The Modern World

by Steph Swainston

  ‘I don’t know.’

  When the minute was up, Cyan had shot fourteen arrows and Lightning had shot ten. Cyan was panting, then she looked at Lightning’s target and her eyes and mouth went wide.

  There was silence, then a sudden uproar as everyone turned to their neighbours and started asking what it meant. The reeve was looking, concerned and frightened, at his master but Lightning wasn’t meeting anybody’s eye. He turned to Cyan and said, ‘The heft of that bow of yours warps left at a distance. See, your arrows are tending left on the target? You should shoot a little right for the next round.’

  He came over to us and took a drink of water. I said, ‘What are you playing at? You lost! Deliberately. Obviously deliberately!’

  He smiled at me and the ladies. ‘Don’t worry. I needed to give Cyan some sop to her pride. There’s one round left.’

  ‘You’re playing with your life!’ Tern shrieked.

  ‘I just don’t want to show my daughter up too much. I know what I’m doing. I’m unbeatable at accuracy.’ He didn’t say it as a boast, it was a plain fact.

  Lightning gave me the compound bow and took his customary longbow from the rock. He carried it as fluidly as if it was part of him, an extension of his body. An accuracy target was set up at two hundred metres’ distance – a black ring on the outside, then, white, blue and gold in the centre.

  Lightning announced. ‘We have five arrows each. Whoever scores most highly on the target will remain – I mean, gain – the title of Lightning. Cyan Peregrine will shoot first.’

  Cyan came forward to stand on a stone slab set into the grass. She felt for the reassuring ends of the arrows in her quiver, selected one composedly. She sighted and loosed. The arrow appeared in the middle of the cross in the gold, the target’s exact centre. She stepped aside and looked at her father defiantly.

  Lightning stood on the flagstone. He was the target archer absolute. He made it seem so effortless. He faced the butt with a calm expression, confident and determined. His whole attitude was of command and power over the bow, the arrows and the target. He placed his feet apart with the weight equally on them, in a firm but springy stance. He was balanced and relaxed – a finger above the nock on the string, and two below. He used no marker, he knew it so well. He drew, and loosed sharply, the string free in an instant, and the arrow flew straight and sure.

  There was a crack of wood. Lightning’s longer arrow had split Cyan’s in two. Its blue flights stood out from her white ones.

  A roar from the audience. The reeves and servants sitting on the bales jumped up to applaud. Lightning acknowledged them but the noise seemed to daunt Cyan. She wasn’t experienced enough to have expected it. She said nothing, just looking out to the target and down to her own gear. She pulled the string and extended her left arm in one movement, and the arrow point came up. She looked directly to the target.

  Her arrow hit the edge of the gold. It was Lightning’s turn to shoot. His arms were firm and unwavering, his attention never relaxed. Again he split Cyan’s arrow perfectly.

  The crowd’s applause ceased immediately.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I said. ‘He could have won then!’

  Eleonora murmured, ‘By god, he’s brave.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One day, immortal, in the far future you’ll be able to say you saw this, and the rest of the world will look on you with awe. You will be able to say you were there at the beginning.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just watch.’

  Tern edged closer to me and put her arm around my waist.

  Cyan shot again, and again Lightning hit her arrow directly, splitting it in half.

  She raised her arm and wiped her face on her sleeve. She was desperate, but she stood with an elasticity to resist the force and recoil of her twangy little bow. She was the timeless picture of grace as she drew it with a beautiful movement until it filled her whole frame. She hit the gold above the arrows – they were as snug together as a fistful of sticks, their flights entangled.

  Lightning split her arrow.

  This was the last one. Cyan was aware of every factor that might make a difference. She shrugged her waistcoat tighter, she adjusted her bracer. She dug a thumb behind her belt buckle. Her little movements were like the wriggles of a worm on a hook.

  She raised her bow and shot. The arrow snicked in next to the others on the gold cross.

  Lightning’s turn: he drew. He loosed.

  His arrow went wide – into the black outer ring.

  Everyone in the stands was on their feet. He had lost.

