“I think so.”
“Should that be there? I don’t remember anything on the calendar about a comet … not this year or … in the next many?”
“I know.” John thought suddenly of how he had spent the last several years intensively studying the old texts, revising charts and inventing new magics to determine the elusive Return Date. Over these years he had half-convinced the king and even himself that there was some way to divine it from nothing. Lately his search had grown more esoteric, and as he became desperate to prove to himself that the shuttles had in fact existed, he’d begun pursing the line of thought that the date might be revealed by some unearthly entity, through channeling. He also wondered if the date had already been disclosed—somewhere, somehow, to someone else—he only needed to learn where and how it had been communicated. It was a somewhat ludicrous hope, but anything was possible. Wasn’t it? He had once believed so.
But many nights in his office he had looked through his window, out onto his private courtyards and slumbering astronomical apparatuses, and had pounded his fists because he could not understand everything all at once. No, not even a sliver of it; his mind was simply too small. And he fell into despair that he had spent his life in pursuit of folly.
Mizar coughed. “Could it be a fall of metal, sir? Perhaps just an old object coming down from the orbits?”
“It could be.” John was himself an expert in Metal Falls, which occurred when fragments of the ancient satellites crashed back to earth. The recovery of these relics was deeply important to King Michael, who ordered each one studied and catalogued. John was less interested in the physical aspects of the heavens than in theoretical ones, and so had little energy for the king’s insistence that these misshapen twists of metal meant anything at all, but he understood their importance as devotional objects and so kept a collection of interesting specimens in a cabinet in his offices.
“Should I bring your telescope?” asked Mizar.
“I doubt it will help.”
“Do you want your books? This may be in the charts. Perhaps the printer of the calendar made the error, not yourself.”
“It’s not the printer’s fault.”
Mizar stood and his knees cracked. “Well, what should I do?” He looked unconcernedly again at the blazing arc.
John waved his arms as he was given to doing when he felt hopeless, standing up so quickly he felt dizzy. “What? You ask me ‘what’? Here we have some phenomenon of a magnitude I cannot gauge and you want to know ‘what’ is to be done? You know, Mizar, ‘what’ is a word I am just now rethinking, and I—” He put his head in his hands. “I need to go to my study. ‘What,’” he sniffed. “I am surrounded by low hideous persons with visions only of ‘what.’”
Mizar sneezed to cover a laugh. “What then should I ask, sir, if not ‘what’?”
“Well, certainly not the obvious: ‘why,’” John said, and squinted at the sky. “And any idiot might ask ‘how.’ You, Mizar, are not quite that much of an idiot, so I believe you will refrain from asking stupid questions, if only for my sake. But—” John felt his insides burning with confusion, for the reality of this streak of light was concrete: it existed, and he had not predicted it. “Perhaps even a half-wit such as yourself might stumble instinctively upon the correct question, or through a process of elimination might arrive at it. What, Mizar, do you think that question might be?”
Mizar’s cheeks did not flush—he was a good servant, impervious to verbal cruelty. John had, in times of greater despair than this, cast his fury upon Mizar like a club, pummeling him with the hugeness of his own fear and pain, while Mizar cheerfully clucked on about selecting an entrée for a dinner party, or the soil in the garden beds. It was easy for John to believe Mizar had no concerns beyond the domestic. He truthfully considered him a kind of genius, though he would never have admitted it aloud. Mizar shrugged narrowly. “I believe the word you’re after, sir, must be ‘who’? Since you have kindly exhausted all the other alternatives for me.”
John closed and opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. ‘Who’?”
“Well, ‘who’ what?”
“Who predicted this light, if anyone? I surely didn’t. Better yet, who can explain it? Who is the person I should write to first and who is most qualified to interpret the meaning of this occurrence? Who is the fastest courier we have?” John’s mind swam with the letters he knew he must begin writing immediately—to men and women he preferred to correspond with only in writing. He feared he might be forced to request the physical presence of one or more of them.
John greatly disliked sharing his laboratories. Actually, he greatly disliked sharing any portion of his private castle—several years before, the king had allotted him funds to construct a small manor just a mile from the walls of the compound, and John had named his new home Urania. He had installed every instrument of astronomical observation that he had so far collected. They were bolted tightly into his courtyard’s ground and protected by metal domes that closed out the salt and the water. John was fiercely protective of them, as he had, after all, spent his life acquiring these marvels. He was not often moved to share them with magicians he considered lesser than himself; that is, with anyone else. The very notion of a swarm of interested parties converging upon his lovely, peaceful, near-complete castle caused his breath to race, so that he began to feel like his heart was flapping open and closed like a door in the wind. He found himself hating this bright streak in the sky.
