6.

The snow in the south, an unheard of feat in the seventh month of the O.Z. annual, transformed into the least of their worries as they arrived in Rookwood. Women were in shawls, men in heavy coats, and all around buzzed a rueful undertone. Ansley and Zero kept near one another, to fend off the cold, and this vibration within the denizens that something was horribly awry.

Zero registered relief when he stopped scanning the crowds at a face he recognised. Running towards a young woman with a sheet of golden locks, standing beside a young man that could only be her twin, Zero called out two names, Dorrie and Drew.

'Zero!' cried Dorrie, astonished to see him. 'What the devil are you doing here? Oh, hello!' She noticed Ansley, an odd creature dressed in the ways of the North. Ansley bobbed his head at her in a congenial greeting, nothing more. Quickly, Dorrie handed Zero one of the pamphlets she and her brother were busily handing out. 'We've just heard the news. Did you two hear about it yet?'

With Ansley over his shoulder, Zero read the pamphlet. A lot of big text at the top, smaller print at the bottom. Zero shook his head and glanced at Ansley, but when he spoke it was to Dorrie and Drew.

'The king consort has gone?'

'Vanished!' said Drew. He lit a pipe and shivered in his tartan cloak. 'We suppose it happened at least two days ago, the day after, you realise, that they buried the princess.'

'Oh gods,' mumbled Zero, 'I'd forgotten about the funeral.'

Drew and Dorrie stared at him. Forget of the princess's funeral? But it had been a grave affair for the entirety of the O.Z., and to forget… Blasphemous! Nihilism! Anarchy!

Ansley shifted his weight and felt the need to defend Zero. 'Forgive him, friends, as he's gone through an upheaval of his own. The doings of the royal family are not part and parcel with his mind just now. So what are the two of you? I've not met anyone yet who stands about in town and hands out news pamphlets. Shouldn't newspapers handle this sort of story?'

'The newspapers are shutting down,' replied Drew. 'Particularly in Central City. Only small-time press can get the word out now. The true word.'

'Ha, that's what I mean. Small-time press, of course! You're part of a growing trend,' Ansley said. 'I know people like you. Kiernan Cain started his paper this past annual, and it's the only one in the east and north anymore. But he calls himself a literary figurehead. Some call him a rabble-rouser. But that little paper of his is the gospel of the O.Z. according to many. It's the truth behind whatever propaganda we're being fed by the House of Gale that week.'

'We've heard of him,' Dorrie admitted. 'That's how me and Drew came up with the idea. Thought the south could use its own paper. Who are you then, friend? Some sort of traveller?'

'A rebel voice from the north?' counter-questioned Drew. He eyed the raiment again. Definitely from the north.

'Sorry,' Zero apologised quickly. 'This is my friend Ansley. Ansley of Stirbane.'

'I do my share of wandering, even once or twice wayfaring, though I don't like to brag.' Ansley gave this commentary to Dorrie. 'Do either of you know what happened, as in the specifics, to the king consort?'

The siblings shook their heads. Ansley had thought as much.

'This is calamitous indeed,' he uttered. But he sensed Zero's turbulence. They'd already tarried too long, and news, at this point, was scarce. 'As long as he's not dead, I suppose there's still hope he'll be found and returned.'

'We'll keep an eye out for him,' Drew said sarcastically. 'I don't know that I remember what he looks like.'

'He's fair,' Ansley told him. 'Tall. Sandy hair. Dark eyes.'

'Oh, dark eyes,' cooed Dorrie. 'That's a relief to know! For a second, I thought you might've been describing Zero!' She brought them all into short-lived grins. The bonhomie lapsed.

'This is going to be bad,' Drew summarised, indicating the king consort's disappearance, coming so close after interring his daughter. 'Bad, for a very long time.'

'Don't lose hope,' Zero told them. 'Beneath all this snow, spring is waiting. There is no perpetual winter, not in the O.Z., not while people remain loyalists.'

