The Boy from Ilysies

by Pearl North

  They all stood on the sidewalk, none eager to enter. But Selene went in anyway, her feet scuffing on dead leaves.

  Po and the others caught up to Selene by the time she made it to the front steps. They were made of the same gray stone as all the rest of the buildings here. They were worn by countless generations of feet before them, but caked with grime. Untouched for centuries, as Baris said. Po couldn’t help but wonder about the people whose feet had worn these grooves. Who were they? Had they been Ancients, too? Or were they their ancestors, the slaves of the Ancients?

  A cool wind swept through his hair. They all shivered.

  At the top of the steps was a portico lined with pillars along the front edge. The doors to the theater lay before them, the pointed archway reminding him of the gate of the Libyrinth back home. Home? It surprised him that he now thought of it so, but he pushed the thought aside.

  The doors were carved with songlines, finer and more intricate than any he had seen so far; and here, too, silverleaf bushes had sprouted up from the cracks in the stonework and wound themselves over the doors. Ayma’s grip on his hand tightened.

  “Maybe the doors are locked.” Jan sounded hopeful.

  Selene wrapped her fingers around one of the rusted door handles and pulled. The door swung open, grating against an accumulation of dirt and refuse. At the breaking of the seal there was a puff of air that blew into Po’s face. It smelled like dust and ancient, dried-up dead things—bitter and a little peppery. It was dark inside.

  Selene rummaged in her satchel and took out her copy of the The Book of the Night, which had been treated with palm-glow so that the pages gave off light. She took the lead. Inside, the book illuminated a great hall, the ceiling arching above them, too high for the feeble light of their glow to reach. At their feet the floor was tiled, but dust and dirt obscured the pattern of the tiles. They were in an entrance vestibule that ran the width of the building but was only about twenty feet deep. On the wall in front of them were doors, spaced at even intervals. These were wooden—those that remained, anyway. Many, it seemed, had been carried away and the archways gaped open into even deeper darkness beyond. At the end of the hall on each side was a staircase curving upward.

  Selene crossed the vestibule and stood in one of the archways. Po and Ayma followed on her heels. He heard Selene’s sharp intake of breath and a second later, he saw the cause.

  This was the theater itself. Row upon row of seats swept down before them, and at the far end, the stage stood surrounded by an ornate archway. Above them were balconies and private boxes. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, frothy concoctions of glass enshrouded in cobwebs. It was beautiful and terrifying that such splendor could flourish and then be so utterly abandoned.

  They walked down the center aisle of the theater. Once the seats had been upholstered in fine fabric—perhaps velvet or brocade—but now the fabric had rotted away, the stuffing become nesting material for birds and animals. As they walked, something skittered away in the darkness, and as they neared the stage itself, a bird squawked in indignation, nearly giving them all heart attacks. It swooped out from the proscenium, winging overhead to disappear in the balcony above. “How many Ancients came here?” asked Selene.

  “All seven of them,” said Baris.

  “That’s all there were? Seven?” said Jan.

  Baris nodded. “They fashioned the place to resemble an Old Earth theater. Thus all these seats. But the shows that took place here were nothing like the plays you’ve read about in books.”

  “What were they?”

  “They used their powers to control their slaves up on the stage, make them act out their whims.”

  “How?”

  “With their books.” He glanced at Ayma. “At least, that’s what we always thought. But if Endymion’s rose is real, such a device could be used in any number of ways, including forcing people to act against their will. Like a puppet show.”

  “Only the puppets were living people,” said Selene.

  Baris nodded. “That’s why, of all the sites of the Ancients in the citadel, this one is the most reviled.”

  It was also a good place to look for the rose, if that was what the Ancients used to control the players. The chorus fanned out and searched the seats, using their copies of The Book of the Night to illuminate every shadow. The dark theater looked like a night sky filled with green stars.

  But two hours later, every seat and balcony had been examined and nothing but birds’ nests and dead mice had been found. “Let’s try the stage,” said Selene.

