The Promise of the Child (6 page)

“He
can't
. Not until his claim has been tested.”

“All right.” Hytner leaned forward again, very close. “And what if he speaks the truth, if he is the Eldest? What are we to do then?”

Sotiris stood from his chair. “Then all follows the natural order, and we must be thankful.”

Hytner remained seated but turned to watch the man approach. It was Stone, dressed in the apparel of the Devout, the sect that harboured the man now seeking the Amaranthine crown. His sleeves were rolled down despite the mildness of the morning, their heliotrope studs twinkling as he waved away some of the bees congregating in his path.

“Must be hot in that,” said Sotiris quietly.

“What have you come here for?” growled Hytner as the Amaranthine approached. “I'm afraid illiterates aren't welcome at our book group.”

Stone sneered. “Quiet. My message is for Sotiris, and Sotiris alone. Leave.”

“Leave? You see, Zacharia, this is why nobody likes—”

“Leave.” Stone withdrew his hand from his pocket, holding it poised against his thigh.

Hytner glanced at Sotiris coldly and rose from his chair. “I've no desire to spend any more time in such hopeless company.” Shaking his head, he walked away through the buttercups. “We are ruined, all of us. You'll see, Sotiris.”

Stone watched him go with cold eyes, his fist clenched. Like all Immortals, he looked perpetually young, frozen at the moment when his cells took their last breath of mortality. The look suited some, but not Stone; his body had changed at twenty-two, his face remaining forever unfinished.

Sotiris took his hand without fear. “What is it?”

Stone's face relaxed. “It isn't good news. It's your sister.”

He tensed, moving to the table. “What about her?”

“You'll have to come with me.” Stone took hold of his arm carefully,

Sotiris looked for Hytner, retreating across the meadow.

“Come,” the man repeated.

Sea Hall

“Sotiris Gianakos.”

He stooped to a bow as he was led before the Perennials, his gowns whispering as they dragged behind him on the gleaming floors. Some were decades younger than he, children Sotiris might have chastised for being a nuisance at dinner. Here, in the golden Sea Hall of Gliese, they were his equals. Sotiris's eyes traversed the vaulted cloisters of pocked gold as he took his seat, past pillars studded with globes of black opal to the map of the Firmament beaten in glittering relief across the vast dome above them. His skin still tingled with the shock of Bilocation—its atoms having bridged the gulf of a light-year in a matter of seconds—and he rubbed his hands together like a traveller come in from the cold as he returned his attention to the seated figures.

Stone had taken Sotiris as far as he could, too immature by half a millenium to be present alongside him now. On their way in, crossing the polished floors of beaten silver cobbled with chunks of apple-green jadeite, they had passed a weeping Melius, tall and awkward, his coloured skin blistered from dozens of lashes.

“Perennial Parliament,” Sotiris said, his Unified—the language of the Amaranthine for more than ten thousand years—crisp and formal. “I have received news of events.”

The cries of the distant Melius grew too thin and distant to be heard as twelve pairs of ancient eyes looked at him. Finally an Immortal, clothed in a shimmering blue hooded gown, stood from his chair.

“Sotiris, your sister is dead. The Terziyan Utopia protects her Immortal remains and awaits your presence.” The Amaranthine hesitated. “I am sorry to have to bring you this news.” He sat, collecting his cane from its perch at the side of the golden chair and studying its tip.

Sotiris waited for anyone else to speak in the Sighing Silence. The halls, open to the cold grey sea, reverberated like a conch when the storms swept across the Vaulted Lands and over the inlet upon which they perched.

He supposed he had known the moment Stone came for him that something had happened to her. The Insane lived only as long as fortune favoured them. To dwindle to madness and travel to a Utopia was to realise that death would follow, sooner or later.

“I would know, Perennial Parliament, the manner of Iro's fate.”

The Perennial who had spoken—one Christophe De Rivarol—shuffled in his seat. He looked among his contemporaries, none of whom appeared to wish to speak. “Word was carried from the Old World by an Amaranthine pilgrim who had been visiting the aristocracy of Vilnius Second. I have it on good authority that she drowned. You must know that it was not unpleasant.”

