‘Never mind. Some other time.’ As usual, he avoids the explanation. There is too much that she does not understand and Bran is reluctant to stray from his theme. ‘When the world went to hell and the walls of the zoos came down, not many of the animals survived. Captivity had leached out of them all their instinct for endurance. A bit like people, I guess. But the eagles . . .’ He is looking beyond the nest and into the endless blue of the sky. ‘They took to freedom as if they were born to it. As we tore our civilisation apart and split ourselves into bickering Clans, they soared. Kings of creation; Lords of the wind.’
‘You have the heart of an ancient poet, Bran.’ She is only half-joking and he smiles.
‘Sorry. It’s just – There’s something about them. Their power. The way they control the air. They have an instinct for pride, and when you touch their minds, you can sense – a oneness with the world, the wind, even with the prey they hunt. They don’t think like we think. They don’t know; they just are. And what they are is perfect.’
When he speaks like this, she envies him. Not just his life or his freedom, but his mind: that power he possesses to see into the heart of things. Of her. Although his deepest thoughts and feelings are a mystery, closed up inside the fortress of his skull and forever beyond her reach.
‘I love you, you know.’ Her words are barely more than a whisper.
He lowers his gaze from the sky and stares into her. No secrets. Her heart is an open page. ‘I know,’ he says and takes her face between his hands. ‘I wish I could show you.’
‘You do show me. In so many ways.’ It is the truth and yet she knows that it is not what he means. ‘I wish you could too, but—’
His kiss, when it comes, stops her breathing and for a moment it is as if she is touching a tiny fragment of that hidden part of him.
Together they kneel on the soft earth, facing each other and breathing deeply. Above them, the mother eagle swoops on the nest and the chicks resume their whistling cries.
But far below they go unheard.
SHARONNE
‘Are you certain? I mean—’ She allows the words to peter out in case they cause him to change his mind.
The passage stretches away into the darkness beyond the range of the glo-lamp, as Bran pulls the door closed behind him.
‘Are we ever certain of anything?’ His smile is bright in the dull light.
She takes his hand. ‘Of some things.’
There is no hesitation. As she turns to move down the passageway, he moves with her, holding her hand. And for once all her imaginary demons are nowhere in sight.
‘What if someone stops us? How do we explain who I am?’
She stops, turns to face him and takes a theatrical breath. In an instant, her whole demeanour changes and she is Sharonne de Vries, daughter of the Family de Vries, which owns the Fortress and the Farms and lands within a protected ring of kilometres around. And, for all intents and purposes, the people who live within its bounds. She stares down her nose and her expression hardens to an edge that could cut glass. ‘Stop us?’ The words are heavy with condescension. ‘Who, apart from my mother, would dare?’
For a moment longer she holds the attitude and, despite where they are and all they have shared, despite all that he knows about her, he is impressed.
He has seen it before, of course, when she is in public, addressing servants, soldiers or farmhands, or when she walks the marketplace with her mother, dressed in the formal regalia of the Family, with a string of servants in tow. But rarely since their first meeting has she assumed the persona when there was no one else around. With him, she is Sharonne. No titles, no airs and no ornate clothing.
‘That’s just the uniform,’ she confided once, when he’d commented on the difference between what she wore on their excursions and what she wore at other times.
They were standing beside the Fortress wall, just before she left him, and it was as if she’d needed to explain. To justify herself to him, before they parted: he to his life outside; she to her stone cage.
‘It helps maintain the appearance of difference,’ she had continued. ‘It is far easier to believe you are different if you put on the mask and the costume. And it can be fun, dressing up – at least, it was when I was younger. Before I began to calculate what one dress cost in labour and resources. ‘But in the end, it is nothing but the costume of privilege, and I hate—’
Bran had leant forward, pressed two fingertips to her lips and the words had stopped. ‘Hate is a strong word. It is what it is and no more. Just an article of clothing. No need to hate or feel—’
‘Demeaned?’
He had frowned a little. ‘Not the word I’d use. I was thinking of “guilty”.’
Leaning backwards against the wall next to the hidden entry door, she had slid down to a crouch. ‘Of course I feel guilty – living in luxury, while everyone labours to keep me in the manner that custom decrees. But, Bran, it is more than that. It is demeaning. I put on the fabulous dress and allow the stylists to braid my hair and smooth my skin, then I stand in front of the mirror, and . . . There is nothing left of me in the image. All I am is the dress and the position. The bargaining chip that my father will use to cement an alliance with one of the Northern Families. Everything I should be—’
‘Is still there.’ Before continuing, he had crouched down in front of her, so that their eyes were level. ‘Don’t you see? If all you were was the image, you wouldn’t be worrying about it at all. If you were just the dress, the hair and the perfect complexion, it would be demeaning. But you’re not. You could never be just anything.’
The memory fades, and they are back in the passage, before the door that leads into the basement.
‘Where were you?’ she asks, but he doesn’t answer. He is looking at the door, trying to imagine what he will see beyond, when it opens.
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Don’t be nervous. This is my domain. It is my turn to protect you.’
