by Paul Stewart
Taking the candle with her, Maris walked towards the bed. The light fell across her father's face. Maris gasped.
Propped up in bed, he looked even worse than she had imagined he would. He was pale and haggard. Tufts of hair stuck out from the blood-stained bandages which swathed his head. Worst of all, however, were his eyes. They stared ahead, unblinking, unseeing, yet still filled with the horror of what they had witnessed.
‘Father!’ Maris cried. She climbed up on to the bed and hugged him tightly, her cheek pressed to his bony chest. His body was rigid and cold; if it hadn't been for the heartbeat hammering away beside her ear, he might have been dead. ‘Oh, Father, what has happened to you?’
Just then, there was a grating noise from the side of the chamber. Maris glanced round to see Bungus flinging open the shutters.
‘All this appalling darkness and shadow,’ he was muttering. ‘Light is what Linius needs.’
A single shaft of dazzling early-morning sun burst into the room and streamed across the floor. It fell on the face of the stricken professor, who blinked, once, twice…
‘Maris,’ he said, his voice low and cracked.
Maris smiled. She knelt forwards and kissed him gently on the forehead. ‘Hello,’ she said.
Her father looked surprised. ‘Why are you crying?’ he asked.
‘I'm not,’ Maris sniffed.
Without saying a word, he raised a bony hand, lifted a tear from her cheek with the tip of his index finger and showed it to her. ‘Tell me what's wrong,’ he said softly.
‘Oh, Father!’ Maris wailed and hugged him again. ‘I was so worried about you. All those cuts and scratches … and your ear! What happened to you?’
‘Hush, Maris,’ he said, as he held her head and stroked her hair. ‘It's all over now. I'm back. I'm safe. I…’ He noticed the figure silhouetted against the window. ‘Who in Sky's name is that?’
Maris pulled away and looked round. ‘That's …’ she began.
But Bungus silenced her with a finger to his lips. He walked to the bed, away from the blinding light, and lowered his hood. ‘You tell me, Linius,’ he said softly. ‘Don't you remember your old friend?’ He smiled. ‘It's been a long time.’
Bursting with expectation, Maris looked at her father, then at Bungus – then at her father again. She watched the initial confusion turn to a look of recognition; then a broad, child-like grin spread out across his face.
‘Bungus Septrill,’ he said, shaking his head with dis-belief. ‘Am I still dreaming? I never thought I'd live to see the day…’
‘Greetings, Linius,’ said Bungus, stepping forwards to shake his hand. ‘I am no dream.’
‘But I thought you had fled Sanctaphrax,’ he said weakly. ‘I was told…’
‘You were told I'd returned to the Deepwoods,’ Bungus said, ‘to pursue my earth-studies unhindered.’
‘Precisely that,’ said Linius.
‘Rumours started by myself,’ he explained. ‘I wanted noone to know that the Great Library was still being tended.’
‘You mean you've been hiding out in the Great Library all this time? But…’ Linius paused, confused. ‘But I've been there myself. Many times. I have never seen you.’
‘I chose not to be seen,’ said Bungus simply.
‘But why?’ said Linius. ‘If only…’ His voice trailed away.
‘I couldn't risk it,’ said Bungus, ‘for both our sakes.’
‘You're together now,’ Maris butted in. ‘That's what counts.’ She turned to her father. ‘Bungus is here to make you better again. He knows the healing secrets of the Deepwoods.’
‘Does he now?’ said Linius, his lips curling into a smile.
‘It's true!’ said Maris. ‘After Quint and I were attacked by a giant glister, he …’ She fell still, horribly aware of what she had just said. Her heart thumped. Her cheeks coloured.
‘Glister?’ gasped her father. He tried to sit up, but fell back, his face pinched with concern. ‘Don't tell me you've been down in the stonecomb.’
Maris looked away, guiltily.
‘You have, haven't you?’ he said, gathering his strength. ‘It's that apprentice. He put you up to it.’ His eyes blazed. ‘I'll have his hide for gaiters!’ With great effort, he raised himself up on his elbows.
‘It wasn't Quint's idea,’ said Maris. ‘It was mine. Please, Father, you're not well.’
‘And there was me, thinking I could trust him,’ her father continued without a break. ‘You know, I've a good mind to get word to Wind Jackal to … to…’
‘You're not listening,’ said Maris. ‘It was my idea to go down into the stonecomb. I was so desperate to find out what you've been doing. How you got injured … I forced him to take me.’