'Autocracy is all well and good,' Drew said, 'but I don't know if I believe the remiss Queen is capable of handling the conscientious populace of her realm. It hurts me to say that, Zero, you know it does. Have I ever spoken against the Queen? I adore her, as Dorrie and I both do. But facts are facts. The Queen's empire is failing. Ever since the plague… And then her daughter's death… Now the consort's disappearance. It does not bode well for her and her establishment.'

'But you're forgetting something, Drew,' said Zero, the authority in his voice edging towards anger. How could they forget? Was it lost in them somehow, as the burial of the young princess had been lost to him? 'If the Queen vacates her throne, or is forced to do so by usurpation, this snow we're seeing now will stay round for good. And we can expect more turmoil. The magic will leave the O.Z.'

'The magic's already leaving the O.Z.,' countered Dorrie. 'Zero, it is snowing! Crops are failing… People are dying.'

'I know!' He huffed after the outburst and apologetically raised a hand. 'I know it looks that way, Dorrie, but it isn't gone just yet. It's only… hiding. Protecting itself. Now, hand out your pamphlets if you want, form a resistance group, take your issues to the Assembly of Realm States if that's what you want to do. But remain a loyalist. Only a member of the House of Gale may sit on the throne. If this line is broken, if an impostor reigns, the citizens of the Realms will lose their autonomy. And it will be more than yourselves that will suffer.'

Drew remained calm, despite a rising disagreement with Zero's philosophy. 'The Queen is an outsider who cannot understand her people. She sequesters herself from her own policies, from her own people, and has no idea of the troubles we're undergoing. The rich are getting richer. The poor are only getting poorer. The armies are gathering to fight an enemy that hasn't shown its face yet. Do you know who they're going to fight, Zero?'

Zero nodded. He knew. He thought he knew as soon as he'd stood, with Nitten and Vier, looking down at the bustling encampment in Enscommon. 'They are waiting to snuff out anyone who forms an allegiance against the monarchy—members of a yet unformed resistance. I know.' Fiercely, he grabbed Ansley by the wrist and dragged him along. 'Good luck to the two of you.'

They had left behind Dorrie and Drew only a few paces before Ansley spoke, after several probing glances at Zero's profile.

'I never pictured you having rebels as friends.'

'They're not my friends,' said Zero sternly. 'They're acquaintances, second cousins on my mother's side—but not friends.'

Ansley snorted. 'Can't imagine why, what with your suddenly hostile explosion of loyalty back there. You know the first thing the army will destroy, Zero?'

'If they're smart,' answered Zero, 'they'll destroy all the printing presses.'

'Correct. Kiernan Cain has already gone into hiding. Oh, don't give me a funny look like that—as if you're surprised I know the guy! He already knows what the rest of us are still coming to terms with. He won't be silenced so easily, believe me! You'd have to meet him to understand—or one of his brothers. Then you'd know the spirit of rebellion. But the people will always have a voice. They will need someone to lead them.'

'If you're suggesting I do it, you can forget it, Ansley. I'm going to join the army.'

'Ever the royalist!' chuckled Ansley. But it amused him. Zero, sensing this, allowed his defences to abate. Zero bumped his shoulder to Ansley's.

'It's not the Queen I approve of, if you want my honest insight.'

'Honest insight!' echoed Ansley. 'From you! I'm all ears!' He held up his hand, turning it at the wrist while his fingers opened. A feather appeared. 'And all feathers! Tell me, priest, why you believe so little in the Queen but remain an apologist to the House of Gale?'

'They are an ancient line,' said Zero reasonably, 'a direct light from the gods is in them. I cannot refute their magical power. And I don't want to see what happens when that power is turned against the people. Could you walk a little faster, Ansley? Honestly, you're a slug. We're almost home.'

'You've been a strong sort these last few days, priest.'

Zero had no notion of where this sentence of praise had originated, but he was nonetheless pleased to hear it. While he shivered and shook on the inside, ill and sleepless with worry, he had shown little of it—if none at all. 'Priest's prerogative. And I'm with a mystic: that's comforting enough for me.'

