The Chosen (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  ‘You really will have to do something about your palaces, cousin.’

  Carnelian gaped at him. ‘Do something?’

  The Master waved his hand, shook his head. ‘It is all so old-fashioned.’ He indicated some scaffolding. ‘There something is being done, but not enough, not nearly enough. The overall lack of decoration positively reeks of past times. Where are the pierced roof combs, the tortured friezes? Look at those meagre columns. They are like starved girls and those domes are as flat as their breasts. But I forget, cousin, you have been so long away and can have little notion of what canons are fashionable among the Great.’

  Carnelian turned back to gaze at the lean, elegant symmetries.

  ‘Especially when you are possessed of so much space,’ Jaspar added, with a twinge of envy.

  Carnelian saw that they were moving towards a quay set to one side of the coomb. There was a rustle beside him. Jaspar was adjusting his robe. Carnelian’s ears still rang with his patronizing tones and now the Master was readying himself to disembark. Carnelian peered back at the coomb. Those façades concealed other Masters of his House. His guts told him that this was not his home. That was lost, far away, in a different fairytale.

  ‘I might as well accompany you, cousin,’ drawled Jaspar.

  ‘There is no need.’

  ‘Aaah, but, Carnelian, you forget that one is still striving to earn the gratitude of House Aurum.’

  ‘It will be difficult enough . . . I know nothing of my kin.’ Carnelian clutched the air for words. ‘This new world . . .’ He was feeling so many emotions. He stood up, walked to the bow rail, blinked until he could see again. The bay swelled up into the middle of the coomb where the water extended its colours up into a pebbled beach. He went towards the stern, aware of the cobbling in the skull deck, steadying himself on the rail. The ferryman was a sinister doll. The only living part of him were the hands that stroked the handles of the steering oars.

  ‘I would have you leave me on the beach,’ Carnelian said to the ivory mask, seeking the brightness of an eye behind its single slit. He clenched his fists. Did the creature even have ears? He was lifting his hand to point when he saw the ferryman’s fingers urge the steering oars to the right and he felt the boat veer to port. Turning, he saw that her prow was pointing into the bay.

  He walked back to where Jaspar stood waiting, his hands on his hips. ‘Why have we changed course, my Lord?’

  Carnelian’s hands made warding motions that he could see Jaspar tried to read, then he was past him and Jaspar’s protests became nothing more than seagull cries. Carnelian reached the prow post, embraced its elaborate fluting of thighbones. The crescent of the beach was rushing towards him, the water turquoising as it shallowed. The boat slowed. He could see that if she were to go much further she would run aground. He turned to look back. Jaspar was closing in on him, hiding everything behind his vast shape. Suddenly, Carnelian could not bear to have a Master near him. He swung himself round the prow post, let go and fell like an anchor. The water sucking up to receive him squeezed out a gasp. He found his feet and fought his way towards the shore against the drag of his robe. When the water was around his knees he swung round panting and saw the boat already turning, showing her bony length and the gradient of her oars. Carnelian glimpsed Jaspar who had a flash for a face, then the boat had swung about to hide him with her stern and was sliding away, stirring the wake with her shoulder-blade steering oars.

  Carnelian heaved his robe out of the water and crunched up the pebble beach. One last tug caused him to stumble. He fell onto his hands, cursing. He pulled against the weight of soaked cloth and sat up. His palms felt contours in the pebbles. He picked one up that was as blue as the Skymere. A fish twisted round on itself in the lapis lazuli. Its tiny scales snagged the end of his finger. Its gills were delicate fans. He put it down carefully and picked up another pebble. A piece of flawed jade, carved into a fern spiral. He looked round him. All the pebbles were carved. He stared along the sweep of the beach, his hand stroking the spiralled jade. So many pebbles. He tried to imagine the labour they represented, but he might as well attempt to count the stars in a night sky.

  A movement caught his eye. He straightened to see a man up the beach, frozen. As Carnelian clambered to his feet, the man yelped and fled. Carnelian attempted to run after him but his feet scooped pebbles as his robe held him back like chains. He gave up and watched the man lope up some steps and disappear into trees.

