by Brett
Davidson
Part 2
There were dragons between
the stars. Logic, had it been held,
would had deduced their existence. Consider: the universe was old
and surely some of its many stars harboured life. Why then had
that life not spread throughout the entire galaxy? It had, but it
was necessarily of a kind that could live in space itself. The
philosophers who had asked the first question never considered what it
was to travel through space; they had thought that travel was only a
matter of arriving at destinations, but the sheer scale of space and
the demands it made on life were too great to allow any sort to prosper
except that which could accommodate itself to the dark and the cold and
the long, long spans of time that passed between the stars. Thus
were shaped the dragons of space. As any fish climbing out of the
sea must make itself watertight, these masters of the void were quiet
and dark.
This was not to say that
they forgot warmth and light. On the
contrary: they hungered for it, ravenously.
The first explorers to fall
to the dragons must have wondered what they
had awoken, but when more and more found themselves under attack, it
became all too obvious that there was a very old established order
among the stars. There was no doubt a very complex web of
relations and fealties between the species of dragons, but they had
this characteristic as their collective purpose: the bright, fast life
borne of solid worlds was either their enemy or their prey.
How might that life appear
to a dragon? They saw the hard,
glaring points of the stars, stars that shouted, the force of their
voices blasting great inhospitable cavities in the sky filled with
nothing but chaos and noise and heat. From the necklaces of
planets hung about these monsters, there would from time to time came
something else: life. Planet-born life was even worse than a
star, because when a star system was ripe, suddenly great clouds of it
would burst forth like a premature nova. The electromagnetic
mouths of their motive furnaces tore through them, disrupting the
delicate cold patterns that they had made of themselves through the
silent aeons of their existence. It was intolerable… and so they
attacked, and they ate and found for all the sharp bitterness of their
appearance, the dense patterns of thought and soul contained within
these spores were very sweet indeed.
And so the dark things were
not merely dragons, they were Eaters.
The Sideromancer of Lachesis
expected to have to enact the orders of
his masters on earth and he expected to raise his armaments to fend off
the Eaters of Light that besieged every ripe world. He did not
expect to wander amongst the colonies and hear the sounds of their
dying.
A dozen worlds now had
cast out beams of coherent light in specified
directions and he had followed them, reading them like long lines of
text as he approached their origins only to hear them fall silent
before he could make landfall. In every case, there were
greetings, then boasts of prosperity, then expressions of hope, then
requests for help and then, testimony… and finally, before he was even
able to see their crescents in his telescope, there was silence.
Falling to one world, he
found it marred by a vast crater and a
landscape of frozen ash. On the blasted surface, he was chased by
eddies of shadow that took paths too orderly for them to be mere
whirlwinds. He discovered that if he activated the intake field
of his Castle’s engine, they could be kept at bay for a while.
Apparently they were another species of dragon adapted to planetary
surfaces.
There was another colony
that, as far as he could ascertain, was
without record of war and yet had deliberately immolated itself barely
a year before a great missile struck its surface. If they had
such power at their disposal, why had they not simply diverted the
bolide?
Something was also wrong
with the parent star. It was dim, red,
and prone to flares. His maps told him that it should have been
bright and stable.
There was another colony,
likewise scared and marked by a colossal
impact. Its sun was likewise diseased. The
coincidence was too suggestive.
There was a world where the
citizens had somehow vitrified themselves
to stand as perfectly detailed monuments amongst hordes of ravening
shadows. They were strange and beautiful creatures, older and
more graceful than humanity, but they were dead.
There was another world
where the sun was entirely extinguished and the
native race had remade themselves as patterns of conductivity in the
clays and metallic oxides of their world’s crust. When he found
them after a long search, he named them “Ferromagnetics”, but even
their tremendous ingenuity had failed them and they too had succumbed
to a dark sapping force.
In many cases, whole
populations had destroyed themselves rather than
to see their homes despoiled. If it were pride, it would be
simple and admirable, but the repeated tendency marked a terror greater
than pride.
