The Promise of the Child

by Tom Toner

  Bonneville let his eyes travel downwards slowly, soaking in the view of the four-hundred-year-old scene. From beneath the jewelled folds of the robe peered hideous and demonic faces—those of the Prism, as the Melius painter had imagined them. Some had long noses or large ears, bat-like faces and forked tongues. All were naked, like a Melius. They were examples of actual species, Bonneville knew, though simply reimagined by a painter who had never seen them, and they capered and cavorted between the curtains across a triptych of coloured worlds whose atmospheres blazed with fire and warfare. If one looked close enough (most Immortals brought spyglasses and telescopes with them especially for the occasion), the true horrors of the Prism moons could be glimpsed. Bonneville, though he couldn’t make it out with his own eyes, had seen reproductions of what was going on upon the surface of the worlds up there; torture, scenes of sodomy and degradation, slaughter of children and animals on a colossal scale. Each of the hundreds of figures in the horrifying triptych was about three feet tall—coincidentally the real height of some Prism races—but the sheer size of the chapel meant they were mere specks teeming above him.

  As his eyes wandered further down, the proportions increased again. The undersides of the hellish worlds were silver crescents of light, moons glowing over a magnificent map that dominated the rest of the ceiling: the Old World. Needle-sharp, stylized mountains pointed like peaks of meringue towards the heavens, the continents they grew from arranged in a dodecahedron around the First, with lettered scrolls unfurling wherever a fortress or city sprouted from the mountainsides.

  Beneath the mountains, arranged below the tangled bowers of a beautifully painted forest of palms, the Melius held court. Their huge forms were the most realistic of all the painted figures, dominating the ceiling in a vortex of colours. Here the artist had clearly worked from life and some of the figures were breathtakingly painted. Their elephantine heads glared down at the distant floor, massive jaws clenched in that peculiar Melius way, enacting some scene from history the importance of which Bonneville had quite forgotten.

  Occasionally, just as the trance of the scene’s beauty was wearing thin, he remembered that the chapel’s ceiling and perhaps everything it depicted could one day be his.

  He stared at the top of the woman’s huge head where it almost touched his knees, her hair scraped back into some sort of artful decoration apparently for his pleasure. She had moved to his other foot now and was obviously trying to locate the same sore spot. Bonneville, unlike other Immortals he knew, was glad he no longer felt things as keenly as he once did. He counted the many millions of days of his life so far as a time of trials, all of them building to the moment when he could be released from crude animal lusts and processes. To be older than ten thousand years was to achieve enlightenment, many of the Amaranthine agreed, for it left the mind nothing but time to contemplate the things that really mattered. He looked at his hands as they gripped the throne’s huge armrests, trying to clear his mind.

  Hugo Maneker, the Devout’s great prophet and leader, had disappeared. Those who knew what was good for them did not trouble the loftier Perennials of the order with questions; those who did quickly vanished, too. Zacharia Stone, a taciturn Perennial fanatic, had been awarded stewardship of the Devout upon his return from Gliese. The volatile, boyish-looking Perennial presided over his peers with obvious relish, threatening members with imprisonment or exile from the Old World for any small transgression in decorum. But it wasn’t Stone who frightened him. Stone was scared, too, Bonneville knew it. The Perennial expressed nothing but overwhelming adulation whenever Aaron the Long-Life was mentioned, but Bonneville could see it in him, just like all the others.

  The man who claimed to be the oldest living Immortal was an enigma, a spectre-like figure somehow able to appear without warning especially when his name was mentioned. It was said among the Devout that Aaron the Long-Life had come from the Westerly Provinces, already known to the Melius there and ruling in all but name as a Provincial king. It was not unusual for Amaranthine to spend time among the peoples of the Old World—the myth of Jatropha, said to be the most powerful of any Amaranthine, was a fine example. There were even postulations from the younger, more overzealous Devout that Aaron himself was Jatropha, awoken at last from a slumber of lifetimes to claim his rightful seat on the Firmamental Throne. Whoever Aaron was, the man appeared in the flesh as he did in the dreams that some of the elder Perennials experienced, portly and kindly faced, his feet appearing to make no sound when they brushed the floors of his chapel. Bonneville had so far only seen him from a distance, a slip of grey in a procession of red and white—the colours of the Devout—as the Amaranthine had triumphantly entered the Sarine Palace and the protection of the Melius Lyonothamnine monarchy of the First. He’d tried to keep his head above the crowd to catch another glimpse, but it had been useless in a caparisoned procession of multicoloured giants almost twice his height, and assumed that the time for his presentation to their new master was still to come.