  ‘Let them find me,’ he muttered. He tucked the jade pebble into a pocket and stooped to remove his shoes. He gathered up his robe and wrung some of the water out of it. His feet looked very white. He worried that the water might have washed off their paint. He shrugged. What could he do if it had? He hoisted the train of his robe over one arm and sauntered up the beach feeling the pebbles’ carvings with his toes. Something was whirring in the air. He turned his head slowly. A dragonfly was hovering in the blur of its wings, the size of a dagger but more exquisitely enamelled.

  Voices across the beach wafted it away. A familiar clink of armour made him turn. Perhaps a dozen guardsmen were filing towards him. Carnelian almost cried out when he saw their chameleon tattoos. He dropped his robe to wait for them. They looked at him uncertainly, rounding their shoulders. He searched their faces, then cursed his stupidity at trying to find one he knew. Their commander plunged his knees into the pebbles and in threes and fours the others followed him.

  Carnelian did not know what to say.

  ‘Master, please take no offence,’ the commander said without lifting his eyes, ‘but our Masters’ve given us no warning of your visit. If you’d please go, Master, go’ – he pointed – ‘back to the quay and wait with your tyadra, someone appropriate’ll come down to greet you . . . Master.’

  Carnelian shook his head. ‘There’s no tyadra.’ He lifted his arms from his sides. ‘I’m here as you see me.’

  ‘Of course it’s not my place, but . . . the Master shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not trespassing . . . what’s your name?’

  The man looked up fearfully. ‘M-Moal, if it please you, Master.’

  ‘Well, Moal, I’m your Master’s son returned.’

  Others were sneaking looks at him. Moal chewed his lip. ‘Our Master’s son’s well known to us.’

  Carnelian had to think about that for a moment. ‘No, not the Master you have here. I meant the Master of this House, who’s long been away.’

  Several of the guardsmen forgot themselves enough to stare, but quickly ducked their heads. Carnelian watched their hands fussing with their weapons.

  ‘Is there someone I can talk to?’

  ‘If it pleases you, Master, someone’ll be here soon,’ mumbled Moal.

  So Carnelian waited, eventually turning his back on them because he did not want to see their grovelling. He reached down to squeeze more water out of his robe, all the time feeling their stares.

  ‘Master?’

  A woman’s voice. He turned and instantly a weight of tears stiffened his face. It was Brin. He squeezed his eyes closed several times. He gritted his teeth. She was still there. His shoulders sagged; it was not Brin. This woman was younger though she was very like his aunt.

  The woman bowed. ‘Master, why are you come to Coomb Suth?’

  Carnelian squared his shoulders. ‘It’s my coomb. I’m Suth Carnelian.’ The colour left her face where Carnelian saw his father’s eyes. ‘You’re . . . Fey.’

  The woman flinched, nodded. ‘Yes, Master, steward of this House, Master. Please . . . I don’t understand. Forgive my confusion, Master, please . . .’

  Carnelian gazed at those eyes. It was almost as if this woman had stolen them from his father. He paused a moment, thinking, and then reached back to release his mask.

  Fey threw her hands up in horror. ‘Master, would you blind us all?’

  ‘But we’re all of one House . . . I’m Suth Carnelian.’ He realized that the woman might find his face no p
roof at all. Suddenly he made a fist and cried, ‘Look.’ He thrust out his hand so that the woman could see the Ruling Ring on his hand.

  Fey leaned forward, choked a cry and crumpled into the pebbles. ‘Master,’ she said from Carnelian’s feet, ‘oh, Master’.

  Carnelian crouched down and putting his hands round Fey’s shoulders lifted her gently. It was only then he saw the tears striping her face.

  ‘Are you so happy, Fey?’

  ‘Of course happy, Master, but also I grieve for our Master, your father.’

  Carnelian shook the woman. ‘When did the news come? When did it come?’

  ‘News . . . news?’ spluttered Fey. ‘The ring, Master, the ring.’

  Carnelian let her go. He looked at the Ruling Ring on his finger. Would that finger soon be its proper place? He held his head at his stupidity. There had been no time for any news. ‘I’m a fool,’ he said aloud.