He began to make lists and
deduce patterns. This blight, he
realised, was no mere ambient hazard; the Eaters of Light had the
ambition and prevalence to engulf every human world, including the
earth itself. On one hand, humanity possessed the weapons that
could destroy them, but on the other they had numbers, time and, it
seemed, some intrinsic bias in the nature of space itself to which they
were naturally adapted whereas humanity was not. The balance was
in their favour, but knowledge might tilt it towards humanity’s side.
Maybe the Eaters had succeeded in destroying every world they came
across, but some surely must have delayed them for a time, and if he
could find the means of even a few horai of successful defence on one
world, a few more on another… then hora by hora they might accumulate
into the means of perpetual survival. Knowledge then was to
be his harvest, and he was to return it to earth where it might be
forged into the techniques of total war.
War, he thought, repeating
the word over and over again. The
truth was that he foresaw a war, the greatest war that would ever be
fought. It would be a war for the cosmos itself between the
creatures of light and darkness. This great Castle, equipped with
artificial eyes to count the shells on a beach from high orbit and
armed with force to shatter continents, was inadequate to the
task. It was too small, too unsubtle. Upon his return he
would urge the construction of a true warrior fleet. Every human,
every living being would be enlisted to the battle because it would be
their very way of life to fight the Eaters.
He gathered records up
wherever he could and built a great library,
learning from the compression techniques of the terminal cultures to
add more and more knowledge to the Castle’s eidognostic mills.
One world yielded up an almost complete library, a grand treasury of
art and literature. Its authors were not human, but there was an
essential kinship in adversity and he learned to admire them. The
style was fascinating, almost incomprehensible in its evolution and
subtlety, but in the years that passed on his journey to the next mark
on his charts, he had the time and the urge to decipher its
contents. Eventually he was able to construct a sort of history
through the forms of style and he was astounded. These beings
were colonialists like humanity and it seemed that for a while their
empire across the stars was more successful than that of his own
race. Granted, their beginnings were rough and fragile, but as
they grew…
To begin with, the oldest
articles were simple and spare, indicating a
culture still developing its industrial base and perfecting the art of
efficiency before it gained confidence and entered a more abstract
phase that was refined, direct and clear. This was predictable
and reassuring. The third stage showed a brief flowering of
decadence, a movement that could mask either ennui or dread. That
came too soon to be the result of ennui, however… It was as if,
facing a profound shock, the culture had fallen into utter despair.
The next stylistic mode was
martial and strict; a remedy of sorts, but
then that too came to its end.
The ultimate mode made a
halting start from beginnings even more
limited than the original foundation but then flowered to greatness and
sophistication. That sophistication was sinister, however,
because it indicated the maximum application of skill to the minimum of
resources. He was forced to apply the most powerful algorithms of
decompression to examples of this period to derive any meaning and
sense of structure, but he was rewarded with glories.
The late language was
fantastically elaborate as it was dissected,
unfolded and mapped onto the standard structure-maps of his eidognostic
lectors. In its pure form, the longest dialogues in this ‘Set
Speech’, as it was called by its users, might have seemed like short
exchanges of noise, utterly without redundancy and yet, when viewed as
static diagrams the scripts were elaborately folded back on themselves,
packed with meaning and varnished with layers of allusion.
But even these marvels were
still the scripts of the dead. They
told terrible tales: The Eaters fed not on such dense, indigestible
stuff as matter, but the animating fluid of life itself. Their
appetites were gluttonous, but their tastes - if such a term could be
applied - were refined. They had a particular preference for
beings that had a rich and complex consciousness, souls that could be
encysted and digested over ages as they release their myriad flavours
of experience. This, surely, was a form of destruction more
terrible and permanent than any mere death.
The implications were
clear. The empires of humanity and its
predecessors were great trees that had grown among the stars, their
cultures were their foliage and souls their fruit - and the Eaters were
harvesting them.