Linius fell back exhausted, his face ashen grey. ‘And where is the little wretch now?’ he breathed. ‘Too ashamed to show his face, eh?’
‘He … he's still down inside the floating rock,’ Maris confessed.
The expression on Linius's face changed in an instant. He leant forwards. ‘You left him there?’ he said, his voice low with dread. ‘Quint – my dear friend Wind Jackal's one and only son – alone in the terrible stonecomb? But why? If you went there together, why didn't you also return together?’
‘I … I couldn't walk. Bungus was carrying me,’ said Maris. ‘Quint was following us …’ She swallowed. ‘And then he wasn't.’
Bungus stepped forwards. ‘The foolhardy youth went off in search of the Ancient Laboratory.’
Linius's jaw dropped. He gripped Maris by both wrists. ‘You know about the Ancient Laboratory?’ he said.
‘Of course they do, Linius, my old friend,’ said Bungus. ‘Why else do you think they were roaming about the stonecomb on their own?’
‘But Quint is in great danger,’ said Linius urgently. ‘He mustn't set foot inside the laboratory! He mustn't even open the door… !’ He buried his head in his hands and began rocking back and forth. ‘What have I done?’ he groaned. ‘What have I done?’
Bungus sat down on the side of the bed and pulled Linius's hands gently, but firmly, away from his face. He raised his head, and looked him straight in the eyes.
‘Perhaps a broken-down earth-scholar can help an old friend,’ he said. ‘Tell me, Linius. Tell me everything.’
· CHAPTER FIFTEEN ·
LINIUS'S STORY
Linius lay on the bed, his face turned towards the window and the dazzling beam of sunlight shining in his eyes. From the streets outside, there came sounds of the waking city: bell-chime and wheel-clatter; the buzz of conversation and hum of rhythmic chanting; and the white ravens, cawing raucously as they stretched their wings in the warmth of the rising sun. Linius sighed, rolled over and stared up at the ceiling.
‘I started out with … with such good intentions,’ he murmured. His eyes misted over. ‘I wanted to do so much for Sanctaphrax.’
Bungus leaned forward and took the professor's left hand in his own. ‘Tell me your story, Linius,’ he said. ‘I'm listening.’
Linius turned his head towards his old teacher and breathed out, long and deep. ‘Oh, Bungus,’ he said wearily. ‘It seems like only yesterday that you shared with me the mysteries of the Great Library.’ He smiled weakly. ‘You showed me so much. Little did I know what it would all lead to…’
He closed his eyes, the same faint smile playing over his lips. Bungus squeezed his hand reassuringly. Linius looked up.
‘Happy days,’ he breathed wistfully. ‘And yet I was so innocent then, Bungus; I was so naive. I assumed that Sanctaphrax was a benevolent place where all knowledge was good knowledge, and the duty of every academic was to add to the sum-total of that knowledge for the good of everyone.’ His face creased up in disgust. ‘Sky-scholars!’ he said. ‘I knew nothing then of the back-stabbing and double-dealing that went on among them: the treachery, the rivalry, the vying for position. Mistsifter against rain-taster, cloudwatcher against windtoucher … Sky above, the only thing that ever brought a tem
porary lull to their faction-fighting was the contempt and loathing they shared for earth-studies!’ He wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead. ‘And I hated it,’ he said angrily. ‘As an apprentice, as a lowly mistgrader, I hated it so much.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Even when I was forced to play the same game…’
Maris turned to Bungus. ‘My father's too tired to go on just now,’ she protested. ‘He needs to rest.’
But Linius silenced her with a movement of his hand. ‘It‘s all right, Maris,’ he said, smiling bravely. ‘I want to talk about it. I want to tell you both about the hopes and dreams I once nurtured.’ He sighed again. ‘And what hopes and dreams they were. I thought that, as Most High Academe, I would be able to reunite the battling academic factions for the common good. More than that,’ he said, turning to Bungus, his eyes wide and earnest, ‘I intended to bring earth-scholars back to Sanctaphrax. The schism between earth- and sky-scholarship had to be healed; the Great Library had to be re-opened. I knew we could not afford to lose such a wealth of information about the Edge.
