Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales)

by Freda Warrington

  “I can’t emphasize enough that Daniel helped me to rejoin the human race. After college, I found jobs managing art materials and jewelry stores. I fell in love with the Jewellery Quarter and the museum, and made myself so indispensable that I ended up running the place.”

  “Quite a story,” said Frances, her voice very soft.

  “So all the bad stuff was twelve, thirteen years ago. My past is not who I am.”

  She stopped, finding it hard to catch her breath. Her memories—not least the missing ones—still opened a pit of fearful emotion inside her.

  “Stephanie,” said Frances in a small, dry voice, “truly, I’m sorry. I’m controlling, overprotective and intolerably overbearing. What you went through was dreadful. I should have been more understanding.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is to clear the air and be honest. Mist thinks he knows—”

  Humphrey barked. Cold air moved through the room, strong enough to shift the coals in the grate and nearly extinguish the flames. Again Stevie sensed the intrusive, writhing snake shadow. The fire recovered, but the spaniel continued growling at nothing. Stevie and Mist exchanged a quick, dark glance.

  “I swear this bloody house is haunted,” said Frances. “Sometimes I’ll enter a room and see Daniel’s father standing there, as clear as day, but he does not indulge in cold drafts and door-slamming antics. As if my nerves aren’t shredded enough. Humphrey, silence!”

  Without reacting, Mist pressed his fingers to the shopping list Frances had retrieved from her son’s pocket. Stevie looked sideways and read the last few items out loud. “Toothpaste. Detergent. Bleach.”

  “I know,” Frances said in an arid tone. “What single young man thinks to buy cleaning products? He was strangely domesticated, more so than me. Oh, I mustn’t say was! He is domesticated. But it’s just a list.” She paused to cough. “What of it?”

  “A name,” Mist said softly. At the bottom of the page, a word had been neatly printed with a different pen, and a curved arrow drawn above it. “Poectilictis.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Frances.

  “Poectilictis was the name of my father.” Mist frowned, rubbing his forehead. “How could your son possibly have known it?”

  Her thin eyebrows rose. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “And this.” He showed her the sketchbook page with a pencil drawing of a carved stone disk. “What was his source for this object?”

  “Oh, good lord.” Frances’s voice was croaky. Her face turned bone-pale. “You’d better come upstairs and take a look in his room.”

  * * *

  It felt strange to be in Daniel’s bedroom again. Stevie recalled times they’d spent on the narrow bed; usually talking, but occasionally—if his mother happened to be out—naked under the covers. Standing here beside Frances, she turned warm with embarrassment.

  Nothing appeared to have changed. There was a bookshelf with a couple of worn teddy bears on top, a chest of drawers supporting a glass-fronted case containing fossils, Doctor Who figurines and some small sculptures Danny had made.

  Mist went to the glass-fronted case and laid his hand on the door. Stevie saw his breathing quicken. “It’s here,” he said. “May I?”

  “Please, go ahead.” Frances waved a resigned hand. “You’re so polite. It seems bad-mannered to disbelieve the tales you’re telling me.”

  On their way upstairs, he’d told her only a bare outline of the Felynx story. That he came from a prehuman, lost city, Azantios; that he was trying to find his brother, Rufus, who might be the source of Daniel’s ideas; and that he would not be offended if Frances didn’t believe him.

  Far from challenging him, Frances simply listened, uttering an occasional, wet cough that made Stevie worry that she’d got bronchitis. Perhaps she lacked the strength to argue, or even to concentrate fully on what he was saying.

  He opened the door and took an object from the middle of a glass shelf. It was a thick disk of quartz, eight inches across and three deep. And it was heavy, from the way Mist lifted it in both hands. Stevie couldn’t recall ever seeing it before, except in the sketchbook.

  For long moments, he was so intent on the object that he seemed to have forgotten the others were there. Stevie looked over his shoulder. The disk was whitish and translucent, like rainbow moonstone, carved with stylized, interlocking images of leopards and birds.

  A color-changing sheen danced through the crystal, blue-green chased by fiery orange. Mist turned the object over and over between his hands. His ink-black eyelashes were wet.