  Bonneville had done almost nothing so far but wait, occupied only occasionally in his study—a hastily cleared guest chamber in one of the Sarine’s outer spires—with the business of the Devout and their absolute rule over the newest Satrapy of the Firmament, the First Province. In the bleakness of the Old World nights his thoughts slowed to a crawl, gnawing at the possibilities of his actions, the threat of discovery, the glories of success. The business with the Satrapy of Inner Virginis, mercilessly expunging the opposition concentrated in that beautiful Vaulted Land—that was not something one took lightly, even when the perpetrators were on your side. And there would be more to come. Sometimes the impulse to run and never look back was so strong that Bonneville found himself glancing at the door of whatever room he was in, considering his chances. He had never heard any of the other Devout voice doubts, but then he had never expressed any of his own, either. For all he knew, each and every member of the sect had plans to leave and he’d be left all alone at the final hour. There had to be some way of finding out before it was too late, some subtle method of testing the water without Stone discovering his treachery.

  He knew exactly where he’d go if he had to run, a place beyond even the Amaranthines’ reach. He returned his gaze to the distant swarm of violence above him, taking in the painted scenes of the Prism Investiture in all its vile glory. The Vulgar were not quite the barbarians they were made out to be, though their fleets leapt between the fringes of the Firmament like fleas on a hound, and they had made a promise to harbour him should he be their champion during the coming chaos, whatever form it took. An Amaranthine, even just one, would certainly give the Vulgar an edge if things turned sour, and in turn Bonneville would be revered as something close to a God.

  He had a good deal to think about.

  The enormous hands at his feet paused as he heard the sound of the Perennials entering from the nave. Bonneville sat up, pulling his bare feet out of the woman’s grasp and standing quickly.

  “It’s Reginald,” said one of them in an echoing voice, still too far away for him to see clearly. It looked like Christophe De Rivarol, a cadaverously thin, unpleasant Amaranthine he had never liked, and the short, umber-skinned Trang Hui Neng, third in line to the Firmamental Throne.

  He watched them walk across the bronze-plated floor towards the five cathedras, their boots ringing through the chapel.

  “Testing the thrones, were we?” asked Hui Neng as they approached. The Melius bowed and hurried out. Bonneville stared at the metal floor, mortified, and said nothing.

  “Count yourself lucky he wasn’t with us,” continued Hui Neng, glancing up at the distant ceiling.

  “Haven’t you somewhere else to be, Reginald?” asked De Rivarol, eyes narrowing. Bonneville opened his mouth, thinking of what to say.

  “Let him stay,” said a sonorous, perfectly enunciated voice in the chapel that appeared to come from everywhere. The Perennials glanced around, their expressions suddenly furtive. The voice of the master.
Bonneville looked past them to the huge Melius cathedra where he’d been sitting.

  A man stepped slowly out from behind the backrest, as if he’d been there all along. He was dressed in the most recent of Amaranthine fashions, a loose, pale blue cape trimmed with auburn Old World furs fastened at his neck. Upon his head he wore a slanted cap of dark material that framed his sallow, full cheeks, not a single hair spilling from the sides. The ensemble was almost without ornamentation, bland and unjewelled. They all stared at him, the Elders remembering at last to sink to their knees. Bonneville watched them stupidly and then hurriedly did the same, wondering just how long he might have been sharing the chapel with the fabled Pretender.

  Aaron the Long-Life looked at them briefly, then at the painted ceiling. Bonneville flicked his eyes up to watch the man pass them, studying his benevolent, upturned face, remembering the rumours. It was the face of a thousand men he might have known, long ago.