‘I told the assembled crowd of academics as much in my Inauguration Speech, but the fools were not listening to me. Or rather,’ he added, ‘they heard only what they wanted to hear. Even when I moved into the Palace of Shadows – both to show my independence from any and all of the Sanctaphrax schools, and to revive the tradition first started by the Ancient Scholars all those centuries ago – my motives were misunderstood.
‘In fact, it seemed that each time I attempted to bring harmony to Sanctaphrax, I ended up causing greater discord. My own hopes were fast turning to despair.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘Yet for all that,’ he added, his face brightening a little, ‘I do not regret my decision to move into the Palace of Shadows one jot. How could I? For if I had not done so, I would never have met its curator, my faithful old retainer, Tweezel. And if I hadn't met him…’
Just then there was a light knock at the door, followed by the creaky sound of the handle being tested.
‘Ignore it,’ said Bungus. ‘Keep on with the story.‘
But before the Most High Academe could utter so much as a single word more, there was a soft click and the door swung open. Tweezel stood there, a tray gripped firmly in his claws. Upon it was a plate of herb wafers, an empty glass and a jug of bright red cordial. The old spindlebug looked up.
‘Did I hear my name?’ he enquired.
The Most High Academe smiled. ‘Yes, Tweezel, you did,’ he said. ‘Come in. Come in. I was about to describe our first meeting.‘ He turned to the others. ‘As its long-time curator, Tweezel knows every inch of the Palace of Shadows. It was he who showed me the Blackwood Chamber.’
‘The what?’ said Maris. ‘I thought I knew every inch of the palace too, and I've never heard of it.’
Linius looked up at Bungus. ‘But I suspect you have,’ he said.
‘True,’ said Bungus. ‘Although before this moment I did not know whether it was real or mythical.’
‘Oh, it's real enough,’ said Linius. ‘Is that not so, Tweezel?’
‘Indeed it is,’ Tweezel replied. ‘The master loves the palace as much as I do. Over the years, I showed him all its secret nooks and crannies. But it is the Blackwood Chamber that has always fascinated him most.’
‘What is it?’ said Maris. ‘Why is it so special?’
Linius's eyelids fluttered and then closed. ‘You tell her its purpose, Bungus,’ he whispered, ‘for I am feeling weary.’ He shivered. ‘And a little feverish.’
‘Then I have just the thing, master,’ said Tweezel. He placed the tray down on the sideboard. ‘Ferment of fruit-and-root cordial,’ he said, ‘made to a special Deepwoods recipe and guaranteed to perk you up in no time.’ He poured some of the red liquid from the jug to the glass. It bubbled white and frothed up. ‘And I've brought some wafers, too,’ he added as he grasped both glass and plate. ‘To help revive you.’
He turned and walked towards the bed. Linius opened his eyes and pulled himself up.
‘Very thoughtful, Tweezel,’ he said wheezily.
‘Yes, very thoughtful indeed,’ said Bungus stepping forwards and taking the refreshments off the spindlebug, ‘but I think I have something a little more efficacious.’
‘Upon my word!’ said Tweezel indignantly.
‘Oh, Bungus,’ Linius smiled weakly. ‘A remedy for everything in that little bag of yours. But I fear not even you can help me this time.’
Bungus paid neither of them any heed. He placed the glass and plate back on the tray and began rummaging in his satchel, muttering to himself all the time.
‘Weary, feverish, overwrought …’ He selected a phial of amber liquid and splashed twenty-four drops into a small bottle of pure water. The muttering started up again. ‘Septic sores on fingers, scratches on cheek and an ear lesion. Skin-tone, pebble- to ash-grey. Eye-glint, down in the twenties – maybe lower…’
Maris watched, entranced. She noted how, with each of his observations about her father's condition, Bungus would add to the liquid a pinch of powder from sachet after sachet that he pulled from the bag. Finally, he stoppered the bottle, shook it vigorously and held it up to the light. The liquid glittered and sparkled so brightly that it was as if, instead of herbs and powdered root, he had stirred in a spoonful of black-diamond dust.
He stepped towards the bed. ‘Drink this, Linius,’ he said.
The Most High Academe pulled a face. ‘The cordial looked nicer,’ he muttered.
‘That cordial is without doubt the stuff that Deepwooders sell to gullible academics,’ said Bungus, ‘harmless enough, but completely useless. Whereas this …’ He uncorked the fizzing bottle and held it out. ‘This will heal you, Linius. In body and spirit, it will make you well – it will make you whole.’
