Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “Perhaps we should talk about why you are here,” suggested Isia.

  Sylas glanced up from a mound of meatballs. “Sorry,” he said, wiping his mouth on a napkin. “I haven’t had food like this since … well, ever, really.”

  “Then don’t let me stop you, Sylas!” she said, laughing and waving him on. “Just ask your questions as you eat, and I will answer as best I can.”

  Sylas gratefully took another mouthful and chewed, trying to gather his thoughts. How strange that he hadn’t planned what to say – in fact, he realised that he had almost forgotten why he was here. Something about this place – about Isia herself – was so intoxicating, that all his purpose had faded.

  He pulled his thoughts into order and said: “We’ve come here because Paiscion thought you might be able to help me – us, I mean.”

  “He was right,” said Isia.

  Sylas gazed at her for a moment, but she just nodded for him to continue.

  “Well … Naeo and I found each other,” he said, “and we understand that we’re supposed to be together, that Merisu was writing about us in his poem when he said ‘For then at last we may be one’. But we just don’t understand what our connection means. What we’re supposed to do with it.”

  “What they need to know,” said Simia, chewing a chicken leg, “is what are they supposed to do next?”

  Isia reached across the table for a grape. “Well, I rather think we have been talking about this since you arrived,” she said, raising the grape to her mouth in a flurry of hands.

  Sylas laid down his fork. “How do you mean?”

  “One of the first things I said to you was that I thought you would know what it is to have a second self – do you remember?”

  “Yes …”

  “And it is the knowing that is most important for you now.”

  Sylas shrugged and shook his head. “But I do know Naeo. We rescued her from the Dirgheon, we’ve travelled together – we were together in the Valley of Outs.”

  “But do you really?” asked Isia, leaning forward. “Do you truly know Naeo?”

  Sylas looked at her blankly.

  “I thought not,” said Isia. “The truth is, Sylas, you share so much with Naeo. Her gifts are yours and yours, hers. Can you say that you truly understand that? Can you say you believe it?”

  Sylas dropped his eyes to his food. He thought about Naeo in the Dirgheon, in the Garden of Havens and when they were leaving the valley. He had felt that he knew her. More than that – he had felt part of her. And there had been moments since they had parted when he could feel that connection. But they were just moments. The rest of the time he barely thought of her.

  “I suppose not, no,” he said.

  “Well it is all in the knowing,” said Isia in a tone that left the matter beyond doubt. “The two parts of your being should correspond freely, they should connect in you as they do in me. But they are obstructed, frustrated, held apart.”

  “But isn’t that because she’s from here and I’m from there?”

  Isia shook her head. “No, it’s not that simple. You and Naeo have a bond unlike any other. In you, the Glimmer Myth finds its end – it is fulfilled. That is why you are able to meet, to communicate, to act as one. It is no longer the worlds that are holding you apart, it is the knowledge you have lost – the knowledge of each other – of everything you can be.”

  Sylas leaned on the table and rubbed his temples. “OK,” he said, “I think.”

  Isia seemed to be playing with words, but he knew that she was right, that there was still a barrier between Naeo and himself – a disconnect. His thoughts flew back to his conversation with Triste by the river, when the Scryer had told him he was connected to her in every way, all the time. “Well if I am, I don’t know about it,” had been his reply.

  Simia pushed away her plate and looked at Isia. “So if you and your Glimmer are one – if you really do know your other self – is that what makes you so …” She fumbled for the words for a moment, and looked increasingly stricken by the course she had taken. “I mean, is that what makes people think you’re …”

  Isia smiled, reached over and took her hand. “Yes,” she said. “My wholeness, such as it is, helps me. It makes me clearer in my mind and stronger in my body.”

  Simia’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “So … is that what makes you live forever?”

  Isia patted her hand and slid back from the table. “Time for dessert,” she said. She leaned over to a large bowl topped with fluffy cream. “You must try our fruit pudding. I have it on the highest authority that it’s the finest in this world or that.”