  He trembled as he lowered his bow. He gulped as if with a dry throat and tears came to his eyes, but with absolute mastery of himself, they weren’t shed.

  Cyan was walking in a small circle with an expression of confusion. He stopped her, and made her look at him. He kissed her and said something softly. Cyan blinked.

  Louder, he added, ‘Now I am out, and you are in. Enjoy it.’

  He placed the end of his bow against the inside of his shoe, and unstrung it. He wound the string around his hand and slipped it in his pocket. Then he began to walk, past the stands and the dumbstruck audience, leaving Cyan behind. ‘But …’ she said. ‘But who’s going to look after me?’

  We stared, motionless. My head felt like it was full of cotton wool. I couldn’t think: my mind wasn’t allowing me to form any thoughts. There was nothing in my head but a wondering space. I felt light on my feet and nauseous, as if my body wasn’t real. Black shadows began to gather at the periphery of my vision – I was about to faint. Everything was blurred. San only knows what Lightning must be feeling.

  Tern sat down heavily. Her speech stumbled: ‘W-What has he done?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I answered too quickly.

  ‘Deliberately. He did it deliberately.’

  The Queen’s voice quivered at a higher pitch as she made an effort to control it. ‘What a way to teach Cyan a lesson.’

  There was a scuffle at the end of the stands and Rayne rushed out. She grabbed the back of Lightning’s shirt and sank to her knees. She was hysterical; the ends of her open mouth were down in her jowls. Tears were running from her eyes channelled into the crevices between her cheeks and the sides of her nose. ‘Saker!’ Lightning tried to raise her to her feet but she had no strength; she just sank back.

  ‘Saker, what have you done? Why? Tell me you won’ leave! There’s no need t’ leave t’ Circle! You aren’, are you? Tell me you’re jus’ playing t’ system. Tell me i’s jus’ a trick. You’ll Challenge Cyan in a year’s time and bea’ her. Won’ you? Or you’ll bea’ t’ next man who’s sure to bea’ her … Tell me tha’s true! Or … or you’ll Challenge Wrenn and bea’ him, and be t’ next Swordsman. Oh yes, tha’ must be i’ – so you can be together wi’ Cyan …’

  Lightning supported her at arm’s length, his hands on her upper arms. Rayne kept screaming, ‘Where will you end up? I’s horrible t’ be old. I know – i’s terrible! You don’ want i’! Don’ let i’ happen! Don’ le’ time pass, Saker, you’re a’ your best! A few years and you’ll never have security again! You’ll die! … After all this time, why? Why? I can’ bear t’ be alone. Don’ leave me!’ She collapsed to her knees, sobbing, and as she did so she pulled his shirt out of his belt. She pressed his shirt tails to her cheek.

  ‘Come with me into the house, Ella.’

  ‘You were my friend!’ Her voice was ugly with distortion.

  He turned her towards the palace and, speaking to her quietly, led her up the avenue towards the terrace.

  I tried to hold Tern’s hand but my palms were sweating and my hands had no strength to grip. Uncertain whether I could feel her or not, I pressed too powerfully and she winced.

  ‘I just feel numb,’ I said. ‘I can’t allow myself to think about it …’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of time for that, immortal,’ said Eleonora. Cyan crept into the gold pavilion to escape the crowd’s disdain. No
body congratulated her and nobody applauded. All eyes were watching Lightning and Rayne climb the monumental staircase onto the terrace and go through the tall open doors. They disappeared from view under the great elliptical ceiling of the dining hall.

  CHAPTER 26

  The feast, that evening, was a solemn affair. We were back to normal food and clothes; Lightning had moved on from needing his seventh-century nostalgia as well as from needing the Circle, but his guests were embarrassed and confused. They didn’t know what to say nor how to phrase it. They didn’t know how to react, so they made their excuses and drifted away.

  Lightning, at the head of the table, tried to make us feel we should celebrate, although none of us could see any cause. We were all wondering at him and frightened on his behalf. So we gave up on the feast and retired to the library.

  Lightning sat at his grand piano and played so calmly that Eleonora, Tern and I thought he must be planning to get back into the Circle.

