by Anthony Ryan
“Do you know who composed it?” Lizanne asked, recalling that day in Jermayah’s workshop when Tekela’s ear for music led to the first fractional understanding of the solargraph.
“It’s from the Third Imperium as I recall,” he said, returning his fingers to the keys and tapping out a far-more-accomplished version of the tune, wincing all the while at the discordant clatter arising from the pianola. “The composer is believed to have been a member of the Empress Tarmina’s Cloister, a group of young women hand-picked for their artistic gifts, many of comparatively mean station. The Third Imperium was a time of great change, often referred to as the Flourishing by historians, when the old feudal ways were being overridden by advances in the sciences, and the arts. The Cloister was destined to be a short-lived institution, being quickly disbanded by Tarmina’s son when he ascended to the throne determined to cultivate a manly image free from feminine frippery. But for the best part of two decades they produced literature, paintings, sculpture and music. As is the way with art, most of the Cloister’s works could be best described as mediocre, a good portion decidedly awful, and some . . .” His smile broadened as he closed his eyes and played on, his mind no doubt replacing the pianola’s cacophony with something far more harmonious. “. . . quite beautiful.”
“Do you know her name?” Lizanne asked as Makario’s hands fell silent. “The composer.”
“Not off-hand. It’s probably buried in a book somewhere. I do know that she supposedly composed the piece whilst in the throes of a broken heart, a eulogy for a lover who abandoned her in order to seek adventure across the sea. He’s a colourful fellow in his own right, actually, some mad genius said to have spent years wandering the Arradsian Interior before getting gobbled up by a drake, or some such. If so, it’s a great pity he never heard the music he inspired.”
No, he heard it, Lizanne thought, picturing Tekela tapping the probe to the solargraph’s chimes. And trapped it in a box before coming here to chain himself to a wall.
A rhythmic thumping sounded through the ceiling, soon accompanied by the Electress’s voice. “Melina! Time to call a parley!”
CHAPTER 26
Clay
Clay didn’t remember crossing the bridge to the island, lost as he was in a mist of pain and exhaustion. Once again Loriabeth and Sigoral were obliged to drag him, clasping his arms across their shoulders to pull him along. His cousin had rigged a sling around his neck and under his thigh so his injured leg didn’t trail on the ground, although his lack of comprehension was such he doubted he would have felt it in any case.
“Look,” he heard Loriabeth say, her voice muffled as if spoken from behind a heavy curtain. “Door’s open.”
Clay felt the air change from warm to cool as they hauled him inside the structure they had seen from the shore. “Awful dark in here,” Loriabeth observed.
“No platform that I can see,” Sigoral added. “Must be farther in.”
Clay felt hard surfaces press against his back and rump as they propped him against a wall. “Cuz,” Loriabeth’s voice, close to his ear. “You hear me?”
He tried to nod but could only manage a small jerk of his head.
“More Green?” Sigoral suggested.
“He’s had a lot already. Not sure the raw stuff is that good for him after all. Besides, I’m thinking we’d best preserve what we got left. No telling how long we’ll be in here.”
“I’ll take a look around. We need to find a way into the shaft.”
“Not sure it’s wise to split up.”
“We can’t drag him everywhere. And somebody needs to stay . . .”
Sigoral’s voice subsided into a distant murmur then faded completely as Clay felt the void drag him down.
• • •
“She must have loved this place.” Silverpin rested her hands on the balustrade and gazed out across the jungle at the distant blue shimmer of Krystaline Lake. “Such a wonderful view.”
Clay surveyed the ruins below then confirmed his suspicion with a glance back at the shadowed room visible through the arch behind. Miss Ethelynne’s tower in the hidden city. He was momentarily puzzled to find Silverpin here, she had never seen it after all. But then he had, and it appeared she enjoyed the freedom to roam his memory at will.
He sighed and closed his eyes, raising his face to let the warmth of the sun bathe his skin. A single sun shining down from a blue sky, he thought, enjoying the familiarity of it after so many hours beneath the false light of the three crystal suns. “Too much to hope you were gone for good, I guess,” he said.
“That’s . . . not very nice.”
He blinked, turning to see what appeared to be genuine hurt on her face. Although, reading her expression through the mask of tattoos had never been easy. “You’re the one who wanted to help a monster eat the world,” he reminded her. “Lotta bodies weighing on your side of the scales.”
“That was always going to happen.” She turned back to the view, her voice taking on a reflective tone. “At least with me there would have been some . . .” She paused, mulling over the right word. “. . . not restraint, exactly. More pragmatism. The one he’s calling to now.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Let’s just say, she is anything but pragmatic.”
The one he’s calling to now . . . Clay stared at her, silenced by the import of her words.
“Oh yes,” she went on, angling her gaze as she enjoyed his shock. “You didn’t think I was the only one, did you?”
“It needed you for something,” Clay recalled, mind racing through his memories of the confrontation with the White, the rage it had exhibited when his bullet left Silverpin bleeding her life out onto the glass floor.
Silverpin didn’t answer right away, instead turning from the view to enter the room where Ethelynne had spent so many years in study. Clay followed, resisting the urge to demand answers. There seemed to be no threats he could make, and he didn’t know if any violence he might do here would have any effect.