  She winked at them and spooned out two bowls of opulent pudding that looked like trifle, oozing with cream and custard and packed with diced fruits of all textures and colours. Isia’s arms moved swiftly between the bowls so that at times she appeared to have four entirely separate hands and at one point Sylas even thought he might have seen one of the hands reach for something in an adjacent pot, pick it up, and add it to one of the bowls, but it could have been a trick of the eye.

  “Eat up,” she said, smiling and leaving the table. “We can talk more when you’re done.”

  Then, to their surprise, she left them, walking away through the archway and out into the failing light, trailing an image a little behind. Her shadow was long in the pale dusk and it took a while to disappear, blurring between two forms.

  Sylas and Simia looked at each other, a little bemused by her sudden exit.

  “You shouldn’t have asked her about living forever!” hissed Sylas.

  Simia straightened defensively. “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

  They regarded one another for a moment, but their eyes inevitably returned to their dessert. They picked up their spoons and dug in.

  Sylas ate greedily. It was, without doubt, the most delicious pudding he had ever tasted. He was soon through the heavenly cream and the velvety custard, then into the sparkling rubies of jelly and the rough sweetness of the sponge. Finally he sank his teeth into the wonderful, sweet, tangy fruit.

  The bitter … burning fruit.

  He hunched forward in his seat and raised his hands to his neck, his eyes staring wildly.

  “What’s wrong?” cried Simia, standing and pushing her seat over with a clatter. Her face was stricken with panic. “Sylas! What’s wrong?”

  Sylas could not hear her. His eyes turned to the glowing archway.

  He gaped, trying to speak, to cry out, but nothing came.

  Then he fell back and exhaled, staring blindly into the dying light.

  “Here are recorded the chronicles of the merisi, begun by our hand in this year of Our Lord one thousand two hundred and twenty-nine.”

  MR ZHI PUSHED OPEN the doors emblazoned with the sun and the moon. They swung back with ease, coming to rest with a clunk.

  Beyond was a large chamber hewn from the dark stone of the hill, lit by a dim, cool light. At first sight it looked like any conventional room, with square-cut walls, almost-smooth ceiling and polished granite floor, but as Naeo’s eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that the walls were alive. They shimmered and glistened beneath endlessly moving sheets of water, which fell from the point where the walls met the ceiling and disappeared somewhere below the floor. The result was that the rock seemed to be in perpetual descent and the cool chamber was filled with the pleasant rush and tinkle of water.

  Another sound, the sound of voices, quickly fell silent. At the centre of the chamber a large assembly of thirty or forty robed figures stood around a long table of polished white marble. Each of them wore a single green glove.

  When Mr Zhi stepped forward they all bowed.

  “Greetings, sisters and brothers. Allow me to introduce some rather special guests,” he said, stepping to one side and sweeping his gloved hand towards the threshold. “Ash is a representative of the Suhl …” he paused and gave Ash a kindly smile, then turned to Naeo, “and Naeo, daughter of Bowe, represents herself.
Both parts of herself.” He turned back to the gathering. “Because, Naeo’s Glimmer is none other than Sylas Tate.”

  The gathering stared at Naeo in astonishment, then glanced at one another. Finally they remembered their manners and bowed.

  Naeo nodded awkwardly in response. The pain in her back had started to return and she suddenly felt queasy and faint.

  “We are of course hugely honoured by your visit,” said a woman with broad, oriental features, who did not seem to notice Naeo’s discomfort. “But I am afraid that in the midst of today’s crisis it will be impossible to offer you any kind of welcome.”

  “And yet without the crisis, my dear Kasumi, we would not have the honour of their visit!” retorted Mr Zhi. “Such are the connections of our worlds. Naeo and Ash are well aware of the dangers and difficulties we face – they have already faced many of them alone and without our help.”

  Kasumi bowed.

  He turned his eyes around the gathering. “But is this all? Where are our sisters and brothers?”

  “Many have been prevented from answering our call,” said Kasumi. “The unrest spread quickly. Borders have been closed, travel restricted – not just here but all across Europe, and now in Asia and the States. Travel is perilous.”

  Several of the gathering murmured their agreement.