Diffident suddenly, Zero's feet, already toe-deep in cold, white fluff, hesitated. His mouth twitched, watching the mystic sledge ahead, wheat cloak over gold coat, and wondered what he'd been waiting for back in Gatehill-on-Cleg. Was it Zero he'd been waiting for, or just a chance to help another lost soul? And then Zero slipped ahead, catching Ansley up, and understood no difference existed between the two. A mystic had been waiting for this lost soul; he'd been waiting for Zero.

-x-

The familiar buildings of Liddell were whitewashed behind the snow, rendering them almost unrecognisable. Zero found the streets stuffed with denizens. And, much like Rookwood, the topic of conversation surrounded the disappearance, peculiar and unexpected and hurtful as it was, of the king consort, the one the Queen called Ahamo. The people knew him as Consort Gale, should they ever be bold enough to speak of him by name. Zero heard none of this noun as he wended through the town. He was stopped often, people asking about him, and once or twice someone spoke of his parents' condition… The hex mark left on the front door would've been seen by someone in town, and word spread quickly, a rumour always a plague itself. He shied from this talk, waving his hands to purify it, and the people were sympathetic, and Zero's heart pounded in his throat… The way they looked at him…

Zero trundled onward, ever onward. It was bad luck to look behind.

-x-

A looping road at the south end of town saw his first distraction. A farmstead, a wide paddock that crept in a descent to forests and a rippling creek. But as soon as he crossed the gate and whistled, he heard two sets of booming hooves. Ansley watched, mesmerised, as a horse and donkey, plain little creatures, drew themselves affectionately towards Zero. And Zero, as Ansley had realised, who was not commonly demonstrative with his emotions, petted and coddled the furry quadrupeds. Their backs were downy white. Zero removed his cloak and laid it over the horse's back. Then, finding the resources of strength, augmented by sheer will and nerves, he hopped upon the blanket.

Ansley paused beside the horse. It would not be right for him to ride such a baleful-looking beast without a proper introduction. It would be rude. 'Greetings, pretty one. What's your name?'

Zero dropped his hand to the mane. 'Her name's Diat.'

'Diat,' Ansley bobbed his head, 'I approve of this name.' He petted the horse but looked up at Zero. 'You give her this name, priest?'

Zero didn't answer. Of course he had, but…

'Diat, the name of the goddess who wandered the planet and gave it colour. That's so very like you! Well,' this to the kind horse, 'thank you for allowing me to ride upon you, noble madam of steeds unique. Come on, priest, give us a lift-up.'

Ansley took the proffered hand, gripped it tight, and, with some grunts and struggle, finally settled behind Zero. The whole world looked different from this height, and Ansley, overcome with the new view, a slight fear of falling off, did not let go of Zero's hand. Zero waited until Ansley was comfortable. A silence of three seconds, and Zero's heart tightened. Nearly home, nearly home… And yet…

'Are you all right, Ansley?'

The mystic had paled. But he squeezed Zero's hand. 'I'm all right. For a moment, I thought I heard—but, no, I didn't hear anything. Will the donkey follow us?'

Zero petted the thin fingers to his waist, and brought round the other. He nodded at the sleepy-eyed donkey. 'He'll follow. He and Diat are close friends. Never one place without the other.'

The implications of this line, whether or not meant as allegory, prompted Ansley into a stunted process of self-conference. They were out of the paddock, and Zero was gone from Diat only long enough to latch the gate, and by then Ansley had formed his ambulating thoughts to intrepid verbosity.

'The donkey's name, would it happen to be Thiatu? Thiatu, the god who followed behind Diat, in our world before there was colour. And Thiatu blessed the colour with light—and cursed it with darkness. And in the light and darkness came the scents of flowers, and texture, and gave layers to the realms. Thiatu split the outer realm into four quadrants, four colours, representing the directions of the four wind-lovers. South, the red wind. North, the purple wind. East, the blue wind. West, the yellow wind. And wherever Diat strayed the longest, her paintbrush saturated the land deep to its roots. Thiatu pursued her, ever and on, and they are said to still flow through the realms, riding on the back of the cardinal winds. They follow winter, grey and colourless winter, like your eyes, and paint it in the blooms of spring. And bring back the birds.'