  “Professor, can I ask how Daniel found this?”

  “He didn’t. I unearthed it a couple of years ago. Fossils are my thing, not man-made artifacts, so I passed it to the archaeology bods at uni. They concluded it’s what they call a UCSO, an ‘unidentified carved stone object.’ Possibly a forgery—you know, like the crystal skulls that turned out to be fifty and not five thousand years old, or whatever the figures were? So I kept it. A curiosity. I’ve never seen it change color before.”

  She sat down on the edge of Daniel’s bed, fingers worrying at the edge of the duvet.

  “And where did you find it?”

  “On a dig in the States. We took some students on a field trip to Nevada. Why?”

  Mist ran his fingertips over the carvings. “I recognize it. This is part of an item I thought was lost thousands of years ago. It’s only the base, but still important. This might be the connection.”

  “So you found it, Frances, and Daniel made drawings,” said Stevie. “Perhaps all the images and names are on it, in tiny detail, and that’s how he came across them.”

  Mist was shaking his head. “No, they’re not. But he might have picked up some kind of resonance from the stone.”

  “Resonance?” Frances moistened her lips, looking paler by the second. “What on earth are you suggesting?”

  Mist sighed, “I don’t know.” His expression became apologetic and confused, which made him look less otherworldly and more endearingly human.

  “No, let me clarify,” said Frances. “Daniel didn’t draw the UCSO after I brought it home. He was drawing it for years before I found it.”

  “Before?” they said together.

  Stevie and Mist went still, waiting for her to continue. “He began after he met you, Stephanie. He also made some sketches of a distinctive landscape like you see in cowboy movies: desert scrub, mountains and buttes. I thought nothing of it, until I was actually in Nevada. One evening, I climbed the shoulder of a hill and saw the exact landscape Daniel had drawn. I assumed he’d seen photos in a magazine.”

  Frances broke off, wheezing slightly. “Normally I’m the most skeptical old curmudgeon on the planet. It was an ordinary dig, hot and tiring. I spent most of trip supervising students, helping them to identify fossils in the shale, to tell their ammonites from their cornellites. Strange things do not happen to me.”

  “Except this once?” Stevie asked softly.

  Frances seemed irritated that she had to confess. She described waking in her tent to a strange glow and looking out to see the sky filled with golden columns; knowing she was dreaming, but stepping outside anyway.

  The light resembled the aurora borealis, she said, but the fiery towers rose from earth to heaven all around her, as if she walked through curtains of light.

  “I woke to find myself in the open, lying in a small ravine. In my hand was a lump of stone. I rubbed off the dust and dirt to reveal this carved tablet … exactly like the ones in Daniel’s drawings.”

  “You saw Azantios,” Mist said softly. “Did you find any ruins?”

  “No ruins. Only crumpled rocks. The works of nature, not man.”

  “Of course.” There was a trace of sorrow in his voice. “The city’s fabric dissolved into the Dusklands.”

  “I’ve no energy to decide whether I believe your theories or not,” Frances said thinly. “The experience shook me up quite severely. Visions of long-lost alien cities do not ha
ppen to cynical old bats like me. I may be in denial, but that was why I didn’t want such things happening to Daniel. It’s not pleasant. People lose their minds over less.”

  Mist pressed on, “Did Daniel consciously know what he was painting, or was he simply a cipher? It feels like there’s a force trying to reveal Felynx secrets, and an opposing force trying to suppress them. Perhaps not Rufus at all.”

  “Who, then?” Stevie asked. Mist gave no answer.

  Frances looked so exhausted that Stevie decided they should leave. There was no easy way to tell her that an intruder had taken Aurata’s Promise, and no need to unload more stress onto her.

  She’d no sooner made the decision than Mist said it anyway. “Someone found out Stevie had Daniel’s remaining work, the triptych, and stole it.” He touched the stone tablet. “Whoever it was may come for this, too. If they are not already here.”

  The pale furrows of her face deepened.

  “Well, take the damned thing away, then,” she said. “I don’t care if it’s genuine or priceless. I want no more of this. I want my son back, full stop.” Her voice grew hoarse and ended on a rattle. A couple of coughs became a violent spasm that shook her until her eyes streamed and blood sputtered from her mouth. Stevie supported her bird-thin form with one arm and thrust her cell phone at Mist.

