Heart of Gold

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey drew back and bumped into Caroline. Her horrified gaze was on the Gallian airman as his features began to writhe like warmed clay, twisting in the grip of the ancient magic. He gave a wretched cry, the whimper of an animal caught in a trap.

  'Wait by the door,' Aubrey said to Caroline. Wideeyed, she nodded.

  Aubrey took a deep breath. It had come to this. All the actions, events and happenings of the last two weeks had led to this – Monsieur Caron and his letters, the Marchmaine independence movement, Bertie's genealogy, Dr Romellier, the desires, wants and wishes of so many people had been tumbled together, caught up in the flood. A thousand futures radiated out from this point, each one dependent on what Aubrey did next.

  The moment was his. Every moment was his, he realised, every instant of his life, but this one was momentous, with the fate of nations hinging on it.

  And it was up to him. Why not? he thought. I can mess things up as well as anybody can.

  Aubrey went to Saltin's shuddering form on the stool. Hoping he wasn't too late, he took the Heart of Gold from the airman.

  Aubrey had expected a struggle, but the artefact came easily from Saltin's grasp. As soon as it left his hands, the airman slumped to one side and fell off the stool.

  'See to him,' Aubrey croaked, then he staggered. The world blurred, and the floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt. He tripped and stumbled until he collided with the the strongroom wall. Sagging, his breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

  The Heart of Gold was a storm of magical power in his hands.

  Aubrey had hoped his magical talents and training would help him endure the power of the artefact. If this were true, he pitied all of the untrained unfortunates who'd held it, for it was as if he were being taken apart.

  His throat felt as if it were being crushed by a giant hand. He hunched over as a hundred minute spasms ran through his body. His teeth and bones ached while redhot needles pricked every inch of his skin. He shook, convinced that he was about to be turned inside out.

  But his hands, where they held the softly glowing golden heart, did not suffer at all.

  A desperate core of rationality struggled to make sense of what was happening to him, cataloguing the sensations so he could ponder them later. Then, with despair, he realised that it wasn't just his body that was being punished, it was his soul.

  As soon as he'd taken the precious object from Saltin, Bernard's protection spell shattered into a million pieces. His soul was wrenched about by the torrent of magical power that was coursing through his body. It flapped in the wind like a loose sail, threatening at any moment to detach itself and be whirled away.

  Aubrey choked, then coughed and snatched a breath of air. He trembled, and he groped, blinded, scrabbling to hold himself together.

  'Aubrey! What have you done?'

  Caroline's hands were on his shoulders, but the sensation was distant and muffled. 'The chapel,' he said with a tongue like a block of wood. 'We must get to the chapel.'

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He lolled helplessly in her hands and flashes of agony burst like fireworks in front of his eyes. 'You fool,' she growled. 'This is no time to be a hero.'

  Even though he was concentrating on holding on to his soul, Aubrey found an instant to be offended by her remark. 'If not now, when?' he managed to slur, then he decided he was better off with his eyes closed. It was too much effort to keep them open.

  Irregular waves of magic marched through his body, each bringing a new taste of agony. He hadn't realised that pain had various flavours, but he was rapidly being introduced to the variety of ways a body could hurt: burning, stinging, aching, hammering, searing, cutting. Each overlapped with the last, melding and then separating into fresh ordeals.

  He tried to remember a spell, something to help, but he found it difficult to organise any sort of coherent thought. Everything he tried to piece together splintered and was blown away by the magical inferno that consumed him.

  A different voice. 'I'll take him.' A strong arm under his shoulders. George.

  Aubrey opened his eyes. 'Thank you.'

  George studied him. 'You're in trouble?'

  'Yes. Very much so.' He jerked, hissed, then ground his teeth together. 'The chapel,' he whispered. 'And contact Inspector Paul.'

  'You can drive him in one of those lorries,' Caroline said. 'What's it like outside?'

  'A pitched battle. Marchmainers against Holmlanders would be my guess. Oh, and that dinosaur is rampaging about, too.'

  'It sounds as if we have a diversion.'