  Fey was dabbing tears from her eyes. The guardsmen looked miserable. These strangers were also his people. He was forgetting his duty to them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fey. You misunderstood me.’ He removed the Ruling Ring. ‘I don’t have the right to wear it. It’s a long story. My father was ill when I parted from him in the Valley of the Gate. The Wise’ll heal him and then we’ll have him back here with us.’

  His confidence visibly cheered the guardsmen. Fey looked uncertain.

  ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you? When I shook you? I forgot myself . . .’

  Fey stared.

  Carnelian put his hands up to his mask. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to remove this thing.’

  ‘Master, your will’s our will.’

  Carnelian removed the mask, rubbed at the grooves in his skin, smiling at Fey, allowing her to search his face. ‘You see my father?’

  Fey looked hard at him then nodded unconvincingly, giving a thin smile. ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘I’d rather you cut that out, Fey. My name’s Carnelian.’

  Fey frowned, shook her head. ‘It’s forbidden me to soil a Master’s name with my tongue.’

  It was Carnelian’s turn to frown. The thought of his next question made him grimmer still.

  Fey spoke first. ‘My Master, your robe’s wet.’

  ‘Never mind that. Where’re the other Masters, my kin?’

  ‘In the Eyries, Master.’ Carnelian must have looked uncertain because Fey turned to point up the Sacred Wall.

  Carnelian scanned the craggy heights. It took him a while before he saw what looked like scratches halfway up to the sky.

  ‘More than fifty days ago our Masters went up there to avoid this heat. I’ll make immediate preparations for you to join them, Master.’

  Carnelian was still looking up. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, Fey. Tonight I’d like to stay down here.’

  Fey looked aghast. ‘That’s impossible, Master.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘These halls have become unsuitable for a Master. Workmen’re everywhere . . . the Master must understand that we always carry out restoration work when the Masters go up to the Eyries . . . furniture’s been stored away . . . Master, there’s no accommodation suiting of your rank.’

  ‘You’ll find me easy to please, Fey.’ He silenced any more of her protests with his hand and eventually, accepting that she was not going to change this strange young Master’s mind, Fey led him off into the palace with the escort of the guardsmen, some of whom carried his soaking train.

  Carnelian and the escort were a thread pulled by Fey’s needle. There was a hall that was like a wood, its sultry air nuanced with odours. The day was only a glowing band in the distance. He felt more than saw the eyes in the mosaics. Murals had the colours of concealed jewels. Wisps of voices ribboned between the columns. A door closing seemed an echo still lingering from the day before. Floors rainbowed like oil on water. Sometimes he glimpsed courts whose colours were more vibrant than any dream. Awe infected him like a fever so that, when he saw the eye and dancing chameleon ward on the lintels of a door, he sighed his relief that they were leaving the echoing grandeur of the public chambers.

  At Carnelian’s request, they left the guardsmen behind. Against Fey’s protests, Carnelian insisted on carrying his wet train in the crook of his arm. Steps took them down into a courtyard carpeted with the petals that were drizzling down from the trees. They kicked their way through the drifts, walking round the urns that held the trees. At the edge of the courtyard there rose a gate of white wood warded with eyes.

  As they walked away from the gate Carnelian reached out to touch Fey’s shoulder. ‘The halls of a subsidiary lineage?’

  The woman blushed. ‘The halls of the first lineage.’

  ‘But then why . . .?’

  Fey bowed her head. ‘They’ve long been occupied by the secondary lineage. There’ve been changes, Master.’

  Carnelian looked up at the white doors. ‘Have there?’ he said, and not wanting to make trouble for her, he allowed her to lead him away.

  Several more gates and courtyards brought them to a door in a wall. Fey pushed against it and Carnelian leaned over her to help. They walked into a small courtyard around which ran raised porticoes. Water slid round its edge in a shallow channel. In one place its lip had crumbled and water oozed down, greening the marble, running into a puddle. Some dull bronze troughs held dry, brown-leafed trees whose parched earth had pulled away from the sides. Dust greyed the precious inlay walls.

  ‘This quarter hasn’t been used in a while,’ said Carnelian, trying to hide his disappointment. He would not let Fey kneel.

  Fey grimaced as she looked round her. ‘These were some of the halls of the third lineage, Master. They now occupy the quarter traditionally belonging to the second, who—’

  ‘Who now occupy my father’s halls,’ said Carnelian heavily.