  The library’s coffered ceiling had panels painted with pastoral and historic scenes. It was so lofty that a man on horseback could wield a lance in the room. The walls were covered completely with three tiers of bookshelves. Baroque wrought-iron steps could be pushed on rails along each level, leading to three rectangular balconies that stepped out, rising to the ceiling.

  Eleonora was up on the first of these. She was examining the nearest shelves filled floor-to-ceiling with Lightning’s diaries – maroon leather with the dates embossed in gold. A few were of paler hue when he couldn’t find a colour to match exactly. She was flicking through one randomly; it would take years to read them all.

  Tern was perched on the window seat, idly watching the stream of departing guests’ coaches fall to a trickle then sputter to a stop as the great and good of the Fourlands hurried away. Rayne had already left, with Cyan in her care, both of them crying. In two days they would reach the Castle, where the Emperor would make Cyan immortal.

  I studied the panels in the stucco ceiling, Mica valley landscapes rendered in oils, more mannered and pastel-toned than the dramatic colours of real life. The same iconic images over and over, and yet again in the ceramic and champlevé enamel vases on the delicate side tables – maybe that’s the brake of Lightning’s patronage. I picked at my chair’s lavish cushioned seat, slowly creating and unravelling a loose thread. I marked imaginary lines in the rock crystal carafe of vintage port before me as I worked my way down it.

  Over each lintel around the room were lunette paintings of Lightning’s other properties. I could see through the nearest door, down a short corridor lined with small bronzes, toxophilous or booted and spurred for the charge, a sinuous ormolu clock, a walnut escritoire, and through to the Great Dining Hall.

  Its doorway was crowned with his coat of arms in marble marquetry, plain, veined or flecked, each from a different part of the manor, surrounded by cipolin stone wreaths symbolising the Donaise Hills. Servants were clearing away the untouched feast from the huge table and, high above them at the end of the hall, portière curtains concealed a musicians’ gallery.

  I lost track of time; it certainly felt like we had been here for hours, exchanging only pleasantries, all tacitly waiting for some kind of explanation from Lightning while he pretended not to notice. I shifted position and flapped my wings open. I scuffed the carpet with my feet; I wanted to run and shout to break the tension. I considered going for a flight to blow away the fevered stuffiness of the room.

  Lightning suddenly changed the music to an expansive waltz and looked at me steadily. ‘No, I’m not disappointed with the world. I’m not tired, just bemused. I want to find out more and I need time to think.’

  Finally! ‘Is it to do with what the Emperor told you, when you had dinner with him?’

  ‘Yes, tell us what he said. We all want to know,’ said Eleonora, leaning forward on the balcony railing.

  Lightning paused, then smiled. ‘He said that you would certainly ask about it, and he would prefer it if I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘I’ll ask him myself.’

  ‘Comet, you know very well San keeps his past a secret.’

  ‘He told you his past?’

  ‘Yes. The Emperor explained it to me. He told me about the Shift as well. The things he said are just so incredible … I need time to come to terms with them. He only told me because he realised, at that point on the battlefield, that I didn’t need immortality any more. He realised I had grown out of it.’

  Tern spoke up from the window seat, unable to keep the sour note from her voice: ‘Did he know you would throw the competition?’

  ‘I expect he considered it. He knew I was leaving.’

  ‘Didn’t he ask you not to?’ she urged.

  He laughed. ‘San has known Rayne and I a long time, longer than anyone else in his life. He might only speak to us once a decade, but I suppose that’s as close as he gets, to friends. He knows Ella and I well, and he didn’t find this too hard to predict. San relies on people wanting to be immortal more than anything else in the world, but if one of us Eszai finds something he wants more than immortality, San can do nothing to keep him. Ten years ago, when Cyan was kidnapped by Shearwater and I set off to rescue her, I must have valued her more than immortality, subconsciously I suppose. I mean, I wasn’t aware of it at the time. So, no … I am free to change, now. I am free to understand your other worlds, feel the passing of time again.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you afraid of dying?’ Tern demanded.