  “Carefully,” said Jan. “The boards may be rotted through.”

  However, they found the stage to be solid despite its age. They searched through props and set pieces. Po and Ayma were backstage, examining a shoe the size of one of the stone huts of the plain when he heard Selene call out. He and the others gathered around her at center stage.

  “Look,” she said, kneeling on the floor and using a corner of her robe to wipe away centuries of dirt and grit.

  “What’s that?” Po asked, pointing to a number of brown stains marring the ancient finish.

  “Blood,” Baris whispered. He was pale, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  Someone tapped Po on the shoulder.

  Po turned and looked up into the face of a very old woman, her skin engraved with songlines. She cracked a grin.

  Po stood, reaching beside him to take Ayma by the arm. Standing around them in a loose ring were twenty or more men and women, dressed in brown robes, their arms and faces covered to varying degrees with scars in the undulating shapes of songlines. It was the Lit King’s mob. And they had mind lancets.

  By now the others had noticed them, too. Selene held her hands up and said, “Peace, sisters and brothers of the Word. We come from the Libyrinth with good tidings of the Redemption. We are here to seek Endymion’s rose, for the benefit of all the people of the Plain of Ayor.”

  The old woman laughed. “The Redemption you speak of is false. We are the true people of the Word. Your priest gathers followers to oppose the glorious Lit King. You are no brethren to us. Come, we will escort you to the true Redeemer of the citadel. He shall determine how you may serve the people of Ayor.”

  Po watched Selene, waiting to see what she would decide to do. She looked at the men and women surrounding them. As she nodded her head, two other things happened at once. Ayma let go of Po’s hand, and Baris threw himself at the old woman. “Lit bitch, we’re not going anywhere with you!” He grabbed for her mind lancet but she swung it around and struck him across the shoulders with it. He screamed and fell.

  Ayma ran toward the part of the circle where the Lit King’s people were most sparse. As the rest of the mob moved in, brandishing their mind lancets, Po went after her. She was headed straight for a tall, lean man, who lowered his mind lancet and braced for her attack. Po redoubled his pace and passed her up, reaching the man before her. He slammed right into him, knocking both of them to the ground. For a moment, all was arms and legs.

  Po felt the brush of the mind lancet against his arm and it sent a shock rippling through his body. He kicked the man in the stomach and dodged under the swinging lancet. The man tried to hit him with the weapon again but Po grabbed the haft and forced the glowing blue orb back into his opponent’s chest.

  The man shouted and fell back, writhing, on the floor. Po leaped to his feet. Behind him he heard shouts and screams. Ahead he saw Ayma, still running, another of the Lit King’s people right behind her. He took off after them.

  They ran backstage and down a staircase, into a dust-choked, low-ceilinged place filled with stage props and bits of scenery. He lost sight of Ayma and her pursuer, but he could hear their footsteps. He dodged around a mushroom that was taller than he was. Ahead of him stood a gigantic head with bright, distorted features and twin flames of red hair jutting out from the sides. He heard the zap of a mind lancet and Ayma’s scream. Red poured up from the base of his spine and spilled
into his head. He ducked beneath one jutting spike of hair and found Ayma pressed up against the side of a strange-looking horse with a pole through the middle. The man with the mind lancet menaced her. Po cast about for a weapon of some kind and found a length of rope, much gnawed upon, lying in a serpentine heap on the floor. Ayma saw him pick up the rope but she didn’t let on.

  “You’ll come with me,” said the man.

  Slowly Ayma nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry for running. I’ll come with you.” She arched her back, leaned her shoulders against the horse, and tilted her head down. She cocked her right hip. “But…we don’t have to go back up there this instant, do we?”

  Astonishment at what she was doing quickly gave way to determination. As the man leaned down to take Ayma in his arms, Po crept up behind him with the rope. He stepped on something that gave with a crack and the man spun around, his mind lancet firmly in hand. Po crouched, circling to the left, away from the other man’s weapon hand. His opponent lunged to the right and Po dodged.