  “Amaranthine come from far and wide to see this ceiling, Most Venerable,” said De Rivarol, still on his knees. Bonneville was always shocked to hear the title used on another while the Emperor Sabran remained among the living.

  Aaron said nothing, continuing to stare upwards. De Rivarol shifted on his knees. Bonneville knew that he could not speak out of turn or leave before he was bidden. He didn’t like to think how long he would have to kneel, staring at the crusty green bronze of the chapel floor.

  Aaron turned back to them, walking around the group of kneeling men. Bonneville made sure he kept his eyes down.

  “I have found three men in my house,” he said, still circling them, the soft pads of his pointed boots making no sound at all, as the others had said. When he came to Bonneville he stopped, a presence beside him. “All are faithful servants.”

  They hesitated, all still looking at the floor. “Yes, Most Venerable,” said Hui Neng. Bonneville stuttered and quickly repeated the words, followed by De Rivarol.

  Aaron arrived once more at the central cathedra and swept back his cloak to sit facing into the circle. Bonneville found himself staring at that eerily vague, middle-aged face, then cast his eyes down again.

  “What do my servants want of me, I wonder?” he said, staring brightly at them.

  There was a pause as Hui Neng and De Rivarol looked at each other, then at Bonneville.

  “It would be desirable, Most Venerable,” said Hui Neng, “if we kept our conversation among Perennials.”

  Aaron turned his head minutely to Bonneville. “This one.” Bonneville could feel the man’s eyes on him, taking in every detail, peering effortlessly through the layers of cloth and flesh to settle on his pitiful soul. “Send him out, then.”

  “Thank you, Most Venerable,” muttered Bonneville, rising to his feet before either of the others could scold him. He walked stiffly away towards the far doors. With every step he felt the weight of Aaron’s gaze on his back. At the huge doors he stopped and looked round once. Hui Neng was speaking, but the Most Venerable’s head was still turned towards the doors. Bonneville slipped between them, catching his sleeve on the massive latch and struggling to release it. Finally he made it through, closing them as softly as he could behind him.

  He moved to the wall and pressed his back against it, closing his eyes while his old heart fluttered.

  “Flesh and blood,” he said to himself. “Just flesh and blood.” He opened his eyes and looked to a high window, the wind rattling the rusted frame. He would go soon, this day or the next. It would be done.

  Plateau

  From his wild camp, Lycaste had a view of the valley floor, wide and flowered and flat, stippled for a few miles with elegantly spaced poplars winding into the shadows of the hills.

  He stood and surveyed the spectacle, his route no longer dictated, his freedom absolute. He could climb the nearest summit, which would take him across the valley’s high crest, or march for mile after mile through the shadowed interior, where the hint of a long blue lake slithered among thickening trees. Height would be better, he reasoned, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair, if only to get one’s bearings more often. If there were any disadvantages he couldn’t see them, and that was good enough for him. There was no danger of running short of food and firewood looked plentiful in both directions, eliminating the need to wade through the sunken forests in the valley floor where it would be easier to get lost.

  Lycaste waited a little longer, finishing his morning routines and covering them with dirt. It was likely, possibly inevitable, that the lands ahead would be more dangerous than the Tenth. The Menyanthes had been the last barrier between his little world and the unknown stuff of his maps. He knew that Pentas had lived to the east, occasionally telling him things about the greater continent that had made him glad to spend his days in a remote and sheltered cove. Gardens had walls to keep things and people out, she’d said, doors had locks. That didn’t sound like somewhere he wanted to go.

  He backtracked slightly to rip a branch from a silver tree, stripping twigs from its length until he was satisfied that it tapered to a decent tip.

  Lycaste regained some small confidence as he strode north through waist-high orange flowers; anyone pursuing him would have more to fear than he—he was a killer now, armed and ready for trouble. They’d best watch out.