The door swings inward and he can feel himself smiling, as he follows her through.
BRAN
They emerge into a small room, five or six paces square. Hanging from hooks set into the stone are two outfits. Hers is an ornate, full-sleeved creation in orange satin, with a low-cut, white lace collar and a bodice of black velvet. He has seen her in similar clothes on the rare occasions he has been in the marketplace, when she has come out with her coterie of guards and servants.
She looks at him and smiles, as she strips off her commoner’s disguise and stands before him in a thin flesh-coloured slip. There is no self-consciousness, no embarrassment. They are beyond that. He reaches out to touch her bare shoulder.
She rubs her cheek against his hand and kisses his fingers, then turns and takes the dress in both hands.
An expert flick and it is sailing up over her head.
Seconds later, she tightens the lace on the bodice with expert fingers and slips on her shoes. Her dark hair hangs long, to one side of her face, in perfect contrast to the material of the dress, and she begins braiding some of it into a thick plait, which she pins across the centre of her head. All without glancing in the mirror on the wall. During the entire process, her eyes have never left his.
The transformation is complete and Bran realises that he has not moved the whole time.
No, ‘demeaning’ is definitely not the word. She is perfect. For once, he is speechless.
‘And now,’ she whispers, allowing a smile to creep across her lips and smoothing it away again with the tip of her tongue, ‘it is your turn.’
Reaching behind her, she lifts the other outfit from its hook and holds it out to him. It is a white brocade suit, heavily embroidered, in the style favoured by the young men of the Families. ‘It belonged to Adam, my brother. He was about your size when he left, though he says he has lost weight since then.’
When she speaks of her brother, Bran sen
ses the underlying sadness that sits like a stone in her heart. ‘You miss him?’
No answer required. She holds out the suit. ‘Put it on. We will be taking the servants’ passages to my rooms, so the only people we are likely to encounter will probably look at the ground as we pass. If you are wearing this, they will assume you are a visitor from the North. But do not speak, or you will give yourself away. And whatever you do, do not acknowledge them. No member of the Families would ever do that.’
‘Except you.’ He knows her too well.
‘Even me – except when there is nobody else around to see.’ She considers her words. ‘I am not the one who would be punished, you see. There is much that you still have to understand about my life, Bran. And most of it is not very pleasant. You do not know how lucky you are to live Outside.’
He takes the suit from her outstretched hand and begins stripping off his clothes. Oh, yes I do.
‘How did you know I’d come with you today? I mean . . .’ He holds up the suit. ‘How did you know to bring it?’
Shaking her head, she smiles. ‘It has been down here since the first time I went Outside with you. I was hoping that eventually, you might. Come on. I want to show you where I spend my time when I am not with you.’
The ten-minute journey from the basement to Sharonne’s chambers is uneventful.
The few servants who cross their path are hurrying busily on the errands that keep the household running. As she predicted, they do not raise their eyes, but watch the floor as they pass, acknowledging their superiors with the slightest nod.
The hard floor is softened slightly by handwoven rugs, but the blue glow of the lamps that line the ceiling adds a cold, lifeless feeling to the stone corridors.
So different from the rooms of the Master’s only daughter.
As they slip inside, Sharonne locks the door behind them, then turns to catch his reaction.
The room in which he finds himself is huge and corner-less. Perhaps 20 metres across, its gently-domed ceiling soars ten metres above his head, painted to suggest the sky. A deep blue field, dotted with wispy clouds. Half of the long curved wall is painted to resemble a mountain range: jagged soaring crags, a river winding between the bases of the huge peaks and a cloudy purple sky approaching sunset. Staring at it, he can imagine walking into that misty distance, surrounded by the sheer walls of rock.
Something in him moves at the beauty of it and he watches her as she crosses the stone-paved floor towards the centrepiece of the enormous room, a huge reflecting pool, edged in flagstones and fringed with realistic-looking grass and shrubs. She sits down on the flagstones and runs her fingers through the water, watching the ripples spread slowly across the perfect surface, as she speaks. ‘If you must spend your whole life inside, you can at least feel like you are outside.’
Bran has moved up behind her and she gets to her feet nervously, waiting for his reaction.
He sweeps an arm around, as if to encompass the entire space. ‘This room is amazing,’ he manages.
Sharonne looks embarrassed, but pleased. ‘It is my favourite place. Inside.’ A pause. ‘Do you like the wall?’ She turns to look at the mountains.
‘Of course I do. It’s stunning. Who wouldn’t?’ Suddenly, it dawns. The reason for the question. ‘You didn’t—’
Now she smiles. ‘Not on my own. Adam was always the artist. It was because of him that I began sketching. And painting. He was the only reason I avoided turning out like my mother. He designed and outlined the entire concept – the ceiling and the mural – when I was about fourteen, and we spent six months of free time painting it, standing on huge scaffolds for the high parts. I did the blocks of colour and he blended them until I mastered the technique. It was the first creative thing I ever did. I think that is the reason I love this room so much. It reminds me of Adam.’
‘Will he ever come back?’
She shrugs. ‘Perhaps. If my father dies, he will probably come back to make sure I am all right.’
