Test of Metal p-4

by Mathew Stover

  I had built around myself a pair of rings, constructed so that the lower served as a base in the sand, while the upper could rotate freely along it. At twelve precise intervals around the movable ring, I had affixed a tall cross of etherium wire. The crux of each one marked the entryway of one of the great halls of the Labyrinth. The cross piece marked ground level. Each pin became the anchor for a worked-wire chart of all possible pathways branching from that entrance. By rotating the ring, I could bring any given hall before me without having to shift my own position.

  For a maze, that would have sufficed; a three-dimensional solution for a three-dimensional problem. This, however, was a four-dimensional problem.

  At least.

  Because, after all, it only looked like a maze. It was a Labyrinth. It became a maze-a deadly one-for any who entered unprepared. I would not be one of these.

  Preparation is my specialty.

  As I worked, I discovered paths that could join two or more others that had seemed to lead to dead ends. Using a slightly thinner, shinier wire to connect magical transit points-where a path might leap from the top of one hall to the bottom of another-I began to join every hall to every other in multiply iterated pathways, nearly identical… but each and every one unique…

  The space around me was almost half full of the etherium web work when I discovered the pattern.

  I could see it: a mathematical purity that words cannot describe, an elegance that transcended language… I could predict, now, the shape and length of the next wire, and what points it would join. More than predict. See.

  Know.

  Soon I could see two wires ahead, then five, then a dozen…

  Then all of it.

  I saw what my model would become. This wasn’t Renn’s power. It had nothing to do with time; this was form and function, stripped to the deep structure of matter itself. I saw the future not with prescience, but with experience. I knew where each strand must be placed and what each wire must connect, for the model to make sense.

  “To make sense” is actually an expression for how I experience natural law.

  That is: truth.

  This experience-this knowing-flowed out from me, directing my hands to assemble the half-dreamed vision in my heart. The impossibly perfect structure of the etherium matrix enfolded me, enwrapped me, joined around and above me like the vault of a cathedral.

  I had trained my entire life simply to see this. To do this. To make this.

  To be this.

  My hands stopped. My eyes froze open. I could not dream of moving. Could not dream of breathing. Could not imagine being anywhere but here.

  Ever.

  I saw without sight, heard without sound, smelled without scent, felt without touch. Kneeling within this heartbreakingly perfect sanctum that was the only possible answer to the question of my existence, I thought: What do you say without saying? And discovered the answer was obvious.

  The joining of mechanics and time… is a clock.

  Crucius…

  The interpenetrating structure I had built around myself-the etherium model of the relational matrix of the twelve Halls around me-was perfect. Was inevitable. Was impossible.

  Was context.

  What makes a clock work is the engineering of its mechanics. What makes it beautiful is the elegance of its construction. What makes it perfect is the precision of its heart.

  There is no heart more precise than mine. I had no need to find the center of the Crystal Labyrinth. I was the center.

  I had become the hands of the clock.

  What I said without saying was I am here.

  And I was.

  Forever.

  TEZZERET

  MIDPOINT, FULL STOP

  My first clue that forever might not be actually permanent came in the mournful contrabasso chords of a very, very old sphinx. “Greetings, Tezzeret. Welcome back, my old friend.”

  I found myself naked (predictably; I had come to take the loss of my clothing as a routine feature of my postdeath journey) and entirely lacking the rest of my equipment, not to mention resources. There was no sign of my etherium model, nor of the Labyrinth, nor of the telemin halo and Renn’s head. I was, in fact, kneeling on a strangely colorless grassy sward among a stand of similarly colorless tropical trees, and was staring up into the melancholy, etheriumcrusted face of Kemuel the Ancient. The Hidden One.

  Though I had never seen even a depiction of him, I knew he was Kemuel. Knew it. As if I’d known him since the day I was born.

  Since the day he was born.

  I’d made it.

  I really had.

  The sensation was remarkably similar to how I’d felt after beating Renn.