Not unpleasant?
he wondered. Sotiris could think of few more unpleasant ways to die.

“Thank you, Christophe.” He regarded the assemblage of Perennials. “I know that you all cared for her as I did, and that she was beloved in the Utopia. It is no great tragedy that she died in a place she called home and after many, many years of life.”

A murmur of approval percolated from the seated Amaranthine.

“Will you take sluice, Sotiris?” asked De Rivarol with something like relief, directing the attention of a pantaloon-clothed Melius to the gleaming jug at his side. The Melius moved silently to take the jug and approached Sotiris. He accepted, watching the creature pour in a flamboyant yet precisely controlled manner, and took a swig of the water. It was speckled with a silt of tiny rubies cut into the shapes of mythical creatures.

“The Parliament assumes you will apply for leave to visit the Old World,” said another Amaranthine, sliding a huge bound stack of gilded papers across the table beside him.

Sotiris looked at the man, then at the stack. “I should imagine so.”

The Amaranthine nodded briskly at the Melius, who lifted the papers and presented them to Sotiris. The giant's massive, too-many-fingered hand then flourished a long plumed pen, cut from the black feather of a Gliese magpie. Sotiris studied the copperplate script for a moment, leafing through the declarations of intent.

“The Devout are aware of your loss, Sotiris. They will gladly accommodate you during your stay if you desire it.”

He glanced back at the Amaranthine. Trang Hui Neng, fully twelve thousand, five hundred and twenty-eight years old, was third in line to the Immortal Throne by the old claims. Sotiris had never liked the man, though they had managed to remain icily cordial for many hundreds of years. It was no great secret that Hui Neng supported the Devout and their Pretender, this fabled Aaron the Long-Life, wishing to see him enthroned as the new Firmamental Emperor before the year was out. Sotiris failed to see how such a position might hasten Hui Neng's own ascent to the throne, or benefit any of the influential Perennials who shared his views. The current Emperor's mind had faded some time ago, much like that of Sotiris's own dear sister. It would surely not be long before he was taken to the Old World to live out his final days, and the ritual of succession could begin anew.

“I shall bear that in mind,” Sotiris said, touching the nib of the pen to the paper.

“Very well,” Hui Neng said, watching Sotiris sign the declarations. “It may be prudent not to tarry in the Utopias. The pilgrims there say that the conflict brewing on the Old World is already spreading to the Upper Provinces.”

He ignored the comment for a moment, perhaps designed to stir up some detail of his plans during his time on the Old World. Hytner had been right; even with news of Iro's death they were playing him to see which way he would fall.

“You wish me to visit the Devout,” he said vacantly, “perhaps to see my old friend Maneker—is that it?”

Hui Neng and De Rivarol smiled at each other. “Only once your mourning is complete, of course,” De Rivarol said. The sea winds wailed for a moment somewhere within the acres of golden cloisters beneath the dome, and Sotiris smelled the tang of salt in the air.

“You have not heard from him, I suppose?” Hui Neng asked, motioning for the papers. The huge Melius muttered under his breath and strode forward again to collect them and the pen from Sotiris's hand.

“Maneker?” He shook his head. “Have you?”

“We have not,” Hui Neng said coldly. “There are Amaranthine who would see him captured, returned to the Firmament and perhaps humiliated for questioning the order of succession.” He spread his hands, indicating the quiet, seated figures. “We know you do not share their views, my dear Sotiris. We know you understand the importance of hearing this Immortal's claim before judgement is made.”

He looked levelly at Hui Neng. “I adhere to the wishes of the Most Venerable Firmamental Emperor, and those of the Satrapy Parliaments.”

Hui Neng's eyes met his, then dropped to his hands. “You have been given the eastern sea chamber, should you wish to rest before your onward journey. We would like to extend once more our immeasurable condolences.”

“Thank you,” Sotiris said, looking among the assembled Perennials, one of whom was a radiantly beautiful female Amaranthine whose name he could barely remember. He stood, nodding to her and placing a hand on the back of the ornamental chair. “What will become of the Melius I passed at the doors?”

De Rivarol raised his eyebrows. “Thieves are thrown into the Orifice Sea. It is the law.”