Once this had been
discovered, whole worlds chose to die in the hope of
later incarnation rather than suffer such a fate. Individuals
might live again an age hence if at all, and have only the barest hope
of finding their beloved ones again unless some force brought them
together across the spans of time. They said that there was such
a gathering force. The Sideromancer could find no proof of it.
He sighed over his poisonous
treasures. The sky that he measured
with his sextant and telescopes was no longer the glittering, fertile
vault that was depicted on his maps. It was now a vast
charnel-house. Human beings and their cousins leapt up and were
consumed and then their own homeworlds were destroyed. This had
been the eternal rule, and the cause of the great silence that had
mystified the ancient philosophers.
There were only meagre
exceptions to the rule. Some of the
dragons had made what could only be described as orchards. He
approached as closely as he dared to one such world, and only
briefly. Through scavenged techniques, he derived from his
pattern-recognition algorithms a vision of a colony world where the
entire surface was made over into a gigantic game board and milliards
of people enacted a continual battle of sublime recursive complexity
and absolute sterility. An image passed by an expendable spy
device showed him all that he needed to know. It was the picture
of a face, and the natural human intelligence behind it had been turned
into nothing more than an intricate reflex system. The people
here were vessels filled with the pure substance of experience and not
one instant of individual thought so that they were like sweet berries
to be plucked by the Eaters that hovered in shoals above them.
Could there have been any
other means for people to survive? The
Ferromagnetics had changed themselves and died nonetheless, but others
might have succeeded, he reasoned. There was one subjugated
colony and much-altered but recognisably human people were still alive
there. He hoped that perhaps a rescue and rehabilitation for
these remnants might be possible, but when he tried to classify the
Eaters endemic there, he found that they bore too close a similarity to
the patterns of human souls. Had they adapted to become like
humans - or had certain humans become like Eaters and now preyed upon
their former siblings? He fled the answer.
In the years that passed
between his stops, he brooded on his
discoveries. There were thousands of other flying castles similar
to his own and their masters must have been drawing similar
conclusions. If they had not, he dared not broadcast a warning
lest he alert the Eaters to the extent of human domain.
Salvage was his duty, he
reminded himself. Whatever shame he felt
as a paladin who fled threats, it was his supreme duty to arm the earth
with knowledge. Concern for anything less when the stakes were so
absolute would be treason.
There came times when he was
forced to fight for survival in the most
direct way. Every year or less, alarums would sound, waking him
from his hypothermic sarcophagus to confront a black swarm of Eaters.
And the personal combat that
this entailed brought with it a very
personal sorrow. The Sideromancer was forbidden to leave the helm
of his Castle in time of combat and so the soldiers that sallied out to
fight were selected from the ranks of his sleeping companions.
Therefore, as soon as he confirmed his position in the observatory, he
was required to set his mills in motion to select a champion and to
send them out in an agile Lighter-capsule charged with the energies
known to be deadly to the Eaters. This he did with the serial
release of five seals. The first confirmed his attention, the
second the ability of the Castle to deploy the capsule. This
time, as it always did, his finger hesitated over the third. The
selection was not by his will, but by mechanical lottery and it was the
sliver of chance that he dreaded even more than his destruction.
There was one person in the
hibernaculum, their name concealed by a
number, whom he wished he would never let out, never select to risk her
life for his own, but the lottery of selection was contrived to ensure
that there was always a chance that this might be the case. He
trembled then in randomising his selection, wishing that it were he
whose life lay under another’s thumb. All had taken their oaths
of fealty and trust, even he.
He summoned a view of the
hibernaculum and stared at the ranks of
sarcophagi, their black shells uniformly velvet with frost. There
was no way to tell them apart without breaking a seal he was sworn
never to break. Whatever mix of fear, dread and love might drive
him, he could not break his word without breaking his soul. He
pressed the stud that released the third seal.
Somewhere the wheels of a
simple calculator mill spun and came to their
conclusion.