He had secured from King Michael four armed men to guard his manor—one for each gate—and outfitted them with swords blessed by the Hierophant and forged from the metal of fallen satellites. His instruments were priceless, he would not leave anything to chance. And yet King Michael had insisted the manor be built with extra bedrooms to house other magicians he invited to the Cape from time to time. John could hardly object—it was not his money used to build Urania. But during the days and weeks these other Orbital Doctors used his equipment he lingered behind them as they worked. He knitted his fingers together, watching to be sure they did not smudge their face-greases on glass casings or jostle any of his precisely aligned water tables or scrying bowls. And yet now John must write to the other Orbital Doctors—who? All of them! In their own subpar astronomical spaces where they calculated with half, no!, a fourth of his natural alacrity—and he must ask them if anywhere in any of their own records and charts was this thing, this glowing streak, this cosmological rumination he himself had missed.
It was all too much for him to bear. John’s already pounding heart sputtered. He could not catch his breath. He bent to his knees, staring up at the mysterious light in the late afternoon sky. Bright and beautiful. Mizar rushed to his side, patted his arm. “Sir? Are you all right?”
Then he fell backward. Mizar immediately clutched his wrist in a vain effort to find his pulse, for John had been somewhat prone to fainting in his youth. So Mizar was pressing up and down his arm as though testing fruit, and then a great wooly heat descended over the top of John’s head. He could remember nothing, and then he passed from the realm of the physical and also from the constraints of his worry and into a gauzelike swoon.
CHAPTER 5
THE PARDONESS
Marvel Parsons had hardly emerged from the shadow of Canaveral Tower when a feeling of profound dread swept over him, and he turned and looked up. Beside him, Juniper did the same. In the white incandescence of the late fall sky, Marvel saw the light. Juniper said, “O. Well, shit.” The young guard squinted and cupped his hands around his eyes for a moment, until he shook his head and murmured, “God, that hurts my eyes, the sky’s so bright.”
A very light wind swept over them. The rain had completely stopped. Other people in the courtyard, now hushed, had likewise turned their faces to the sky, their wares forgotten. They all stood like silent statues.
“O shit,” Juniper said again. “What is that?”
Marvel found that he was comforted by the younger man
’s demeanor. “I have no idea. A comet is what it looks like.” He turned to Juniper. “We’ll go now to the Pardoness. You come with me.”
“What? But the light—”
“Yes, it’s probably a comet, as I said.”
“What will the Pardoness do?”
“She’ll do what she does,” Marvel replied with straining patience. “Pardon us for crimes we will soon commit.” When he saw the confusion on Juniper’s face, he said, “You are a spy, aren’t you? I’m taking you to an important place, perhaps the most important one we have here at the Cape. There you can spy all you please. Afterward I will need you to be of some assistance to me. Is that an acceptable deal?”
Juniper blinked.
“I will pay you. Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll pay you more. Double. Triple.”
He shrugged at last. “If you say so.” Then, his handsome face cracked open. “I’m not a spy, though.”
* * *
He would act, and later he would consider his actions. It had been so for him during all the important moments in his life. This quality, he supposed, made him a good leader—it was politically expedient, at any rate. It gave him an air of authority.
Marvel had never actually been to Green Butterfly’s chamber, though he had committed many sins. The zealousness of his youth and the trust he’d placed in his own judgment meant that he’d done little, over the course of his lifetime, for which he believed he needed forgiveness. Surely not the poisoning of the Mystagogue all those years ago. An unpleasant means to a holier end. In that matter, Marvel wanted to believe the balance of righteousness still tipped in his favor.
And yet that light. The light in the sky had rattled Marvel in a way that even the prisoner with no ears had not, or discovering a spy like Juniper, from outside the compound, slinking about in a poor costume. Both of those things were concerning, to be sure. But that light? The light was worse. It could be only one of two things: the space shuttles returning or some heavenly body hurtling perilously toward them.
Marvel had never truly realized how high Canaveral Tower was until he and Juniper had made it halfway up. The white metal stairs went on forever. After a few minutes, he felt the muscles in the tops of his thighs burning. Juniper, ahead of him and apparently still amiable, remained unwinded. To be young again, Marvel thought. But then he looked at Juniper’s shoulders tilting right, then left as he climbed, and so forth inside their dust-colored fabric casings, and noticed the elbows of the jacket were patched with leather. The entire garment didn’t fit him right; he was obviously not the first owner.
They climbed in tighter spirals until the staircase crested abruptly at a large solid metal door. There was no landing, just a massive door in the wall with a ring-knocker in the center. Juniper looked over his shoulder at Marvel. “What?” Marvel said. “Go in. I’m the Hierophant, I don’t need permission.”
Juniper nodded. “But shouldn’t I knock?”
“O, probably.” Marvel put his hand to his temple.
He knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again. Then the door opened onto a circular room as wide as the tower itself, filled with uncomfortably warm, thin smoke that tumbled out onto the stairs and into their faces. Marvel and Juniper coughed as they entered. The only movement of air inside the room was provided by a single attendant—who presumably had also opened the door. She was nude, to Marvel’s great interest, as he had always maintained a high degree of appreciation for naked bodies, male or female. Her peanut-shaped body swayed. Her nipples, flat and oval like galaxies, were the only thing Marvel could look at until he forced himself to look away. She walked quickly back over to the Pardoness and began fanning her with a sheet of paperlike metal.