  After each day’s hike he slept deeply, curling up like an exhausted animal, sometimes not even bothering to light a fire. On the third day out of the forest it occurred to him, thoughtfully rubbing the engraved patterns of the lock on Callistemon’s case, that it might have been a mistake to bring the thing with him. Whoever came to collect the body would naturally enquire after the man’s luggage. He considered abandoning it, throwing it as far as he could into the trees where it might lie for eternity and never be found. But he’d brought it this far, it was his now. The thought was enough to quicken his march, and by the sixth day Lycaste felt a stab of delight every time he climbed to look back at his progress. Behind him the Menyanthes had dwindled to nothing, rolling on a long line of hills nearly to the edges of the horizon, where it broke up into green and gold diagonal stripes. He knew the sea was just beyond, that if it weren’t for those hills he might be able to actually see the tiny bite-mark in the coast that was once his own. He was glad the hills were there; leaving home would have been that much harder if it was always visible whenever he turned around.

  The floor of the valley proved wilder than it had looked from afar, and along its side ran a series of eroded clefts wide enough to have once held a path, which he climbed instead. Ancient trees with roots bulging in the rock above bent tiredly over it, draping fronds of twinkling metal. Lycaste occasionally found flat chunks of rock on the path, different in its grain from growthstone but quite obviously manufactured. The route had the look of somewhere not travelled in hundreds of years or more.

  For half a day he’d watched a sinuous worm of smoke rising from some trees in the valley floor, and drawing level with it, Lycaste spotted a tall chimney, though whatever house it was attached to was concealed in the jungle below. He scanned the forest, keeping his silhouette tight against the edges of the rock face, but saw nobody. At night there was no light, and by the next day the smoke was far behind him.

  The path eventually chose Lycaste’s destination for him, appearing to tire of his indecision and rising smoothly to the summit of the hill, where it wore away to nothing and he found himself wading through wild flowers all over again. He looked back to the meadows he’d crossed, understanding that he was about to reach a blind spot hidden from view by the topography of the land, knowing that if he kept going forward he would lose sight of everything he’d known.

  Pentas, so often banished from his mind through simple exhaustion, was the last thing he thought of before he turned from the view. She’d seen more of his real self than any other, knew him better than even Impatiens did. Lycaste wondered with genuine irresolution whether she missed him or hated him, what she might be doing at each moment when his mind turned to her. In the co
ol mornings, while his back still ached from the hard ground, he allowed himself to speculate on when her relationship with Callistemon began, spooling through the memories to find anything amiss. But she had either been too crafty or he hadn’t noticed; for all that time he’d assumed Eranthis was Callistemon’s target, the pretence had been so well maintained. Would she have told him eventually? He didn’t expect so. He’d have been forced to discover it the hard way, which of course he had. Lycaste’s disloyal heart rejoiced again with a circumspect delight at what he’d achieved, having destroyed the very thing she’d betrayed him for.

  The ground fell away to either side of the widening meadows and stumpy, wind-tortured olive trees. It was the view to the north, directly in his path, that troubled him. He lingered at his new vantage point for half the day as he had with the rising smoke, the Quarters rolling by as he watched the sun arc overhead, contemplating the land before him. At last he fumbled in his pack for the telescope.

  The meadows descended and were cut off by a stone wall that traced along the land and curved away. There was no gate that he could see, although from this distance it was impossible to be certain. His telescope was too powerful, of no use to him unless he planned to study the grain in the wall’s blocks. He brought it out nonetheless and squinted into the eyepiece, uselessly casting his magnified gaze around. Running into the hot expanse beyond the wall grew acres of some regimented purple shrub, blocks of violet only visible once you’d reached the top of the valley. Further north he thought he could see a structure, but it grew too hot to be sure as everything dissolved in the thrumming heat. Lycaste ate and drank, surveying the scene in the distance with narrowed eyes, waiting for some sign of people in the obviously artificial landscape. When none appeared and his meal was finished, he set out towards the wall, loosening his stick. Coming upon the head-high barricade, Lycaste saw that its large, pale blocks were made of a heavier-duty kind of rough, thickened growthstone. Springing as high as he could afforded him brief glimpses of the crammed purple rows of plants. He landed back in the dusty borders of the meadow and looked in both directions: he’d seen no obvious way around that was within another half-day’s walk.