  “Then matters are grave indeed,” said Mr Zhi, darkly. He cast his eyes over the papers on the table. “You had better brief me in full.” He turned to his guests. “I’m sorry, I had hoped that there would be time for some introductions, but it seems not. Ash,” he said, gesturing to an empty seat at the table, “if you don’t mind I think you should stay and talk with us; you know as much about what we are facing as anyone.”

  Ash hesitated. “What about Naeo?”

  “Naeo’s time is better used elsewhere,” said Mr Zhi, turning to her. “My child, before anything else, we must have someone look at your wounds, especially if they are infected with the Black.” There were whispers of dismay around the room. Mr Zhi silenced them with a dark look. He turned back to Naeo. “You should go directly to see the Seedkeeper.”

  “The Seedkeeper?” she said, dubiously.

  Mr Zhi smiled. “Our greatest healer. But perhaps more importantly, she is the person whom you have come to find. The Seedkeeper is our name for Sylas’s mother, Amelie.” He patted her arm encouragingly. “Jeremy, please show Naeo the way.”

  Tasker bowed to the room then motioned for Naeo to follow him.

  Ash leaned down to Naeo’s ear. “Are you all right about this? If you want me to come I—”

  She raised her hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine,” she said, turning stiffly and following Tasker from the room. Ash watched anxiously as she left.

  “Your friend is in very good hands,” said Mr Zhi, taking his arm and leading him to the table. “There is much more to Amelie Tate than Naeo may realise.”

  Tasker led Naeo down the passageway as quickly as she was able, passing in and out of the pools of light. Soon they turned into a darker corridor that she had not noticed on her way in. The further she walked – the nearer she came to Sylas’s mother – the more her feeling of unease began to eclipse the pain. Why hadn’t she thought about this moment? Why hadn’t she planned what to do or say?

  She became aware of Tasker at her side. “You all right, Princess?” he asked, eyeing her closely.

  “I’m OK.”

  “No, really?”

  She shrugged, immediately regretting it as a new pulse of pain shot through her spine.

  He leaned forward and caught her eye. “It’ll be OK, you know.” His tone was caring and tender. “She’s a good woman, the Seedkeeper.”

  “Oh. Yes … thanks,” she said, surprised by his attentions. “It’s actually more the pain than anything else.”

  “Well then you’re definitely going to see the right person. What the Seedkeeper doesn’t know about balms and remedies isn’t worth knowing.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a balm for what I have,” she mumbled. Then to change the subject she asked: “Why do they call her that?”

  “Because she makes these gardens what they are,” said Tasker, turning into a sloping passageway. “Everything you saw out there, under the dome – that was all her.”

  Naeo slowed her step. “She made the gardens?”

  “Well, Nature had something to do with it too,” said Tasker, laughing. But then his face straightened. “Though if ever I’ve met someone with the gift to guide Nature’s hand, that would be Amelie Tate.”

  “She sounds … amazing.”

  He drew a breath. “She is. Come on, nearly there.”

  They began to descend a staircase, the walls of which were made entirely of glass. After only three or four steps, Naeo slowed to a stop and stared in wonder. Through the glass she could see a stream tumbling over mossy rocks, flowers drooping beneath a heavy dew, trees and bushes thick with verdant leaves all swaying slightly in an inexplicable breeze. So tall were the shrubs, so lush and richly planted were the banks of flowers, that the rest of the gardens could not be seen at all.

  “This is her own part of the gardens,” said Tasker, smiling at Naeo’s reaction. “She calls it the glen.”

  Naeo did not notice the wooden door at the bottom of the steps until she was almost upon it.

  Naeo stopped and eyed it nervously.

  Tasker stepped past her and reached for the knocker. “Let’s see if she’s in,” he said.

  It struck a deep, hollow note.

  Clunk, clunk, clunk.

  He turned and smiled at Naeo. “You’re fine, Princess.”

  She felt far from fine. Her stomach churned and her skin was clammy and hot.

  Then there was a voice from the other side of the door: faint but friendly, calling them in.

  Tasker turned the handle and pushed at the door. It swung open with a creak.