“Year after year spent in feverish scribbling,” Silverpin murmured, tracing a hand over Ethelynne’s stacks of journals. “Page after page, and she never came close to even the most basic understanding. A wasted life really.”
“Not to me,” Clay stated. “And I’d hazard she knew a damn sight more than you did, on the whole.”
“About the Interior, I’ve little doubt.” She paused to pluck a book from one of the stacks, laughing a little as she opened it to reveal only blank pages. He had never read the journals so their contents were lost, something he now had bitter cause to regret.
“Never mind,” Silverpin said, tossing the journal aside. “It’s probably all still sitting here. Someone’s sure to find it one day. Although, it’ll most likely be a Spoiled in search of kindling for his fire.”
“What did it need you for?” he asked, hating the desperation that coloured his tone.
“The same thing it needs her for.” For a moment she held his gaze, a mocking smile on her lips as she revelled in his impotence.
“I used to feel bad about killing you,” Clay said. “I think I’m over it.”
Silverpin raised a tattooed eyebrow as her smile faded, her gaze moving to the bed, where it lingered. “Looks sturdy enough. What do you say? How about indulging in a little nostalgia?” She began to undress, pulling her shirt over her head and unbuckling her belt.
“I guess this really is more a nightmare than a dream,” Clay said, making her pause, the hurt once again bunching her tattoos.
“You didn’t use to be cruel,” she said. “Selfish, at times. Overly prideful at others. But never cruel.”
“Betrayal will do that to a man.”
She moved closer, reaching for his hand, then closer still when he snatched it away. “Be nice to me,” she said, backing him up against the wall. “Be nice to me and I’ll tell you . . .”
He flinched as she pres
sed a kiss to his neck, hands moving to his belt. “I get so bored, Clay. Stuck in here. You’d think with so many memories to explore it’d be fascinating. But I can’t change anything. It’s like being trapped in a photostat forever . . .”
“If this is a trance,” he said, a certain uncomfortable but tempting notion stirring in his mind, “then I have as much control over it as you do.”
She stopped, drawing back, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “So?”
He pushed her away and concentrated, summoning every lesson Lizanne had taught him, re-forming the mindscape into a scene of his own choosing. Ethelynne’s tower turned to mist around them, swirling into something much more impressive.
The White’s roar filled the dome, blood leaking from its side as it whirled, scattering crimson droplets across the glass floor where a young woman lay. She shuddered as the blood spread out from the large hole in her belly, trying to stem the flow with hands that fluttered like pale birds.
“Stop it,” Silverpin said. The memory blurred as she tried to take control, then snapped back into reality as Clay asserted his will. Shared trance or not, this was still his mind.
He saw that the dying woman’s lips were moving, forming soundless words she could never speak outside of the trance. He crouched, peering closely at the shapes made by her lips, feeling her last breaths on his face. It wasn’t hard to discern the word she spoke, just one, over and over until the light faded from her eyes. “Mother . . . Mother . . . Moth . . .”
“Stop it,” Silverpin said again, the words emerging as a dry choking rasp.
“Why call for her at the end?” Clay asked, rising from the body. The White roared again and he froze the memory, killing the sound.
She stood with her head lowered, hugging herself tight. “Please, Clay . . .”
“Why call for a woman you enslaved and murdered?” he persisted. “I watched you kill her, remember? You laughed . . .”
“I WANTED HER TO FORGIVE ME!” Silverpin lunged at him, cat-swift and strong, bearing him to the floor, screaming into his face. “I wanted her to know it wasn’t me! It made me! It made me do all of it!”
She fell silent, staring into his eyes as tears flowed from her own. “Except you,” she said, her rage slipping away. She raised a hand to cup his face, smoothing her palm over his skin. “You were mine. The only indulgence it ever allowed me.”
“Do you still feel it?” he asked. “Does it still command you?”
Her head moved in a fractional shake. “But I hear it, like distant thunder from a storm that never ends. I hear it . . . calling to her.”
“Who is she?”
“The new me. The replacement. I have no notion of her name, but I see glimpses of her. Short visions of the world seen through her eyes, conveyed by the White, and they always show the same thing. Different victims, different places. But every vision is a vision of death and each one brings her closer to the White. And when she joins with it . . .”
“What?” he pressed as her words faded, grasping her shoulders hard. “What does it need from her?”
“More of what it got from me.” She pressed herself against him, lips finding his, overcoming his resistance with desperate need. “Understanding . . .”
• • •
The chill woke him, leeching the warmth from his skin to leave him shivering in a clammy blanket of sweat. It took a moment to clear the lingering images of the trance, the feverish coupling with Silverpin at the scene of her death. Wrong, he berated himself, guilty repugnance mingling with desire. Very, very wrong.
He was huddled against the wall they had propped him against, the left side of his face compressed by the cold stone floor. The pain in his leg had lessened enough to be bearable, but still provoked a clenched shout as he levered himself upright, gazing around and blinking film from his eyes. The light of the suns had evidently faded on whilst he slept, leaving the structure in almost pitch-darkness save for a glimmer on the rectangular, inscribed pillars that supported the ceiling. It took him longer than it should have to register the most salient fact; he was alone.