‘What about your mother? Wouldn’t he—’
‘Of course he would. I just – My mother is dying, Bran. Two months, perhaps four.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
She takes his hand and leads him to the outline of a door that is barely visible against the detail of the mural. ‘How could you know? Hardly anyone in the Fortress knows – except for my father, and he doesn’t care. This is where I sleep.’
She opens the door, steps inside and as he follows, it is with the knowledge that in the past few seconds an invisible boundary has been crossed.
14
Old Magic
‘The Archives’
Old Bourne
November 24, 3383ad
LEANA
Mykal is asleep at the desk, his head cradled in his folded arms, his long hair falling like a blanket across the file he was working on when exhaustion took him. Her first instinct is to wake him – to slip inside his mind and gently draw him up from the depths of where his dreams have taken him – but she resists the urge.
He is tired with good reason. She feels weary enough herself, but she did not last much beyond midnight, while he worked well into the early morning, putting the finishing touches to the latest document delivery. The team from the Northern Archive is due in at any time. They sent one of the acolytes ahead to warn of their arrival. The collection team had led him in yesterday in the late afternoon – blindfolded to protect the location of the entrance.
It was the main reason for Mykal’s all-nighter.
Not that she can see the need for such urgency. The Northerners, by all accounts, are pretty easygoing. An extra day’s wait – and rest – would probably be a welcome diversion, before the long trip back.
In the year since her rescue from the Fe’ls, Leana has taken to the life of the Sect as if she was born to it. After a decade of mind-silence in the living death of the Tribe, she has bloomed among the members of a group who accept her talent without question – as they accepted Mykal’s when he was rescued from the Guard all those years ago.
– My mother and my older brother were killed defending me, he confided to her a few weeks after her arrival, but the Guard still captured me. We were heading north to the Citadel. I was chained up in the cart and there were seven Guards on their black horses. That night when we stopped they had sentries set, but the Sect is used to avoiding discovery. Their survival depends on it.
They sneaked into the camp, released me and we were gone before any of the Guard were aware there was something going on. They brought me back here and, apart from a few trips to the Northern Archives and one to the Southern Dead Zone looking for relics, I’ve lived here ever since.
In the ceiling, the glo-lamps burn incessantly. She slides the opaque covers over them to darken the room. From her earliest memory, the lamps have been a symbol of loss. The Guard carried them on the night of Gared’s death and she can still see the fear and the determination in those brown eyes, as her beloved cousin made his fateful choice; his face bathed in the lamps’ cold blue glow, his expression betraying nothing.
– Don’t forget me, Leana. I won’t forget you.
I won’t, Gared.
Carl, the Lead Restorer, solved the mystery of the lamps for her a few days after her unexpected arrival in the underground sanctuary.
‘There’s no magic about them, child,’ he said, his gentle voice suggesting slight amusement at her awe of the spheres that glowed constantly and without heat. ‘It’s one of the few technologies that survived the Meltdown intact. There are texts in the Archive that explain their working principles, but only a couple of people up North have done enough research into the pre-Fall sciences to be able to make sense of them. One of them tried to explain it to me once, when I made the Journey north, but there were too many strange concepts for it to sink in. Basically, they draw their power from the k
inetic energy generated by the motion in the free molecules of the air around them, converting it into electro-chemical energy to generate the glow. Do you know what molecules are, child?’
She shook her head at that. There was so much she didn’t know.
With a smile, he continued. ‘No matter, because there are no mechanical parts and no reductive chemical reactions. There’s nothing to break down, so as long as the sphere remains intact, there’s no reason why they can’t glow forever.’
Of course, the explanation made little sense to her, but somehow she was comforted. The fact that there was an explanation – even if it was beyond her – robbed them somehow of their threatening magical aura. They were a tool of the Old Ones which had managed to survive when everything else had been destroyed. But they weren’t evil or a sign of supernatural power. And they were very useful.
Except if you’re trying to sleep.
She takes off her dog-skin coat and lays it across Mykal’s shoulders, then turns to go.
– Have they arrived yet?
She looks back. Mykal’s head is still cradled in his arms, but his eyes follow her.
– Not yet. Get some sleep and I’ll wake you when they do.
– Kay . . .
She holds the contact a few seconds longer, but she can feel him slipping back into sleep, so she withdraws gently, closing the door on her way out.
15
Awakenings
Expeditionary Ether-Shuttle Cortez
in Transit, Ether Dimensions
Jump-Time Elapsed, 447.9 Days (Standard)
JORDAN
In the chamber of the Sleepers, nothing has changed.
The green light flashes on the console above his head, on and off, on and off, as it has done almost forty-five million times since his eyes slid closed a year earlier.
Beyond the thin shell of the ship’s hull, the absolute cold and the utter darkness of the Ether Dimensions extend to infinity. Beyond black, beyond empty.
But finally, deep in the core of the ship’s AI cybertronics, something changes. Like a single-minded savant, the program has waited, counting the seconds as they piled up, and as the final moment turns over, the program ignites, a switch clicks, and a circuit engages.
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