  The world swooped and Aubrey realised, dimly, that he'd been picked up and slung over George's shoulder. Every step was an explosion of pain echoing through his skull. He focused on his soul, clinging to it more with stubbornness than art.

  Aubrey slumped on the long bench seat of the lorry. He could hear George and Caroline arguing but couldn't make out their words over the throbbing of the engine. Or was it the engine? He opened his eyes. George then disappeared into the strongroom. He came back carrying Saltin. He loaded the airman into the back of the lorry before leaping into the driver's seat.

  'Didn't we start this way?' Aubrey mumbled. 'Except it was an ornithopter. And I was driving. Flying.'

  'Easy, old man,' George said. 'Don't talk. Save your strength.'

  'Caroline,' Aubrey croaked.

  George ground the gears and the lorry started to move. 'She's gone to get her mother away from here.'

  'Shouldn't've let her leave.'

  George was silent for a minute, his brow furrowed with concentration as he manoeuvred the lorry through the doorway. It emerged into the smoke billowing from the hangar. Through tear-filled eyes, Aubrey saw that half the hangar had collapsed, while fire was raging through the rest. The gunfire of a sizeable skirmish hammered through the smoke.

  George stamped on the accelerator and the lorry spat gravel behind it. It surged through the smoke, away from the tumult and toward the gate.

  'I didn't let her leave,' George shouted over the scream of the motor. 'You know perfectly well that you can't get Caroline to do anything she doesn't want to do.'

  Aubrey realised he was nodding, not in agreement with George, but in time to the magical pulse coming from the Heart of Gold. It rolled through him, ancient and majestic, a power from a time long gone.

  His mouth was difficult to work. 'Not you. Me. I shouldn't have let her leave.'

  The gatehouse was empty. The lorry rocketed past and George threw it into a screeching right-hand turn. Lutetia lay ahead.

  'No, old man.' The engine was like a saw on Aubrey's skull. 'Caroline is someone you shouldn't ever let leave.'

  Twenty-

  Two

  THE TRIP BACK TO THE CITY WAS A NIGHTMARE. Aubrey would have been flung around like a rag doll if it weren't for the restraining arm George dropped across his chest whenever they shrieked around corners. The little space of the lorry's cabin became Aubrey's world, a noisy cocoon smelling of hot oil and sweat.

  The Heart of Gold was fat and heavy in his lap, a reef he'd foundered on. Helpless, he lapsed into an internal world of struggle and torment.

  'Nearly there, old man.' George sounded as if he were speaking through a mask. Aubrey couldn't answer. All that was stopping his soul being drawn to the true death was his refusal to let go.

  Thoughts flitted around the edges of his mind, splinters of arguments he'd had with himself, remains of desires, dreams, ambitions. Distracted, his attention staggered from one to the other, never settling on one for long.

  He grunted as the pain intensified. While he was attending to his soul, his body was being pulled by the power of the Heart of Gold. With its primeval magic, it was trying to change his physical self, wrenching it into patterns long gone from the face of the earth. His bones creaked, yearning to reshape themselves along strange, ancient lines.

  He dug in. It was no good holding onto his soul if his body was consumed.

  Accustomed as he was to changes in
his being, he drew on his experience. It helped him resist the transformational waves that pulsed through through every inch of him.

  Nevertheless, a particularly sharp jab made him hiss and open his eyes. He was surprised when he saw that night was close. Shadows of the houses stretched across the road ahead. They'd reached the city.

  'Steady on, old man,' George said. 'I'll get you there.'

  Aubrey closed his eyes and sought for the strength to endure.

  'WE'RE HERE.'

  Aubrey jerked and opened his eyes. Black shapes skittered across his vision, vague almost-decipherable sigils that frightened him badly. He blinked and they swirled away. 'George?'

  'Easy, now. Let's get you out of the lorry.'

  Aubrey did his best, but without his friend, he would have been stuck there. George lifted him out and he was grateful to feel a breeze on his skin.

  'Come on, now,' George said. 'We have to hurry.'

  'Hurry?'

  'We crashed through a blockade or two. And I don't think we're meant to park here, either.'