“Cuz?” he said, speaking softly though it felt like a shout in the dark and silent confines of the structure. He saw Loriabeth’s pack lying near by and reached for it, finding the remaining supplies intact, including the lantern she had carried from the shaft. A few moments fumbling for matches and he had it lit. The beam revealed a bare and dusty interior, but no sign of his cousin or Sigoral. He thought for a moment then called out, “Lori!”
The only response was the echo of his own voice.
Clay set the lantern down and reached for his canteen, steeling himself against the increasingly unappealing burn of raw Green. The blood had begun to coagulate and he had to force down three gulps of what felt like cold slime on his tongue. He waited for the product to drown the pain in his leg before attempting to rise. Fortunately, Loriabeth had retrieved his crutches from the lake-shore and seen fit to leave them close by. He was obliged to clamp the lantern’s handle between his teeth as he rose precariously into his now-customary three-legged stance, swivelling his head about to illuminate as yet unseen corners. Starting forward, he saw the lake through the open doorway, the surface glittering in the distant glow of the three lights, a surface unbroken by any bridge. Whatever had raised it from the depths had subsequently seen fit to lower it.
“No way back, huh?” he mumbled around the lantern’s handle, turning himself about to regard the deeper recesses of the structure. The lantern’s beam played over a succession of pillars but failed to penetrate the gloom beyond. Lowering his head, he grunted in relief as the light revealed a line of footsteps in the dust. He didn’t have his uncle’s tracking skills but knew enough to discern two distinct sets of prints, one larger than the other. Sigoral, he decided, tracing the beam along the course of the tracks as they curved around the base of one of the pillars where they were swallowed by the shadows. Decided to have a good look-see, but didn’t come back. Loriabeth followed later. He knew she wouldn’t willingly have left his side except in dire need, and certainly not without waking him. She must’ve tried and couldn’t, he realised with a reproachful sigh. Too busy in the trance.
Clay swung himself forward on his crutches, following the tracks and wincing at the echo birthed by the thud of wood on stone as the trail led him into the absolute dark of the building’s innards. He soon came to a wall, the circle of the lantern’s beam playing over a dense mass of script carved into the interlocking blocks of granite. Looking down, he saw that the footprints overlapped at this point, indicating both Sigoral and Loriabeth had halted here, just like him, before following the line of the wall to the left.
He moved on, keeping close to the wall until he came to a gap. It was broad, clearly an entrance of some kind, and carved into the stone on either side of it was a pair of identical symbols. Clay swayed on his crutches, gaze swivelling from one symbol to the other as a rush of recognition set his pulse racing. This one he knew; a circle between two vertical curved lines.
The upturned eye, he thought, recalling the symbol that had adorned the building where he had found the sleeping White. He hesitated, swinging the lantern to illuminate the gap, revealing a long corridor, the end of which was beyond the reach of the light. Is it the White’s sign? he wondered, eyes tracking back to the symbol. A warning, maybe? Stay out or get eaten. It occurred to him that Silverpin might have the answer, but the thought of returning to the trance at this juncture was absurd. He couldn’t slip back into unconsciousness and commune with a ghost whilst Loriabeth remained unfound.
Clay clamped his teeth tighter on the lantern’s handle and swung himself forward. He counted his swings as he progressed along the corridor, reckoning each one to cover about a yard. After counting to thirty he stopped as a soft glimmer appeared in the darkness ahead.
Straightening, he fumbled his revolver into his hand, checking the loads and t
he action of the cylinder before returning it to the holster. He would have preferred to keep it drawn but needed both hands to grip the crutches. He moved with all the stealth he could muster, trying to place the crutches more softly on the floor and biting down on his grunts as he swung himself forward. Still, he doubted anyone with ears to hear would miss his intrusion.
The corridor came to an abrupt end after another twenty yards, the walls falling away to reveal a wide circular chamber. There were more pillars here, six of them arranged in a circle around a raised dais. Above the dais hung a slowly revolving crystal, floating without any visible means of support. A beam of soft white light issued from the base of the crystal to illuminate the dais where a curious object sat. It appeared to be fashioned from the darker material that had formed the spire and resembled a giant egg about twelve feet tall. Moving closer, he saw that it was split into three segments, revealing a hollow interior that gleamed with moisture. His gaze went to where a thin stream of liquid dribbled from the edge of one of the segments. Just hatched, he decided, eyes darting from one shadow to another. Wonder what it held. That’s no drake egg.
Shifting closer he drew up short as two slumped, unmoving bodies came into view. Loriabeth and Sigoral lay on their backs near the segmented egg, still and apparently unconscious.
“Lori!” The lantern fell from his mouth as he called her name, its light snuffed out as it shattered on the stones. He started forward, stumbling in his urgency and coming close to falling. He cursed and forced himself on, though a sudden upsurge of exhaustion and a flare of pain in his leg forced him to collapse against one of the pillars. He sagged, dragging air into his lungs, eyes fixed on Loriabeth’s immobile form. “LORI!” he called out, as loud as he could, but if she had heard him she gave no sign.