He held up a yellow feather for Zero. It was accepted, examined. A feather like any other. Zero had never held one of Ansley's feathers before. But it was plain. Outwardly unaltered from feathers of southern yellow finches, those that whistled and called among the meadow grasses where he used to lie and dream and pretend…

'Ansley?'

'H'mm?'

'You talk a lot.'

'You're just not used to it, that's all, oh you of taciturn disposition. And you missed the point of my parable.'

'No,' Zero shook his head and tucked the feather into his coat pocket, 'I don't think I did. I was only stalling.'

'Stalling?'

'I'm not sure which one I am: Thiatu or Diat?'

'Oh, you're Thiatu. You're a being of layers. Zero Dertien: a man of many layers.'

'That makes you Diat. Ansley of Stirbane: artist of the realms. I've never really had a friend before.'

'Neither have I.'

'Just my siblings.'

'Ditto.' Ansley set his chin against Zero's shoulder, hands tight at his friend's waist. 'Your heart's beating like a drum, excuse the pitiable simile. But it is. We must be getting near home.'

'There's the river.' Zero pointed through the snowy underbrush, to a smooth expanse of black that was the river reflecting a leaded sky. 'Liddell is about a half-mile ahead. And we live in the southern part, about a half-mile outside of town. We're within a mile of home. The road flattens out just ahead. If you think you can hold on tight enough, I'd like to go a little faster.'

'You'd better do it, then.' Ansley prepared himself, as well as he knew how, having so little experience riding horses but for some scant lessons in his fleeting childhood. 'If you don't, priest, I think your heart might explode.'

The hill was descended, and Diat's momentum never slackened. Zero clicked his tongue, loosened the reins, and felt Ansley scrunch up against him in dread covered by anticipation. The hooves thundered. Liddell came into view. Zero commanded Diat through the village, a straight street whose pedestrians moved frantically from the rushing horse and donkey.

Ansley didn't relax a muscle until the crescendo became a decrescendo. He opened his eyes at a strange, hollow clopping of the Diat and Thiatu. An arching wooden bridge through a ream of white-trunk trees and verdure of ferns and gallenwood bushes. Once they passed the stream, the meadow returned, vast and wide and drowned in snow. Zero's heart slowed its pace, nearly to a standstill, until the house overcame his sight.

Zero slipped from the horse and dashed towards the faded front door. Home! His legs couldn't carry him fast enough.

He threw open the door, not knowing what he'd find. He thought his throat would erupt with the pain and pressure, the fear, the remorse… He was blind until he faced the bed where he'd left his parents. Blind until realising they were not there. Blind until he saw a candle burning on the cabinet, an oil lamp lit, and another, and another… And in the kitchen came a scent of herbs and soup. A shadow loomed in the open entryway, Ansley, and he shared a bewildered look with Zero.

Finally, a voice called from the back garden.

'Who's there?'

Confused, nearly ready to sob, Zero stood before the emerging figure, covered in a familiar cloak, a familiar tress of auburn hair curled down a shoulder. She pulled back her hood and gaped at him as he gaped at her.

'Zero!'

'Mam…'

In tears of relief and celebration, Zero pulled his mother into his arms and held tightly. She laughed, wept, kissed his cheek, ruffled his hair, looked at him, hugged him again. At the end of this exposition, used her apron to dry her eyes.

'You're home,' she started. 'Oh, I've been so worried!'

'You're all better! But I thought—how did you get better? And where's Dad?'

'I got better yesterday. I'm still weak, and Mrs Hagglethorne has been… has been helping… She brought us medicine, and she…' Her eyes were a continuous trickle, and a faraway gloom entered and shrouded her happiness. 'Zero… Zero…'

He heard the words she didn't say. Words by the centesimal. As monody. As silent epitaphs. He slipped into a cold embrace. His father… His father…

Ansley came to his side, unable to do more than share this grief. As Zero's mother held him close, Ansley suffered no moment of feeling out of place, as though he shouldn't be there, like he didn't belong. He touched the back of Zero's head, then the woman he had not yet met, and tried to soothe their agony with his presence.

But one question nagged. Why, if the gods saw fit to heal Zero's mother and take his father, had Ansley of Stirbane, the Yellow Finch, come at all?