  Eventually, I registered what Kemuel had said. I got up, trying to swallow a bolus of apprehension that had suddenly decided to claw its way up my throat. “What in the hells do you mean, welcome back?”

  Creases appeared on his immense face like erosion scars on a granite cliff. “The Seeker’s Path has brought you here several times, my friend. The question is: What will take you the rest of the way?”

  “The rest of what way?” An incalculable weight of exhaustion gathered upon my shoulders, threatening to crush me altogether. I still wasn’t done? “Several times?” I said weakly. “Please tell me you’re not saying what I’m afraid you’re saying.”

  The creases continued to deepen around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, and I realized he was slowly-incrementally, glacially-working himself toward a smile. The old sphinx wore so much etherium, he was practically made of metal. “I can answer any question that won’t help you, Tezzeret. ‘The rest of the way’ means beyond where we are. The several times… well, you reach the Riddle Gate two or three times out of each ten thousand lives. On average.”

  I rubbed my face. Ten thousand lives? Reincarnation? The thought of having to live out my current life was nearly more than I could bear. Ten thousand? And then I registered he’d told me that was an average…

  Two or three times out of each ten thousand lives.

  I was so tired that I wanted to die. But something in my brain heedlessly refuses to stop working, no matter the circumstance, and at that moment it offered a tiny spark of hope. “Wait,” I said. “Not sequential lives. Parallel lives. Different time lines.”

  “Yes.”

  I stared at him. He was utterly alien but at the same time as familiar as my father’s hovel. “You’re a clockworker.”

  “I have the gift, on my father’s side. I don’t use it.”

  “Why not?”

  Those creases got even deeper, and some looked as if they might start to curve a little, too. “Why would I?”

  I looked at him. He looked at me. After a long time looking at each other, I realized I had no answer. I couldn’t even imagine that there might exist an answer that would make sense to him.

  Sphinxes and riddles. I was heartily sick of both. “What is this place?”

  “You stand in the Riddle Gate, my friend. The end of your journey, or its midpoint; the distinction is yours to make.”

  The midpoint. The Riddle Gate. If I’d believed in any gods, I would have been calling upon them to curse him. And me. And themselves, too, while they were at it. “What’s next? Where do I go now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is as far as you’ve ever come.”

  For some reason, I found this encouraging. “So what happens?”

  “The way back is closed, Tezzeret. If you do not pass the Riddle Gate, here you will live. Here you will die.”

  I looked around. No graves. No bones. No loitering Tezzerets. “What do I usually do?”

  “Your reaction to failure varies. Often you take your own life. Sometimes you attack me with such fury that I must kill you. On occasion, you have spent days or weeks-sometimes months-in conversation with me… and then you take your own life, or spend it in futile violence. This is how we have become friends.”
r />   “Would you be offended if I say I don’t want to know you that well?”

  “Reality is not what we want, Tezzeret. It’s what is.”

  I winced. When that truism had come up before, it had usually been me saying it to someone else; to be on the receiving end was unexpectedly bitter.

  “It is not my task to lecture you, Tezzeret. I am not here to puzzle you, nor to impede your Search. I am on your side-even if only to avoid the unpleasantness of disposing of your body.”

  “What about my possessions? If you want to help me succeed-”

  “I will not help you succeed. I cannot help you succeed. I hope that success will find you, and that you will find it. To aid you is beyond my power.”

  “Can you give me my etherium back?”

  “It is not your etherium.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” I said. “The Grand Hegemon’s etherium, loaned to me.”

  “It is not hers to loan. All etherium is my father’s. By his grace, some are allowed to borrow its use.”

  “Your father’s…” I repeated numbly. That answered one question-but if Crucius was even older than the Hidden One, finding him alive seemed unlikely. “All right. It’s his. But being allowed to, ah, borrow it for a while longer would be-”

  “Etherium cannot enter the Riddle Gate.”