The fourth seal warmed the
champion to a state near
consciousness. Subtle chemical and electrical alerts were relayed
through the blood and nerves of the sleeper. Dials flickered, a
light changed to the alert colour of jale, barely visible on the
edge of violet. The sleeper was now a dream-warrior, an
oneiromachist.
No-one fully awake could
fight; their consciousness would shine too
bright and hot, the could not slip by the Eaters unnoticed and make
their crucial feints. Many lives had been wasted learning this.
But then, no dreamer could
fight alone, and so the Sideromancer leaned
over his charts and moved his pieces and the dreamers slipped and
danced about the black-on-black beings and thrust daggers into their
insubstantial flesh almost like whimsies under his provocation.
He allowed himself some
guilt, believing it to be a bracing
penance. Some Lighters had died, never woken from their
nightmares or had been swallowed up by the Eaters to know unknowable
tortures as their souls were digested. Had his fingers danced as
well as the Lighters, then he thought that they might have been saved.
Was it her now? Was it
her a dozen battles before? Would it
never be her? Was there the infinitely small but real chance that
it was her every time?
He would never know.
He must not. He only hopes that her
dreams were pleasant, and if they were battles with real monsters, then
she remembers them as things barely perceived at the very rim of
recollection or forgotten altogether. If only his fears were so
easily mislaid too…
The Sideromancer set his jaw
firmly. There was no compromise,
only stark circumstance. His ancestors had declared sovereignty
over a field where in fact they were pest and prey.
He released the fifth
seal. There was a hiss, a release of vapour
and the sarcophagus slid from its port and proceeded along a rail to
the Lighter-capsule charging bay. The trifling matter of his life
was now in the hands of the dreamer, the Lighter.
Out now in open space, the
Lighter stirred. In her dreams, she
felt acid breath upon her neck. The Eaters swarming about the
Castle were inching closer and one had leant into the stream feeding
the Castle’s engine. It risked being caught and consumed by the
vast magnetic funnel, but it smelled the rich hoard of life nested
within the Castle, and in its way, it panted, it slavered. It
leaned a little closer… and the Lighter twitched. Reflexively,
the Sideromancer’s hand clenched.
About the command chamber,
lights turned to amber. Something
hummed and ice cracked. The Sideromancer withdrew. His
place now was in the chart room, to make the grid that would be the
Lighter’s game board. Always, reciting the lines of his
confession and justification reminded himself of the dangers risked by
the Lighter as he manipulated his charts and tables. Ah, a dream
of dark mists and thin winds, and suddenly, a hot dense torrent and
consuming death, and far away, the hoped-for bright harbour of a new
sun. So gentle, so sly, so lethal. This was the sublime
terror and promise of space, something that had never been understood
as anything other than a mathematical abstraction in the warm enclosure
of earth.
The battle began. Like
all battles of this kind, it was a
gladiatorial duel fought in a manner that was half the advanced
geometry of lines intersecting in hyperbolic topology and half the
attempt of minds trying to infect each other through persuasion so
earnest that it was lethal. Machines understood and translated
the topology underlying the Sideromancer’s strategies, but the rest
relied on the intuition of the Lighter. It was a delicate balance
indeed: if she understood too well, then her soul would be unveiled to
the dragons and be sorbed by them, but if she understood too little,
then she would not even be able to discern the shadows from black space
and one of them would take her in one bite - or whatever it was that
they did when they ate.
Wrapped in sleep, the
Lighter imagined that she dreamed and thus was
able to fly out among these Eaters, and it was the logic of dreams that
made the necessary cognitive links for action. She accepted, she
reacted, but the dream told her of a state far away from this
arena. The Sideromancer had no idea what dreamworld the Lighter
inhabited; perhaps she was on a green field chasing butterflies or the
bridge of a circling city staring into the eternal sunset.
Perhaps she even dreamed that they were in interstellar space fighting
shadows and smiled because she knew that this was only a dream.
