“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.