Eight kilometers northwest, there's a Sarkaz transport camp. Go and steal their car.

Need us to help?

Forget it.

I don't want her catching me again and finding out I've been making deals with you on the sly.

So, good luck to you, and may you... still be alive to make good on your promise after meeting her.

'Her'?

Hold on.

Are you guys getting this... familiar feeling?

What are you talking about?

What AM I talking about? I have no idea.

Dammit, Hoederer should be the one saying moody crap like this.

But still, what's bugging me?

Not far off, there's someone sitting on a mountain peak. Just on the edge of where that original illusion vanished.

She's just sitting there, like she doesn't have a care in her heart.

Her long pink hair draped over her shoulders, as it always was.

And that look in her eyes, that... sorrowful...

I look away.

How is this happening?

How, how, how...?

No, that's no illusion...

The moment I saw her, I knew it wasn't.

That's her.

...Your Highness?

She's gone.

I want to reach out to—

No, forget it.

Maybe I should save it for next time.

Besides... she couldn't have been real anyway.

She just... really, really looked like her. An indistinguishable forgery. Able to fool almost any pair of screwy, messed-up eyeballs.

The fog grows thicker. The entire forest seems to swim in it.

I'll confess, I'm not so familiar with Kazdel at all. By the end of the Banshee's Court's part in the war two hundred years ago, I was gone from that city. It was in the Convallis of the Banshees I came of age.

I had asked my mother why, being one of our 'Six Heroes', she would choose to leave Kazdel, the city she once fought to the bitter end for.

My mother issued no response at the time; she plucked a few reeds from the riverbank, and wove a necklace for me. Their stems twisted about each other, head to tail, tail to head.

It was beautiful, and I treasured it in the most genuine sense. Yet very soon, it withered and faded, and fell to scattered pieces.

My mother told me how this was the Banshees' most traditional artform. We weave song and incantation, just as we weave necklaces of grass.

But now, we had the entire Convallis.

They needed not be foraged, needed not be bothered, and so year after year, they grew forever.

We Banshees sang our elegies, but the elegies were no supplication of the end; rather, they were anticipation of new life.

There is the Sarkaz's need—not to hold a dead city standing, but to grow.

This is a highly disconcerting environment, Doctor. We were in the thick of a forest only moments ago.

What laid before us became nothing alike as the fog settled in.

A... convallis.

Is this all an illusion, Logos?

The Doctor is considerably wounded, but their tone of voice is steadied once more.

Ascalon silently carries the still-unconscious Amiya, taking the very front.

She remains as ever, lips sealed. But I can sense that her current silence is a more... bleak one than before.

I remember, at the time of her hurried rendezvous with me, that flicker of an expression I found hard to discern.

Mirages are spin from nothingness. Their scenes are mere fictions in the mind, bound to return to nihil no matter how lifelike.

But this place is not.

Everything here truly did exist, once upon a time.

Constructing a 'mirage' like this requires not just intelligence and information, but time, and space.

It's too difficult.

A bone whistle?

I know this Convallis.

I've always loved it.

Yes, the whistle of the Banshees. It doesn't necessarily entail Originium Arts.

When we were young, we'd learn it by the riverside. We'd sit among the underbrush, and wait still. Until great fin gobbled small bug, until fowlbeast snatched up great fin.

That is when the bone whistle is played.

What's this scenery doing here? How do we get out?

I'm trying.

Originium Arts hasn't this power. The power this is of can only be something more ancient.

But it shouldn't come about in this battlefield at this moment, not on Londinium's periphery.

Everything we're seeing and hearing could pass for real. Our squad is <i>not</i> in good condition. We need to up our vigilance.

At the Convallis's other end, there seems to stand someone, dead still, silent.

...Mother.

Logos, what's wrong?

...Nothing.

I say try to tear this landscape apart directly. It carries some risk, but it's the best solution.

I don't know whether it'd be safe to leave this place, Ascalon.

Ascalon nods, handing Amiya over to the Doctor, who strains to hold her up by the arm that isn't hurt.

Ascalon, master assassin, vanishes in a blink into the mist.

I shut my eyes and prepare, conceiving of destruction, imagining reconstruction.

But the figure appears again, this time atop one of the Convallis's crests. She seems to be looking at me, but she is as if a thin slice of the past, stuck frozen in some older time.

I know that crest full well. When I was young, I would practice incanting there, until twilight fell, and she would show up behind me.

I would never know when exactly she had come, but she would just stand there, as she does now in this mirage.

And once I exhausted myself, we would go home together.

I feel for my bone whistle. It's cold as bale ice. Just like the time I was first given it.

Not long ago, I sounded it to the closure of Damazti's Court.

But the time before that, that was back in this Convallis.

I'll be leaving tomorrow, for Babel.

Yes.

You're master of the Elegiac Court now. Remember to send Her Highness Theresa my greetings.

It still doesn't feel real to me, Mother.

I'm too young to be master of a Royal Court.

Now, now, what makes you say that? Anyone could see how remarkable you are.

Keep this safe.

Oh…

Your bone whistle. I've tuned it for you, and given it a Royal Court crest.

And of course, a kiss full of magic too.

...Alright.

Simply sound it, and all the Sarkaz will know it as the will of the Knell.

Mother, what should a Lord of the Banshees do?

Do what you believe you must.

I once talked to you about those... ravings of mine.

The fettered Sarkaz have no escape, just as the necklaces you used to weave together for me became naught but pieces in the end.

Yet what fetters us is our identity, to what we belong.