Linius raised the bottle to his lips and took the minutest of sips, ready to spit it out if it tasted foul. But the concoction tasted good, very good. A contented smile spread over his face and he glugged the sweet herbal liquid down to the very bottom of the bottle. ‘Excellent, Bungus,’ he said. ‘And do you know what? I can feel it working already.’ He sat up, scratching gently at his ear through the bandages. ‘It's itching,’ he said.
‘Which means it's healing,’ said Bungus. ‘And your eyes are clearer, too. Are you ready to continue with your story?’
‘My story,’ said Linius with a sigh. ‘Ah, yes. My story. I can hardly bear to tell it, yet I fear I must …’ He looked at Maris. ‘I only hope my daughter will not think any the worse of me when that story is done.’
‘There is nothing you could say, Father, that would make me love you less,’ said Maris earnestly. ‘I promise you.’ She smiled. ‘You were telling us about the Blackwood Chamber.’
Linius nodded seriously. ‘Oh, Maris, my darling daughter, the Blackwood Chamber is one of the oldest treasures of the palace. The oldest and the most secret. Why, Tweezel didn't even tell me of its existence until he decided he could trust me. A detailed history of Sanctaphrax is cut into its wooden walls in the form of carvings. And such carvings! Countless wooden pictures, set in a raised, patterned framework. Ornate, intricate, exquisitely detailed…’
‘And an absolute nightmare to dust,’ Tweezel muttered as, abandoning the tray of refreshments, he made his way back across the floor and left the room. He couldn't stand around chatting all day; he had important things to do. No-one noticed him go.
‘It is a marvel,’ Linius went on eagerly. ‘The carvings seem almost to be alive. Oh, and the stories they tell, Maris. The Blessing of the Floating Rock, for instance; The Tale of Brother Ructus and the Banderbear. The Legend of the Naming Tower. The Great Sky-Dragon Siege … And later, when I studied them more closely, I discovered that each scene was surrounded by swirling interlaced designs, like a tangle of Deepwood thorns. At first I thought they were mere decorative patterns, but nothing those ancient carvers created in that fabulous room was merely
decorative. Many visits to the Great Library and cou
ntless hours of study over dusty scrolls revealed them to be the angular script of the Ancient Tongue. It was the actual voice of those First Scholars – more ancient than the oldest scroll in the Great Library – there, carved into the walls.’ His eyes gleamed with childlike enthusiasm. ‘Absolutely fascinating,’ he said excitedly. ‘A celebration of the genius of those who came before us.’
Maris smiled. She hadn't seen her father this animated in so, so long.
‘Think of it, Maris!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Blackwood Chamber contains an almost complete record of the history of Sanctaphrax, from the day the ancient academics first secured the great floating rock in place with the Anchor Chain, down centuries of harmony and learning, through the Great Schism when the ancient academics split into earth- and sky-scholars, and on to the First Purges …’ He paused for breath. ‘And there it stops, halfway down the seventh wall. Presumably, the carvers – being earth-studies carvers – were cast out of Sanctaphrax.’ He shook his head. ‘It is all such a terrible shame…’
Outside, the bell at the top of the Great Hall chimed. Maris flinched nervously. Quint had been down in the stonecomb on his own now for far too long.
‘And the Ancient Laboratory?’ she prompted her father. ‘Was that also recorded in the blackwood carvings?’
‘Yes,’ said Linius, his face lighting up once again. ‘Yes, it was. The changing face of Sanctaphrax was recorded down the ages. The construction of buildings, the raising of the Central Viaduct, the tunnelling and excavating of the Treasury… I mean, the Great Laboratory,’ he corrected himself as Bungus grumbled under his breath. ‘And the digging of the Great West Tunnel,’ he said, turning back to Maris. ‘Accessible only by sky cage, the tunnel led to the second laboratory: the Ancient Laboratory.
‘Well, you can imagine my excitement at stumbling across this lost centre of learning. Here was a place established by some of the finest minds Sanctaphrax has ever known, and I could hardly wait to see it for myself.’ He frowned. ‘Yet there were practical problems. From later carvings, I knew that the laboratory had been abandoned and that the tunnel leading to it had been blocked off. In the most recent carvings, neither the tunnel nor the laboratory is marked at all.’ He looked down guiltily. ‘I suppose I should have given up there and then,’ he said. There was a pause. ‘And yet I could not!’