In any case, the
Sideromancer made his chart like a spider web twisted
into a complicated helix and the spark of the Lighter’s capsule flew
about it. Here and there, rosy glows flickered as she transfixed
a dragon in a lance of coherent light and killed it. Once, there
was a flash as a dragon was caught in the electromagnetic vortex of the
Castle’s engine intake. In an instant it was torn apart and
digested by the false sun at its centre. The Castle shuddered,
the sun flickered and almost died, but it returned to stability and
cast the subatomic remnants of the dragon backward at an appreciable
fraction of the velocity of light. In long waves, he heard the
thing’s inhuman screams.
Suddenly, the attackers were
dispersed. The Castle and its cargo
of sleepers were safe for now.
“Victory,” the Sideromancer
whispered to himself, knowing that it was
only one of a thousand necessary battles, but allowed himself at least
this sliver of satisfaction, all the sweeter for being, in an instant,
timeless. He looked up from his chart and into the eyes of a
stranger and gasped.
The man was like no other
man he had ever seen; tall, almost a giant,
his skin was porcelain-pale and his eyes as black as tears in the
sky. Dim green light seemed to be reflected in their depths; as
if he were a cat, as if he beheld other landscapes lit by a strange sun.
“Lines are converging,” said
the stranger.
***********************************************
Again the cot, again the aches and the shame and the
hopeless, sick
despair at the limits of her body and her world and the rotting
sky. She cried out until her throat was raw. Fury was such
a perfect aid to forgetting, but even that subsided. She grabbed
a book at random and scanned the catalogue of stellar exploration and
tried to immerse herself in it, but even that was fruitless. Of
course they were all there - the Ferromagnetics and the others.
And all of the entries were written in the past tense, and this was the
present. All of the wonderful beings were described as if they
were extinct.
She threw the book down and glared at the wall, but she
was too old for
sulks and felt absurd. Tears were perhaps permissible at any age,
but she was too angry to cry. A boy would punch the wall perhaps,
or pick a fight, but she, a girl and an invisible girl at that, had no
options. Picking up the entekora, she fidgeted with it, wishing
that she could turn herself inside out too, hiding her face behind
another imago. She mumbled the names of a few of its faces -
Meyr, Lyreia, Mira…
That man! She remembered then. He was
familiar. Like
the Ferromagnetics, the So-la-si, he was recorded and in his case, it
was in her own living memory…
Someone was standing by her. She knew already who
it was: Medeis.
He was watching silently, his lips pursed. She
knew what he would
say, so there was no need for him to say it: You should not have been…
If that man had not… You could have… It was a miracle that…
All true. He feared for her, and she hurt
him. Her
rebellions had been exquisitely designed to do just that when she was
younger, but for such a vulnerable seeming man, he showed an
astonishing capacity to wear out her anger, as he did now. “I’m
sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I meant to… not entirely…”
“That was progress at least. I could only applaud
this latest
increase in your incompetence and lack of commitment.”
“Well there had to be something about me that was
normal,” she said,
trying to carry the tone.
“Ah, almost a joke - in a dekaphaos I predict the
manifestation of
genuine humour!”
“Aaahh…” she relaxed back against the bedding. “So
I am lucky to
be well and lucid for another few horai…”
Medeis, as he always did, took notes and assembled
thereby a narrative
of her vision. He was enough of an historian to know that the
story she related, though unverifiable in its details, broadly
conformed to the history of earth’s empire of stars and the castles
that maintained it. It was, for all its wonder and horror, of no
real use to the historians though - how could they ever confirm any of
it?
In a more practical mode however, there were times when
a direct view
of the past was useful if, for example, a previously unseen treasure
could be traced. Attribution would have a light weight compared
with a handful of gold or some example of antique technology regained…
but her visions were painful and ungovernable. Their insights
were incidental to the diagnosis and amelioration of her epilepsy,
which was itself determined to be ‘mere’ side effect of her
visions. He could not in any case be so mercenary when he saw how
much she suffered.