  Lightning lapsed into silence again. He played a little more loudly for a while, until a crunch on the gravel drive outside interrupted him.

  ‘A little coach is coming in!’ Tern cried.

  ‘Is it? What are its colours?’

  ‘Green and grey.’

  Lightning stopped playing. ‘Green and grey is Awndyn.’

  The coach slewed to a halt. In the light from the palace lamps we saw the two horses were frothing. A plump woman in a shapeless silk dress and long ginger hair, leaning on a stick and moving slowly, swayed out of the carriage, ascended the steps and disappeared into the portico.

  We heard her footsteps resound loud on the Reception Hall’s terrazzo floor, then soundless as she passed into the carpeted winter south wing, through the salon and study. The door flew open and Swallow Awndyn barged in. A servant was following worriedly, close behind her. She slammed the door on him and glared at us all.

  Lightning stood up. ‘Welcome!’

  His fiancée took a fistful of her hair and pulled at it in fury. ‘What happened – Lightning? Have I heard right? You lost a Challenge? To your vile squab?’

  ‘So it seems.’ He relaxed back onto the piano stool. ‘I’m sorry you missed it, my love. I sent you an invitation.’

  ‘You stupid moron!’

  Lightning quoted mildly: ‘I love my love with an S, because she suddenly shows a slanderous side. Her name is Swallow and she comes from the strand.’

  ‘I came straight here when I heard!’ She ground her walking stick into the carpet. ‘I can’t believe it! You never lose! I never thought I’d live to see it! I can’t even imagine it!’

  Lightning offered her a glass but she didn’t register it. She was incredulous. ‘I expected to see you dejected, and here you are slamming at the piano like ten madmen. Are you insane?’

  ‘That is no way to speak to your betrothèd.’

  ‘All my life I’ve been fighting to get into the Circle and you just throw it away! Like it’s nothing! Throw your life to a stupid child like a bauble!’

  ‘The surprise should improve your music. It has become a bit samey over the last few years.’

  ‘You!’ She was speechless, and she still wouldn’t sit down. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Answer me this first – do you still want to marry me?’

  ‘But … you’re a loser. You lost.’

  Lightning closed his eyes for a second. Swallow continued, ‘You’re going to become mortal. To get older!’

  ‘So you don�
�t want me now?’

  She hesitated and Lightning continued artlessly, ‘So you were interested in me for my immortality, rather than as a person?’

  She looked to the books portrayed in the lush weave of the carpet and the cascades of fruit in the deep wood mouldings on the door jambs. She ground the heel of one hand into her eye. Her red wings opened slightly, pulling her gown tight across her front; she was as flat-chested as a narrow boat. Her face had become lined, and she had plucked her eyebrows into an expression of constant surprise.

  Swallow was the best musician of all time, but the Emperor did not need a musician. He didn’t need music to rally the fyrd when everyone agreed Insects must be fought. He didn’t need music for propaganda when he was offering immortality. She hated the fact that the sole determiner of the value of anything was its usefulness in the Insect war. After fifteen years of the same ambitious refrain the pressure had made her diamond inside, but she wasn’t sparkling, however emptily. She was cutting.

  ‘I want to join the Circle,’ she said. ‘How can you help me now? I am a musician. It’s all I do. Just like an Eszai.’

  Lightning leant back, his elbow on the piano’s music stand. ‘Oh, Swallow,’ he said. ‘You never noticed for one second that I really adored you. But now I’m leaving the Circle you suddenly see me. For ten years I have been offering you a place in the Circle through my love and you were too proud to take it. Do you think I can’t tell, after hundreds of years of fending off gold-diggers? You strung me along – with your pride you believed you could make it into the Circle on your own merit and I was your back-up plan. Even if you had become Eszai, you still wouldn’t have married me, because deep down you don’t want to. I was just as wrong to court you, but I didn’t want to admit it, because I thought you were like Martyn –’ He looked momentarily surprised at himself. ‘But you are not. Now you are showing your true colours.’

  ‘Ha! At least I still have feelings, not like you, always controlled, living in this fucking art gallery; you’re so transparent.’