  With an effort, Aubrey lifted his head. They were right outside the processional doors of the Cathedral of Our Lady. The lorry had mounted the footpath, glancing off a lamp post that was now leaning at something rather less than vertical. The front fender had rammed the bluestone newel post of the stairs. He was grateful that the cathedral hadn't faded like some of the other churches. He wondered if it wasn't because it was closer to the centre of Gallia and so was holding together longer. It was a fascinating thought, but he couldn't hold onto it. It wandered away and was lost in the jumble that his mind had become.

  'We crashed?' he asked.

  'You weren't paying attention. Other things to worry about, I imagine.' George slipped his arm under Aubrey's armpit and lifted. The world reeled and it took Aubrey a moment to realise he was cradled in his friend's arms. His head was too heavy to hold up and it lolled on his chest. His stomach churned. Time swelled and stretched; hours and instants were indistinguishable. The sounds of the city were woolly and indistinct, as if the normal world was only barely intersecting with his.

  Hold on, he told himself.

  Three police officers were running either toward him or away from him. He couldn't tell as their shapes seemed to inflate and collapse in an erratic rhythm. He thought he could hear shouts and whistles, but the echoes confused him, coming before they should.

  The day was fading.

  He still held the Heart of Gold. It sat on his chest and was as heavy as the world. Underneath its immensity, he struggled for breath. He couldn't understand how George could lift both it and him.

  'Not long now,' George grunted.

  'No.'

  George grimaced and staggered up the stairs. He pushed the door open with his hip. Aubrey thought the heavy timber was going to close on his head, but George caught it with his shoulder, grunting, and shoved it aside.

  Inside the cathedral it was cool and dark. Candle flames danced as Aubrey tried to make sense of the angles and shapes. Pews, windows on high, columns, stone blocks in the floor. They flitted and changed places as George pounded along the aisle like time itself. Aubrey anticipated every footfall, wincing in advance at the pain he knew would follow, but when it came it was always worse than he'd predicted.

  He had vague impressions of people coming close before hurrying away. George didn't speak and Aubrey assumed he, too, was saving his breath.

  They lurched out of the church proper and a figure stood in front of them. 'Sister Claire,' George gasped. 'We've brought it back.'

  Sister Claire smiled. Serene and patient, Aubrey felt her concern wash over him. 'We know. We felt it coming.'

  She disappeared. George groaned and followed her.

  The Chapel of the Heart. The alcove. A nun, sitting, hands outstretched. A lamp over her head. Her wimple, touched with light.

  'Sister Anne,' Aubrey whispered. His voice sounded strange in his ears, as if it were strained through wire.

  Sister Claire spoke. Aubrey heard it as the ringing of bells. 'We've kept our vigil. Someone has waited here, ever since it left.'

  Aubrey eased himself from George's grasp, but was grateful when his friend helped him stand. The Heart of Gold beat, slow and soothing now, and the pain vanished. It went so abruptly, so unexpectedly, that his knees buckled and George had to catch him. 'You'll be all right, old man.'

  Aubrey wanted to tell him that he was more than all right, but words were thick and clumsy, too big for his tongue to manage. His gaze fell on the Heart of Gold in his hands. Its presence was now restful, not damaging. Aubrey blinked, confused, when it blurred while he looked at it. He tried squinting, but it was like looking through rain-streaked glass. The Heart of Gold eluded his focus, shifting in ways he could not follow.

  Suddenly, his surroundings whirled away. Images flashed through his mind, one after the other, as if a cosmic art gallery were being drawn past him at an everincreasing rate.

  At first, he saw wilderness, vast forests undisturbed by humanity. He was puzzled – they sported strange, exotic, almost tropical vegetation, lush with vines and tall palmlike trees. Dozens, hundreds of these images rolled past, and the scenes gradually changed: floods, fires, creatures both gargantuan and bizarre. It was then that Aubrey realised the landscape was that of many, many years ago.

  The images streamed past him. He watched, amazed and eager to know more. People came, primitive but recognisable. Family groups, clustering together against the wild, becoming a settlement. Farming, hunting, living on the edge of a broad and pristine river. Then moving, crossing to an island in the middle of the river when threatened by a roving band of brigands. A village grew there, protected.