  It was a trick. The man’s lancet struck Po hard on the elbow. Po’s entire body fizzed with pain and his vision whited out around the edges. He dropped the rope. The next thing he knew, the man grabbed him around the waist and took him to the floor. Po thrashed, but it was hard to coordinate his movements. The blow from the mind lancet had landed right on a nerve cluster and his entire body was on fire. Knees pinned his arms to the floor. Hands grasped his neck, tightened.

  Then, suddenly, Ayma came into view behind the man. Run! Po wanted to shout, but he had no air. The whiteness around his narrowing field of vision turned gray. Something scratchy thumped into his face momentarily and then he saw the man’s eyes bulge. Ayma had the rope and she was strangling him with it. The man reared up, staggering to his feet. Ayma clung to his back. He scrabbled at the rope cutting into his neck with frantic fingers. Po gasped, his vision clearing as oxygen coursed through his system.

  The man convulsed and then went still. His eyes closed and he slumped to the floor.

  Ayma let go of the rope and came to stand beside Po. For a moment both of them stared down at the body of their slain foe. “Is killing a man to you what harming a woman is for me?” Po asked her.

  Ayma shook her head. “We’re just not supposed to be able to, that’s all.”

  20

  Endymion’s Tomb

  When they went back up the stairs, the theater was empty.

  “They’ve been captured,” said Ayma.

  “We have to get them out,” said Po.

  Ayma took him by the hand. “That will be difficult. But if we find Endymion’s rose and it does all that legend claims, then we can free them very easily.”

  It made sense. And they were so close. Even if they could not find the bloom, another hour spent looking for it would not make any difference.

  Not far from where the slain man lay, Ayma found a seam in the floor. “What is it?”

  They cleared away the dust and debris and found that the seam was a square, and on one end, a metal ring lay in a shallow indentation in the wood. Po looked at Ayma, waiting for her to pull it, and found her staring at him, waiting for him to do the same. It unnerved him the way she looked to him like this. “You’re stronger,” she said.

  “Okay.” Po grasped the ring and pulled up. The door resisted at first and then swung open, falling back on its hinges to rest against the floor. Coughing at the dust, Po and Ayma peered through the opening. A ladder led down into the dark.

  They descended. It was dark and Po reached into his satchel and pulled out The Book of the Night. He opened it. In the pale green glow, thousands of books came to light. Row upon row of them lined the passage down which they descended. They climbed down, through a veritable tunnel of books, a hundred yards or more until they came to the bottom. They were in a small landing area, the bare stone floor dusty beneath their feet. The walls around them, still lined with books, curved in a circle. A small door sat in the wall across from the ladder. It was only as high as Po’s chest. Most people would have to bend over to go through it.

  It was just a wooden door with an iron handle and latch, but dread washed over him at the sight of it. He looked to Ayma and saw that she was equally frightened. “What is it?” she breathed. “Why is it so…?”

  “It’s just a door.” He realized they were whispering. “But…All I want to do is get out of here.”

  He understated the case. More than anything in the world, he did not want to go through that door. In fact, his body was even more of the opinion that going through there was a bad idea. He discovered they had both edged back toward the ladder, seemingly without recognizing it. He looked at Ayma. She shook her head. “I’m scared.” And there was that look again—panicky, and seeking reassurance, leadership, from him. A sharp jolt of resentment nearly overwhelmed his fear. “You can go back,” he said, hoping she didn’t notice the irritation in his tone. “Wait for me at the tavern. I’ll be there soon.” It would almost be better to face this alone than to do it with someone who expected him to take care of her.

  Ayma put a foot on the lowest rung of the ladder and then stopped herself. She shook her head, then an expression of determination came over her face. That was more like it. She reminded Po of Selene now. “No,” she said. “We’ll do it together.” She glanced at him, a worry line between her eyes, as if she thought he’d be angry that she asserted her leadership.

  “It’s just a door,” he pointed out. “What’s the big deal?”

  “What lies on the other side.”