She sometimes admitted to herself when the nausea was an
abstract
memory, when the battles of the Sideromancer were remote, that the
opening of her horizons was a good thing. The past was a whole
world of broader plains than any that existed on earth. The
vistas of time were a gift… but then the she smelled roses, and felt
the crinkling of the air and the here-it-comes happened and she felt
again the helplessness and the terror and the hate.
***********************************************
Time passed and the fits came more and more often.
Sometimes she
found herself leaning against a wall, a minute or less having passed
and no new memories beyond a glimpse of corridor or a star caught in
the reticle of a telescope. Other times…
There was nothing that could be done, and no one could
live every
moment waiting for the next occurrence, so she lived as she could,
working in the Monstruwacans’ library, climbing spiderlike about the
stacks and ladders. If she had a fit and fell, spraining an
ankle, then she sorted files at a desk for a diphaos and hobbled for a
dekaphaos or two pushing a trolley. It was a busy time, the
season of the Hiatus, and she was particularly busy searching for
references for speeches, designs for costumes, recipes, a poem, an
oratorio, a template for a font… whatever it was that caught the fancy
of someone or other. She hardly minded, or even thought that what
she did was trivial. She was a reader, and like all readers,
appreciated the serendipitous finds of novel texts in the course of
fulfilling an odd request. She was often reluctant to pass the
books on and her cubby was cluttered with volumes about fish that lived
in the earth current and other marvels that she was meaning to deliver
or file eventually.
Consider: creatures that lived in a vegetable phase
through most of
their life cycle and then metamorphosed into animal-flowers that fought
and mated with counterparts from rival moss-hives or even infiltrated
those parent masses and replaced their natural offspring.
Collectors would build enclosures with several moss-hives and watch
them wage long wars with each other. She wondered if in a museum
in this or another creeping city there might be some stored seeds.
And so on.
And the aquiline face of the man who said that lines
were converging
followed her. If he was in the Castle, then when she had the
chance… and until then she could only wait here.
Though she would not admit it, the scanning of marvels
had become a
routine, and she was becoming more and more frustrated at reading only
of the past. One chrysophaos there came a file that was in no way
routine. It was a treatise on technological means of
prognostication, another serendipitous find that attracted her notice
because of its flagging as most secret. That warning was of
course completely irresistible. She waited until the very depth
of hesperophaos and tuned the print down to barely visible dimness and
began to read.
Under the emblem of a clock with a spiral dial, she
learned of the
dispute between the Heliomancers and the Monstruwacans on the efficacy
of their respective methods of prognostication.
The Heliomancers’ technique was, logically enough
considering their
wider practice, based on the observation of angles and trajectories
that were ground to exceedingly fine fractions in their calculating
mills. The fundamental flaw was that they could only derive the
predictions from what they already know. Many, seeing the product
of processed data, wish that they knew less. Among the dimming
stars, the signals of the flying castles had flickered and died for
millennia until the merest handful of sparks remained, and then they
too had been extinguished. The last to survive - barely -
was the one that was now a ruin across the landing-field. There
were obscure but hungry forces abroad in the sky, the sun was sapped by
invisible worms, the planets were slowing in their rotation and
crumbling as their essential binding energy was consumed somehow.
Somehow, something was even consuming the binding force of the universe
itself, letting the stellar nebulae recede more and more quickly from
one another. The heavens were a feast for things that flew in the
night, invisible worms jealous of warmth and life itself.
This, of course, she already knew. It gave her no
pleasure to
read it here, except to feel reassured that her spells of madness arose
from some seed of truth. She read on:
Making a chart of their census, the Heliomancers had
made some logical
deductions that point to what they thought was an inevitable end.
That date lay far in the future yet with the final stall and extinction
of the sun.
A picture showed a Heliomancer cranking a handle on the
side of a drum,
spinning the gears inside the calculating mill. Symbols flashed
past each other in the tiny readout windows, making strange momentary
juxtapositions. Various adjusted epicyclic wheels, sped and
slowed internal rings, stalling some and advancing others.