  “Call an ambulance.”

  9

  Fela and the Lie

  Stevie dropped Mist near the city center at his request, and she was glad. Exhausted, she couldn’t face any more intense conversation. She needed solitude. As she pulled up in front of the museum, she noticed with horror that it was six o’ clock. Fin was standing in the doorway, looking distinctly irritated.

  “Stevie!”

  “I know, I know. It’s unforgivable. I’m so sorry—it’s been a nightmare. The roads are icy…”

  “You could have phoned.”

  “I didn’t think.” Stevie hurried to hand over the car keys.

  “I tried to call you, but it went to voicemail. I was worried!”

  “Fin, I apologize with all my heart. Daniel’s mother is really sick. We had to call an ambulance and they took her to Derby. She’s got pneumonia. And I had to find someone to look after Humphrey, her dog—that’s all she was fretting about in the ambulance—so I had to go back to her house. Fortunately one of her neighbors took Humphrey in. Bloody hell, what a day.”

  “My god, is she going to be okay?”

  “I hope so. It’s probably the best thing for her, because she wasn’t looking after herself properly, but she’s in a bad way. Now I have to find Daniel, in case … Anyway, Fin, I’m sorry.”

  Fin sighed. “It’s all right. Andy picked up the kids, and you’re okay, thank goodness. But honestly, Stevie, we can’t make a habit of this. Next time, get a taxi or hire a car…”

  “Or grow wings,” said Stevie. She pushed a twenty-pound note into Fin’s hand, vowing to add a large box of chocolates and a bottle of wine. “It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

  “You’re forgiven. I hope Daniel’s mum gets better soon. Now go home, and don’t you dare show your face at work before Tuesday. Doctor’s orders, not mine, remember?”

  Stevie had no answer. Cold and tired, she waved Fin off, then made her way around the building and up the steps to her front door.

  Alone in her apartment, Stevie felt jumpy. In the four days since the theft, she hadn’t felt safe anywhere. Yet the intruder had taken what he wanted and gone; surely there was no need to break in again? Mist had taken the mysterious stone disk, but would that put him in danger instead?

  She firmly suppressed her fears. Her door was securely locked. She refused to feel vulnerable.

  Supper was a microwave-heated shepherd’s pie, a wrinkled apple and a glass of cold white wine. She tried to watch television, but could only fret about Frances. She might have collapsed anyway, and not been found for days—yet Stevie couldn’t help feeling that the stress of their visit had tipped Frances over the edge.

  In the corner of her eye, the small uncanny leopard lay flicking its tail. “Oh well, you save me a fortune on cat food and vets’ bills,” she murmured.

  On a sudden thought, she jumped up and grabbed her laptop. Swiftly she typed a new regime for locking up the museum. From now on, no one must close up alone. She was more worried about her colleagues than herself, but she’d have to introduce the system subtly, so as not to arouse their suspicion … She saved the document, then opened the web browser and made a fresh search for Daniel.

  Nothing. His profile had vanished from the Jellybean Factory website. Even the thumbnail of Aurata’s Promise had been replaced by a red X. She groaned.

  “What are we going to do, puss?” she said sideways to her companion. “Three more days before I’m allowed back to work.”

  Three days to find Daniel and tell him, “Cut the diva act and get back here now before your mother dies.”

  With a sense of urgency, she opened a new blank document and began typing Mist’s story. He’d told her more on the journey back, and she wanted to record it before she forgot the details. The keys rattled under her fingertips. She knew that for every sentence Mist uttered, there were several pages unspoken, with a mass of mental footnotes. His shadowy, otherworldly grace lent credence to his words … while Daniel, who’d been lovable, shortsighted, and as mad as a box of polecats, was as plainly human as could be.

  So how the hell had he painted Mist’s life story, without ever meeting him?