  Naeo stood frozen to the spot, blinking in disbelief.

  “We journeyed through green dale and glen, each more lush and beautiful than the last. But beyond was an even greater prize: the bright and majestic plains of Salsimaine.”

  WHAT LAY BEFORE NAEO was not a corridor, nor a room, but a tiny glen, rising to the left and right from a broad, grassy floor bisected by the stream she had seen from the stairway. The sides were steep but regular, with terraces cut into the soft earth to form wide steps, each thick with riotous life: plants and flowers and herbs of every type imaginable.

  Curiously, on the floor of the glen, was a single, brass bed – neatly made with a patchwork eiderdown and plump white pillows – placed right next to the little stream, such that a drowsy sleeper might refresh themselves with its cool waters. Naeo saw other pieces of furniture scattered around: a chest of drawers peeking between two bushes; a wardrobe nestled among a bed of seedling flowers; a dresser half hidden behind a tangle of bushes, the mirror of which seemed to be missing. There was even what looked like an apothecary’s cabinet, it’s many shelves full to bursting with colourful jars and phials, each marked with a small, handwritten label.

  This was not just a glen, or a pleasant retreat from the garden: it was a bedroom, a lounge and a laboratory.

  “Sorry, I was planting right at the top,” came a cheerful female voice off to their side.

  The skin on Naeo’s neck pricked and tingled.

  She looked around and saw a small, slim woman striding down the terraces, pulling gardening gloves off her hands. She was dressed in the same green overalls as the other guests, but seemed bolder and more vigorous than any Naeo had seen in the rest of the hospital. Her voice was strong and her step was easy and confident. Nevertheless, as she approached, Naeo noticed that her skin was a little pale, her once-beautiful face a little gaunt, her large eyes a little faded and fringed with dark rings.

  But then she smiled. Instantly all these marks of fatigue and worry fell away, and she was radiant.

  “Tasker, isn’t it?” she said, cocking her head on one side. “Tasker –
from Salisbury? We met the other month.”

  Tasker beamed, flattered to have been remembered. “Yes,” he said, “we didn’t talk for long, but you very kindly showed me—”

  “I showed you round the gardens,” said Amelie Tate, smiling amiably and shaking his hand.

  And then her gaze shifted to Naeo.

  Her eyes traced the eyes and nose and mouth. Then the neck and shoulders. She gave a slight frown. “And, forgive me,” she laughed hesitantly and extended her hand, “who’s this? Have … have we met?”

  Naeo was stricken. The air had left her lungs; her head was swimming. Amelie Tate’s face seemed so familiar. Something about her … no, everything about her was so … close … so warm.

  “I’m Naeo,” she managed in a failing, dry voice, offering an unsteady hand.

  “Naeo?” said Amelie Tate, glancing at Tasker inquisitively. “That’s an interesting name. Beautiful, too …”

  Tasker shifted. “Amelie, this is Naeo, daughter of Bowe,” he said, placing a hand on Naeo’s shoulder. He hesitated for a moment then said: “She’s from the Other.”

  Amelie covered her mouth and took two sudden steps back. “Oh God!” she exclaimed, staring at Naeo with wide, frightened eyes. She looked quizzically at Tasker as though asking him why he was subjecting her to this.

  He opened his palms and looked apologetically from one to the other. “I think I’d better leave the rest to you,” he said, and then turned and left.

  Amelie frowned after him for a moment and then tried to gather herself.

  “OK …” she said, between her fingers, still gazing after him as if not wanting to look at Naeo. “Sorry, it’s just a … a bit of a shock. I haven’t had any actual contact with …”

  She trailed off. Her gaze turned slowly back to Naeo, tracing her eyes, her forehead, her cheek.

  Naeo stared back, limbs trembling. Part of her wanted to run away, but the other wanted to reach out and hold her.

  And then Amelie suddenly shook her head. Her lower lip began to quiver. There was fear in her eyes, and pain – so much pain. The pain of a mother who had lost a son; of a woman who had seen too much darkness, too much loss. And there was also something else – a flicker of recognition, the barest glimmer of hope.