Finally the whole contraption came to a halt and the Heliomancer
adjusted a prism to let a beam of sunlight into its kaleidoscopic
volume. He peered through the central eyepiece, imposed a grammar
upon the symbols, made sentences and read: The sun is a king, Sol
Invictus. He is challenged by a child. Nodding his head, he
passes his sceptre to her hand.
He repeated the cycle and another and there was another
sequence to be
read: there is in night, a crown about a rose. It flies upward,
and then it completes the necessary symmetry of its arc and falls once
more.
That was all. Io let the picture run through its
cycle a few more
times.
It was easy to guess what he might have been thinking if
he were a real
man and not a fictive convenience for the sake of illustration.
He would be scandalised if he had been of a more ancient generation,
but as a contemporary man he would know that the sun was dying.
He would have felt a new pang of dread every time he saw the prediction
of its doom, but for the first time now he might feel hope. If
only he knew what the emblems meant. Was the child a new
sun? Another star came from far away? Was the rose and
crown a gift from out of the past, invested in its flight so that it
might deliver a bounty back to earth, or was it a failure?
A little grim, a little hopeful. The Monstruwacan
divinations
were less ambiguous and even more confusing.
There was a technique that they had devised by which the
future could
be seen as if through a spy-glass. The intrinsic flaw was that
all possible futures spreading like a fan from a single moment were
revealed, with the result that only the most immediate and only the
most probable could be seen in the blazing welter of information.
In this case, however, the fan was narrow, and becoming narrower.
There were certain possible causes for this, the author
of the report
reasoned. The first was that somehow, some element of the future
had appeared in the present time, leading to a bias toward those
history-lines that lead to a specific endpoint. A corollary of
that was that history itself, in all its possibilities, had ended the
stage of sowing and was now entering the stage of harvest. As the
farm vehicles were drawn into the fore-ramps of the city, so the lines
of history were turning now to direct themselves toward some ultimate
nexus.
Another implication of this was that some colossal
pressure of imminent
events would allow fewer and fewer possibilities until only one destiny
remained. There was to be a moment of clarity soon, where all
would become clear, and that moment by definition was a catastrophe.
***********************************************
The next chrysophaos, Medeis took her gently by the
elbow and led her
to the library car’s vanguard balcony. “I know that you have been
reading,” he informed her quietly. “Secret books tell secrets
themselves, you know. The book alerted me and I was concerned
about the consequences of the dissemination of its contents until it
told me that it was being read by one Foundling Io. Fortunately
you keep secrets almost as well as the best of our adepts.”
“That’s because everyone thinks that I am crazed,
Medeis. There’s
no point in talking.”
“Hmph. You do often mutter to yourself, I’ve
noticed.”
“Is it true then?”
“That you mutter? Yes.”
She jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “That there
will be a
catastrophe?” she asked.
Medeis shrugged. “It will be true when it has
happened.
Currently it is likely.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Does Nobody know?”
“Even Nobody does not know.”
Io chewed on this a while. “You said that there
was a pattern,”
she ventured at last.
“Did I?”
“To my affliction. You suggested that my seizures
were increasing
in number and severity the closer we came to the ruined Castle.
Is that pattern linked with the other pattern?”
He sighed deeply and spread his hands. “It seems
that time is
engaged in a conspiracy with your visions of the past and our
intimations of the future. What the nature of that conspiracy is,
we simply do not know. For your sake as much as our own seemingly
tenuous survival, I wish that we knew, but we do not.”
“Except that the Castle might be significant.”
“What may be may not be-“
“But you’re going to investigate?”
“Yes, we are,” he admitted guardedly and raised a
warning finger.
“You are not to participate, not this time. If it is the cause of
your effects, we will not risk exacerbating them.”
“Hmph,” she grunted and folded her arms tight. It
was not a sulk;
she simply decided to keep her own counsel. And she had already
decided that she certainly would explore the Castle.
© Brett
Davidson
21 Feb 2006
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