  * * *

  Mist walked around the city center for a while, to avoid his empty hotel room. The stores were shut, the pubs and bars busy. Coarse de-icing salt crunched under his boot soles. At least he knew that Frances Manifold was safe from the entity that had been prowling her house. The presence, he suspected, was some form of barely sentient hunter, trained to sniff out a very particular trail: the aura of items or people connected with Azantios. Which meant that someone must have sent it.

  In his coat pocket, the base of the Felixatus felt heavy and warm, tingling with its own life. He sat down on a wet bench and closed his eyes …

  Mistangamesh looked up at the sun, seeing its brilliance dimmed to a flat white disk by veils of orange dust. Azantios lay behind him. From the viewing platform—a high natural ledge of rock—he surveyed the realms of the Felynx. In the far distance, mountains plunged towards steamy blue-green forests, wetlands and lakes. Closer lay a tumbled red landscape of canyons and tall, sculptural rock formations: Fire Valley, they’d named it. All around him, the ledges and slopes were covered by a shifting mass of Felynx, proud and beautiful in shimmering garments, their striped cat faces crowned with shining manes of hair.

  Rufus and Aurata were with him, all three dressed in finery befitting their status as members of House Ephenaestus. This was a special day marking the climax of the racing season. The ultimate race was in progress. The air shimmered with heat and excitement.

  The runners were all Tashralyr, a different clan of Aetherials who dwelled in the distant wetlands. They’d inhabited this area even longer than the Felynx, and generally the two clans had little to do with each other. The Felynx kept to their great city and the Tashralyr lived wild, but they had an interest in common: the Tashralyr were natural athletes who loved to race. Over the centuries, the Felynx had grown fascinated by their sport and were now enthusiastic spectators, placing bets, and even sponsoring their own favorites.

  The event was in three parts, a race devised long ago by the Tashralyr for their own pleasure and now regarded by the Felynx as a thrilling yet deadly serious entertainment. First, the competitors swam across a vast blue lake. Next they undertook a grueling climb to the peak of a tall red hill. At each stage, weaker entrants were eliminated. Last, only the toughest remained to race flat-out around the challenging terrain of Fire Valley.

  Now a sandstorm came pouring towards the spectators. The cheers of ten thousand Felynx rose in a roar. From the center of the cloud, the runners surged like a si
ngle, undulating fleece. The Tashralyr ran on all fours, their long legs a blur, paws barely skimming the ground as they flowed towards the finish line. Orange dust caked their silvery fur. Felynx race officials stood waiting at the finish line: a golden thread stretched between two spires of rock.

  The favorite, Karn, was in the lead. Rufus pushed forward to cheer him on. Mist, caught in the moment, shouted for his own runner.

  “What a surprise,” Aurata said over Mist’s shoulder. “Karn always wins.”

  “Because he has the best patron!” Rufus retorted. “Of course he’s unbeatable. He’s mine.”

  “Unbeatable, only because there’s no competition,” she said, giving Mist a smile behind Rufus’s back.

  “Jealousy doesn’t become you, sister,” said Rufus. “It’s not my fault you have a nose for also-rans.”

  Karn was two lengths ahead of the pack when a dark muzzle drew alongside his paler one. Another Tashralyr was gaining. Then—impossibly—beginning to pass him. The cheering swelled, stoked to a climax by surprise. The outsider broke the finish ribbon, winning by a full body length.

  “Who’s that?” yelled Rufus, outraged. “Who in the name of all the stars is that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aurata, “but I lay claim. From now on, he or she is mine.”

  And she was off the rock and running downhill through the crowd, her fiery hair streaming. Rufus and Mist followed her, the Felynx crowd parting for the scions of House Ephenaestus.

  Down in the valley, they entered the competitors’ enclosure—a natural hollow in a canyon wall—where only athletes and their patrons were allowed. The Felynx race marshals let them through with respectful nods.

  Stragglers were skidding in, panting for breath, while a crowd formed around Karn and the unknown victor. Mist congratulated his own runner, Tamis, who’d made a respectable third. He watched the exhausted Tashralyr beginning to unfold from their running form—long and lithe, silver fur dark with sweat, flanks heaving—into bipedal shape. Stretched feline heads flattened, manes became hair, paws morphed into hands. They kept the subtle grey coloring that distinguished them from the bright red-golds of the Felynx.