  “Really? Again, without meaning to give offense,” I said, gesturing at his baroquely layered encrustations, “one must wonder-”

  “I did not enter. My father built it around me, when he constructed the Labyrinth.”

  “Built it around you,” I repeated, more numb than before. “And you’ve been here, all these centuries? Millennia?”

  “It is the task he has given me.”

  That crusted mass of etherium must be all that was keeping him alive. On the other hand, if he were to unexpectedly expire…

  As if he could read my mind, he piped, “Etherium cannot leave, either. It is as my father has made it: the stricture of the Riddle Gate.”

  “So you’re trapped too.”

  “No: I linger until the Seeker passes the Gate. It is my task.”

  Two or three out of every ten thousand lives. On average. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying it sounds like a boring job.”

  “Boredom is an affliction from which sphinxes do not suffer.”

  “Of course.” I would have thought of this before I opened my stupid mouth, if I hadn’t been too tired to worry about playing smart. “Still, you must spend a lot of time alone.”

  “I pass my days in learning. I am a sphinx; a creature of questions. The Riddle Gate is a device of answers.” The ancient sphinx lifted a paw, and we were no longer on the grassy sward but instead upon the Cliffs of Ot, looking down upon a sea crowded with refugee ships fleeing Vectis. “Or Cloudheath? Would you enjoy watching Tiln construct the Rampart of Thunder? Perhaps Bant, if you have a particular favorite among their perpetual wars. Or Jund’s Dragonstorm Aeon: dramatic and spectacular together. All of time and space are before us here. The Riddle Gate can show us every answer except the one you’ll need to pass through it.”

  I had no interest in sightseeing, nor in history. All of time and space, though… “Can you show me where I can Crucius?” find Kemuel the Ancient fixed me with a remarkably sharp gimlet stare. “You can find my father anywhere you can find yourself.”

  “How about this: show me where I will find Crucius,” I said. “Where, as you say, I can find myself.”

  The smile stretched until his cracked leather face became an alarmingly hideous leer. “Of course, my friend. But know that every Seeker sees this-yet the vision will become truth for only one. Which is not likely to be you. Any of you.”

  I frowned. “There are other Seekers? Beyond multiples of me?”

  “There is only one Seeker. But the Seeker is not always you. Nor is their Search identical to yours.”

  I rubbed my eyes. Discovering that I mostly understood what he was talking about was profoundly disturbing. The implications were worse. “We’re not looking for the same thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Kemuel said impassively. “What are you looking for?”

  I stared at him. I didn’t answer.

  Because I didn’t know. Not really.

  I hadn’t even thought about it. There was the job Bolas had inflicted on me, and I had Doc to crack the dragon’s whip… didn’t I? He hadn’t said a word.

  This was a subject on which he would have an opinion.

  It occurred to me that he’d been silent for some while. Since I’d said good-bye to Baltrice, perhaps. I wasn’t sure exactly what this signified, but I found myself gripped by a sudden and astonishingly bleak apprehension. The idea that he might not be there congealed in my throat like frozen snot. “Doc?”

  There came no reply.

  “Quit kidding around. You’re not exactly the strong silent type,” I said, but I knew the truth already. I could feel it.

  The truth felt like a knife. Lodged somewhere between my stomach and my heart, where it stabbed me with every breath.

  The Hidden One regarded me impassively. “Talking to the voice in your head?”

  Anger ignited within me as if my bones had caught fire. “He’s not a voice!” I snapped. “He’s not some damned delusion, he’s a-”

  I choked on the word. This was ridiculous. More than implausible. It was impossible.

  Should have been impossible.

  But I had to say it. I owed him that much.

  “He was a friend,” I said. My eyes felt hot, and my vision blurred; I shook my head and looked away. I didn’t know why I felt what I felt, but I have never been a man to deny the truth. “The only friend I had.”

  Reality is not what we want. It’s what is.