  Fey cringed a little, as if she were expecting a blow.

  ‘As you said, Fey, there’ve been changes.’

  Fey went over to one of the withered trees, touched its plug of soil, shook her head. ‘This shouldn’t have been allowed.’ She looked back at Carnelian. ‘You must believe that I did everything I could, Master.’

  Carnelian walked up to Fey and put his arm round her shoulders. The woman went so stiff that Carnelian immediately pulled his arm away. ‘I do believe you. Now come on, show me where I can wash away this paint.’

  They walked together round several more courtyards till they came to an echoing suite of chambers whose lofty vermilion walls were mosaiced with slender waving lilies and soaring birds.

  ‘For one night, perhaps, these chambers’ll be adequate for the Master,’ said Fey, opening tall blue rectangles of sky in a faraway wall.

  Narrowing his eyes against the glare, Carnelian crossed the marble mirror floor. He stood beside Fey in the flooding sunlight. Below, a pebbled cove smeared its green into the azure of the Skymere. Further off was the fiery emerald vision of the Yden and the Pillar of Heaven towering up from its heart. Carnelian closed his eyes and drew in the perfume of Osrakum. ‘Miraculous,’ he sighed.

  When he opened his eyes Fey was smiling at him. ‘You are like your father, Master.’

  Carnelian felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at the barrow of the Labyrinth mounding up from the Yden. How could he feel joy when his father might be there, somewhere, dead?

  Fey saw his frown. ‘To wash you’ll need slaves, Master. I’ll send them to attend you, and to clean up this mess. If the Master’d allow me to guide him . . .’ She waited to see him move, then bustled out through another door.

  Carnelian followed her on a long walk to a chamber of yellow marble. One whole wall was so thin that it glowed as it filtered daylight.

  ‘It’s like being inside a sea shell,’ Carnelian said in delight.

  Fey walked to the door. ‘I’ll go and fetch body slaves.’

  Carnelian touched her arm. ‘I’d rather be alone.’

  Fey looked startled. ‘But who’ll wash you, Master?’

  ‘The Maste
r’ll wash himself.’

  Fey’s eyebrows lifted and creased her brow. ‘As the Master wishes, so shall it be done.’

  As Carnelian slipped the damp robe off, something cracked to the floor. Crouching, he picked it up. It was the jade pebble. He frowned when he saw that its spiral had cracked in two. He put the pieces inside the hollow of his mask and put that face down on the robe. He went to the water wall and fiddled with the golden sluices set into its channels. At last he managed to braid the water into a single splashing waterfall. He gasped as he slid into its envelope, tensing in the cold. It roared over his head. The paint leached away down his legs. The water pooling round his feet was like milk, but soon ran clear.

  At HOME

  A rose watched withering

  Waits forgotten

  In this forbidden house

  Youth’s blush frowned grey

  Perfume faded

  Left only her thorns

  (from the poem ‘Beyond the Silver Door’ by the Lady Akaya)

  ALTHOUGH THE PILLAR OF HEAVEN WAS ALREADY CROWNED WITH GOLD, the twilight was only thinning at its feet. Osrakum still slept. The narrow arc of the crater’s faraway wall was still black. Only its glowing edge showed where the sun was beginning to set the sky alight. The lake was cataracted with mist. The Yden was grey. Carnelian inhaled sweet vaporous morning. He rubbed his cheek on the blanket. Its humming-bird feathers bristled and changed colour along the folds. He had climbed out onto the roof. His sleep had been troubled and that first gleam on the Pillar and the paling sky had drawn him with the hope of a new day.

  The indigo above was growing blue. Carnelian looked south-west to where a mountainous buttress of the Sacred Wall hid the next coomb. He followed the wall’s sweep round to the Valley of the Gate. There he watched turquoise begin to seep into the edge of the lake as if the colour were flooding out from the valley. The brightening crept across the lake to the Ydenrim and then up to reveal emeralds sparked with amber. Sunrise now lit the Pillar to its foot and speared its shadow back across the lake. Fire spread over the Labyrinth mound, caught on the flank of the Plain of Thrones. The sun’s disc melting up from the Sacred Wall forced him to quit the roof for fear of it tainting his skin with its gold.