Sotiris considered the back of the chair, nodding. “I see. Well, I should take my leave.” He glanced with a weak smile at the Parliament. “It has been a long day.”

Sotiris made his way alone through the long golden halls, pausing at a junction as he tried to remember the way. A Melius servant had been assigned to help him but he had sent it back, preferring to be alone. He stopped at a slanting patch of grey late-afternoon light, leaning to look through the circular open window to the shore below. Waves heaved and tore at the brown rocks beneath, hurling surf high into the wind. Sotiris gazed at the scene for some time, listening to the waves' booming sigh as he took in the haze of Vaulted Land arcing above the furious sea.

At length, he turned from the window, continuing in the dim golden light to the entrance of his chamber, where clean white linens had been stacked on a gilded footstool in anticipation that he would wish to bathe.

Sotiris pushed open the door and went to sit on the vast four-poster bed that dominated the chamber like a golden sarcophagus, dumping the linen on the blankets. As the door swung shut, his breath caught slightly. He placed a hand to his eyes, fingers tightening at his brow as he held his breath. Finally—when he was sure the sound wouldn't carry in the empty halls—he allowed it free in a trembling sigh, pressing his hands against his face as he wept.

Witness

Hytner glanced back. Two empty chairs sat at a table stacked with Sotiris's books and two cups of pure water. He followed Stone's footmarks in the dew to the edges of the meadow where it joined the river. Their reading sessions were at an end, apparently; Sotiris could come back and get his own books.

“
Fine.
” Hytner sighed, folding his arms and contemplating his next move. And to think he'd actually expected Sotiris to come to his aid. To leave without even saying goodbye—well, he'd finally given an answer, even in such abrupt form. Stone would doubtless be taking Sotiris to Maneker now, to see the great treasure of which the Perennial had been awarded stewardship. Hytner was honest enough with himself to admit that he envied Sotiris his connections, that if it weren't for his own principles of honour and tradition he would be right there in the front row, queuing for a chance to see this impossibly ancient Amaranthine and be rewarded in turn for his new loyalty. He suspected a few of the opposing Satrapies in the Firmament—among them the Virginis Parliament near where he stood—secretly felt the same, cheated out of the prize, bitter. But he was also deeply frightened. Maneker had drawn a clear line by accepting the Sixth Solar Satrapy of Gliese for himself and his Pretender, and to find oneself on the wrong side was to incur a penalty. Open opposition was evaporating already, disappearing almost as quickly as Sotiris had.

He looked up, some movement in the sky catching his attention. There was nothing but the Organ Sun, roaring silently far above.

And then it went out.

He gripped his elbows in total blackness, the six-thousand-mile-wide cavern around him an empty space uncorroborated by any of his senses. Where the sun had been, a large green afterimage now floated in the dark, darting with his eyes. Inner Virginis, the Firmament even, had been reduced to the nothingness between his hand and face. Then, just as a mild panic was convincing Hytner he should head for the surface, the sun reignited, a weak fire spreading through its crystal depths. He glanced around him at the now evening meadow, apparently unchanged, and then back at the artificial star. He could see its outline, the strange material from which it was made. As he watched, a guttering sliver of molten light tumbled from the structure, swirling as it met the opposing gravity before falling like rain upon one part of the world. Then the sun itself moved, slipping away from its buttress supports as they crumbled and dropping towards the land, every shadow lengthening suddenly.

Hytner saw, but never heard, the sun detonate.

Elcholtzia

Lycaste awoke blinking to bright rays of sun shining in through the front arch. A wasp was droning angrily somewhere high under the domed ceiling, trapped and bumping into the chalky walls.

He sat up and rubbed at his face, realising he'd fallen asleep in his upholstered chair in the dining room again. From outside, beyond the hum of the flowers, he could hear distant screams and laughter. People on his beach, low adult voices mingling with Briza's clearer yelps.

Lycaste walked out into the vibrant garden, sumptuous heat hitting him as he left the cool tower. A small part of him was angry that they still used his beach without his permission. Impatiens's house across the bay overlooked a cove similar to his own, and there was no apparent reason why they couldn't play there instead. At least people were still asking permission before they picked fruit from his trees, though he wondered how long it would be before even that little pleasantry was discarded.