What in the world were they burning? He glanced at Juniper. Juniper was staring at the attendant. Her skin looked wet enough to pull from her bones in strips, she was so sweaty. Why were they up here, sweltering? The Pardoness herself reclined on a couch, almost invisible under a web of diaphanous fabric. She peered at them serenely, and touched her attendant softly on the thigh. The woman stopped fanning. Marvel and Juniper stepped farther into the stuffy room and struggled not to cough. For furniture, the room contained only a few tables, the couch, and an amply sized bed at the back end of the chamber.
“Now, I know who you are,” said the Pardoness. Her voice was melodious but strangely accented, as though she had never spoken to anybody and had learned to pronounce all her words from books. He’d assumed she would be older than himself, since she had been the Pardoness before he had even come to the Cape. But her age was hard to tell. Her gaunt face was all but hidden under the hood she wore pulled over her ears and hair. The skin around her eyes seemed sweaty and moist—hardly surprising, given how warm it was. Though the rest of her body was covered by beautiful fabrics, Marvel could make out the vague shape of her arms. Thin, spindly. But her lower half was difficult to see. Only the tips of her two swollen feet protruded.
Marvel took a slight bow and nodded. “Likewise, you need no introduction.” Then he looked at the attendant as though she might yet introduce her mistress. But she did nothing.
“I must say I am surprised to see you here, High Priest. You must have committed a grievous act indeed.”
“Why in the name of all that is holy do you have this smoke up here?” He waved his hand.
“For my health.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s not for you to judge what is insane, Priest. Not in this chamber. This room is my own kingdom.”
This was true. The title of Pardoness was a hereditary one, and had been passed down from mother to daughter for centuries, endowing its bearer with complete autonomy. It was said and most fervently believed throughout the land that she was a direct descendent of the ancient king Armstrong, who had once walked on the moon. Privately, Marvel thought that after so many generations it was impossible to know where the Pardoness’s family had come from, just as his own family’s origins were a mystery. But her title held meaning beyond that. Marvel did believe that men had once walked on the moon, and if she was their descendent then she must possess certain powers. Of that there was no question.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I think you did,” she replied mildly. “But it doesn’t matter to me. Why are you here? We are protective of our solitude, aren’t we, Discovery?”
“Very.” The attendant walked to a side table and lit a candle. A sweet smell filled the chamber, and Marvel wondered if the smoke was some kind of mild narcotic. The door clanged heavily as it finally shut, drawn closed by its own weight, leaving the chamber in near darkness. The smoking candle made useless light. A few clusters of tallow candles flickered in the corners of the room, as was the custom for royal chambers, set before mirrors to amplify their light. Marvel swept aside his cassock and went into the room as though it were his own. “Bring me a chair, girl.”
“Can you not see there are no chairs?” asked the Pardoness.
“Ah.” Marvel felt the ends of his mouth tug upward into a smirk.
“You’re used to getting your way. I do empathize. But you will be disappointed here.” She raised an eyebrow. “Shall we come to the point of your visit? Discovery and I are accustomed to spending our afternoons in relaxation and care of ourselves. Mornings are our work time, and this morning is quickly running out. In my older age, I am also somewhat protective of my health. Come to your meaning, please.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Sitting in an overheated cloud of smoke is good for your health?”
“Come to your business.”
Marvel tried to make out her body beneath the piles of shimmering fabric. He could see nothing beyond her emaciated arms, wrapped like tentpoles in carrying-bags. The Pardoness took a swallow of a dark liquid beside her bed, and placed the glass back on the table with a trembling hand, as though lifting it had been all she could manage. As he looked more closely at the protrusion of sweaty cheekbones beneath her large, dark eyes,
it dawned on him that she might be starving to death, although he well knew from the account books the amount of food sent up to her chamber each week. Her fingernails were painted red. She might have been sixty. But she might have been forty, and just ill. He saw no malformations to speak of. There was something wrong, though, just out of sight—he could sense it, and was unsettled. She reminded him of an infant chick that could not quite hatch. That would shortly dry out in its enervated egg and die.
He took a breath. “I am here to ask your pardon. Your highest pardon. I ask you to forgive my future actions.”
“What are they?”
“They will most likely be awful.”
“I cannot forgive what hasn’t happened yet.”
“You must.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have to do anything.”
He sighed. “They will be treasonous. The highest treason. I plan to disappear, to leave King Michael’s service. Can you forgive me now?” He had not meant to reveal it, he was appalled that he had. But saying it relieved him. Beside him, Juniper tried hard not to react, though Marvel could feel the ripple of surprise pass through him. So Juniper had not known—at least, he hadn’t known Marvel was planning to leave.
What had he come for, then?
Marvel stared at the Pardoness and she looked back without pity. “After you have committed these actions, come tell me again, and I will or will not forgive you. I believe now we are finished.” Her eyes strayed to the door.
He shook his head. He had marched up this tower without a thought. That was his way when he decided on something. He wanted—needed—to leave the Cape. He would return to the darkness of Kansas with a clear conscience, and there he was certain he would find the Mystagogue alive. And he would kill him.
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