  Po had understood that people considered this theater haunted because it was the resting place of the last Ancient. But he had chalked that up to superstition. He hadn’t been prepared for a physical sensation.

  Walking across the room and opening that door felt as unnatural and wrong as striking Ayma or complimenting Baris. But it had to be done. Endymion’s rose, if it existed, most likely lay on the other side of that door, in the tomb of the last Ancient. And if he was ever going to see Selene, Hilloa, or Jan again, they had to go and get it.

  “Let’s just get it over with,” said Ayma.

  They held hands tightly and ran to the door. Po grasped the handle and pulled it toward him. It resisted, and for a moment his heart was wild with joy at the thought that they could not get in and they would have to try to get the chorus out of the clutches of the Lit King and feed the Plain of Ayor some other way.

  And then, with a click, the door opened. He expected it to be dark on the other side, but that was not the case. A faint glow emanated from the opening.

  He and Ayma exchanged a look, and then with a deep breath, crossed the threshold.

  Once they were on the other side, the feeling of foreboding actually abated somewhat and they were able to stand up, as well. They were in a landing at the top of a broad, curving, stone staircase. A finely wrought cast-iron handrail graced one side. The walls were stone as well, carved with flowers and vines. Sconces on the walls emitted a soft, steady glow. Po and Ayma descended the shallow steps. He noticed that the risers, too, were carved with the floral motif.

  The room that came into view was unlike anything Po had ever seen in real life, even at the palace. He’d seen a book at the Libyrinth once—an illustrated history book. It had included a picture of the Old Earth palace of Versailles. That was what this looked like.

  Dust lay thick on the carpeted floor and on every available surface, but otherwise the room seemed somehow to have survived the ravages of time better than the rest of the theater. The fabric on the ornate, upholstered chairs had not rotted away, and the tiny, intricately carved tables still stood. The walls appeared to be covered with a pattern of flocked wallpaper. A chandelier festooned with cobwebs hung from the ceiling above, dust not entirely extinguishing the glow of its lights.

  They walked swiftly around the perimeter of the room. Po noted that the door by which they’d entered was the only one in the room. There were no windows, either, of course, since
they must surely be below ground. There was an ornate desk and chair, and an object that he realized was a harpsichord, and in one corner, a shrouded hulk that looked to be a standing candelabra or a coatrack covered with a sheet.

  “Where is the last Ancient?” he asked Ayma.

  She shook her head. “Perhaps she has withered away to nothing. Perhaps she is the dust on the floor.”

  Po shivered. He heard something from the far corner of the room where the shrouded object stood: a dry, whispering sound like a stray breeze blowing over dried-out sheets of paper. But there was no breeze in here. He looked to Ayma. “Do you hear that?”

  She nodded. She stared at the shape in the corner. They still held hands, palms welded together with sweat. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as they slowly approached it. The corner was dim in shadow. As they neared the shrouded form he realized it was both too short and too wide to be a standing candelabra or a coatrack. The whispering sound continued; it came from beneath the cloth.

  All he wanted to do was run away. But a burning field of barley and the thought of his friends in the clutches of the Lit King forced him to continue forward. It was Ayma who reached out and pulled the cloth away.

  At first he couldn’t make out what he was looking at. He saw a tall, pointed arch at the top, made of ornately wrought metal—tiny wires in intricate filigree, all threaded through with beads and bits of colorful paper. Below this was what appeared to be a carving in sandstone. It was so pitted and grooved that it took a moment for his eyes to resolve what he saw into a high, domed forehead, deeply sunken eyes, high cheekbones, and a nose that jutted forth like a scythe over shriveled lips and a receding chin.

  Po took an involuntary step backward. Was it a statue, a piece of eccentric and elaborate art? No, of course not. So this was what an Ancient looked like.

  It was seated in a chair. The hands that rested on the chair’s arms were encrusted with rings. The hair hanging at each side of that fantastic face was an elaborate mass of braids, jewels, dreadlocks, and odd bits of stuff that seemed to have collected there and never been removed.