  “I did not mean that you are mad, Tezzeret. A few of you have spoken of a voice that drives you onward-usually bitterly. Sometimes with open hatred. You are the first to name the voice a friend.”

  “It’s not that I like him,” I said. “But… he’s not bad. He wasn’t the rotten bastard he could have been. He actually helped me. More than once; I wouldn’t have made it here without him. And he was always there. I got used to him. It’s… hard to describe. Of everyone who has ever had power over me, he’s the only one who treated me better than he had to.”

  “Mercy is the greatest virtue.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You agree more than you think you do.”

  To me, that meant nothing at all. I shook my head. “I didn’t even say good-bye.”

  “Why would you? You and he did not part. Precisely the opposite.”

  I looked up at the ancient sphinx. He looked down at me.

  “None of you hears voices in this place other than mine and your own. The Seeker faces the Riddle Gate alone.”

  I barely heard him. I was still thinking about Precisely the opposite.

  Was is possible?

  He certainly did seem to understand me better than anyone I’ve ever known. Including my family. He had my sense of humor-at least, down in the guilty-pleasure slush that I usually make a point of not saying aloud. He reminded me of the sort of individual I sometimes thought I might have grown up to be, had I been born into a life less dire than that of scrappers in Tidehollow.

  Yes: I had hated Doc instinctively. At first. He’d tormented me with the merciless malice of a demon child. At first. But even at the very start we had, for example, shared a profound hatred of Nicol Bolas. In fact, the only times we’d really disagreed were when he got angry because I was risking our lives.

  My life.

  Some long-lived creatures have the ability to establish subsidiary selves-subordinate personalities, more or less-to help keep their ever-increasing store of memory organized; dragons are one of these creatures. Anything Bolas could do to himself, I was certain he could do to me. Not to mention it would tickle Bolas right down to the toe-jam between his talons to have set me against myself.

  And if it were true, what di
d that say about what I want? Had Doc been driving me toward Bolas’s goal, or toward my own? What if they were the same?

  And if they weren’t, what was the difference?

  At some point, I sat down. After an unknown interval, I realized I had been staring past Kemuel, silently thinking about nothing at all. It felt as though I had been doing so for a very, very long time. The sort of interval that is usually measured in decades.

  The Hidden One hadn’t moved. Patience is not a virtue to a sphinx. Patience is his nature.

  “I know what I’m looking for,” I said eventually. “For now, anyway. I’m looking for the way through the Riddle Gate. If I don’t have that, nothing else matters.”

  “Very good, my friend! And how do you propose to find a path where every Seeker fails?”

  “That’s the easy part,” I said. “I’ll ask you to show me.”

  Kemuel’s eyes widened, then closed to slanted slits. The ancient sphinx drew himself up, the size of a dragon and twice as dire. His voice boomed like thunder among high mountains. “And what do you expect me to do when you ask, you tiny clot of impudence?”

  “That’s what I want to find out,” I said. “You’ve mentioned the task your father gave you. I’ll be surprised if it’s to warm the ground with your butt while you wait for a Seeker to show up and keep you company. And I am rarely surprised.”

  The Hidden One glared down upon me as though lightning from his eyes might strike me dead.

  Having been trapped in a cavern at the mercy of Nicol Bolas, however, had surgically excised any tendency I might have had to be intimidated by a stern look. “Kemuel the Ancient, called the Hidden One, I conjure you in the name of your father Crucius, in the name of the Search, and in the name of every friendship we have ever shared: Describe your task,” I said, and added, “Please.”

  The stark threat in his glare might as well have been chiseled into a mask of stone. Until one eyelid drooped and reopened, and those erosion scars began etching themselves into his face all over again.

  Blinking, I said, “Was that actually, just now-I mean, did you just wink at me?”

  “Your manners have improved,” he said with an indulgent chuckle that sounded a bit like wind chimes the size of a boat. “Come, my friend. Stand at my side, and we will speak of my task.”