  Faster, the images flew. The village extended, the wilderness receded, and the village became a town. Churches and buildings of stone replacing wooden structures, and the first bridge spanned the river. Before long, Aubrey understood he was looking at the birth of Lutetia.

  Landmarks appeared – towers, cathedrals – the town grew into a city, and the city became a nation, teeming with people and their lives. Aubrey was taken through happiness and sorrow, loss and triumph. He was shown wars, families, grief, loss, famines, celebrations and progress. He was given Lutetia: the City of Love, the City of Lights, the City of Art, the foremost city of the nation of Gallia.

  He held the Heart of Gold in front of him, the true and living heart of Lutetia and Gallia. It was as light as thought. He took a step and placed it in the hands of Sister Anne in the alcove.

  Then he collapsed.

  WHEN AUBREY WOKE, THE WORLD WAS GREY. HE MUSED on that for some time before realising that he was gazing up at a ceiling. He could see the cornices, where the ceiling met the wall. They were moulded in a geometric pattern. Classical?

  He considered this as time passed. It was interesting, in a vague and comforting way.

  Some time later, at the edge of his vision, he could see an electric light. It was an elaborate mechanism, all brass rods and glass shades shaped like upsidedown Marmeluke hats. He supposed it was in the centre of the ceiling, but he couldn't be certain without moving his head. For some reason, he was reluctant to do that.

  Time drifted. He remembered that he'd seen a similar electric light in the apartment he'd let from Madame Calvert. After a dreamy while, he decided that this was probably the same one and that meant he was in his own room. By and by, he concluded that the sheets and blankets meant he was in a bed. His bed, in all likelihood.

  The depressing greyness worried him, though. He assumed he could see more if he moved his head, but the prospect of seeing more of such a gloomy world was not an inviting one. Sometimes a small disheartening vista was preferable to a large disheartening vista. Dimly, he thought that may be a clever notion, but he wasn't cheered by it at all.

  'Aubrey?'

  It took him a moment, but he eventually recognised George's voice. It was warming to hear it. He thought it would be good to hear it again, so he waited.


  After a time, George's face swam into view. He was haggard. 'Aubrey? Are you there?'

  For a moment, the question held Aubrey frozen. He was poised, balanced between two worlds, like an underwater swimmer looking up at the sunlit world beyond the surface.

  Then, with a rush he rose and embraced the world.

  He lifted his head. 'George.' His voice felt thick and unused. 'How long have I been like this?'

  George stared for a moment. Then he turned away and coughed. When he came back, he was wiping his nose with a large red handkerchief. 'Almost three days, old man. You've given us quite a scare. Quite a scare.'

  'Three days?' Aubrey let his head fall back to the pillow. He tried to remember what he'd experienced after he'd collapsed in the Chapel of the Heart, but nothing came to him.

  'The doctors said it was a coma, and wanted to move you to a hospital. I wouldn't let them, and Madame Calvert helped us.'

  Aubrey felt as if George was throwing darts at him, so much information was coming so quickly. 'Three days? Madame Calvert? Us?'

  The grey world disappeared. Light flooded into the room and Aubrey held up a hand, wincing. He squinted at the window and saw a silhouetted figure drawing back the drapes. 'Caroline?'

  'She's kept vigil here, old man. We both have.'

  Caroline came and sat on the bed. She wore a simple white blouse and a black skirt. Her hair fell to her neck. She smiled, and Aubrey's world was brighter. Living seemed like a desirable outcome. 'How do you feel?'

  'I feel wonderful.' Weak and wrung-out, and glad to be feeling anything at all.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He rallied. 'Relatively wonderful, I mean. Considering the alternative. I could be a wild boar by now. Or something.'

  'Or dead,' George pointed out.

  Aubrey winced. 'Indeed.' He glanced down and saw he was wearing pyjamas. He was glad they were his best pair. 'I really feel quite well. What time is it?'

  George consulted his pocket watch. 'Just after seven. In the morning.'