Phos hugged her chest and stared north. ‘There’s burning below.’ Caliper followed her gaze; a village sat on the plain, and red and orange streamers gnawed a windmill’s tower while smoke sputtered from its top. Phos pulled out her father’s metal tube and flicked it open before pressing one end against her eye. She sighed and handed him the rod.
Burnished brass with lacquer; the smaller tube fitted the larger without a gap. She showed him how to tweak the device until the windmill’s warped picture hovered inside the brass. The tube ate distance, and now the tower looked only a hundred yards away, and flames gouged the windmill’s sides as a sail crashed downward. Dust loved catching fire, and millers always guarded against sparks, so what had happened?
The distant fire guttered out, and he lowered Phos’s tube as the sun’s arch drifted eveward and shadowy pools slithered over their path.
Mitch tapped his boots against their path. ‘Still got your torch?’
‘I’ve better.’
Caliper knelt. His overalls and apron spewed out a rotten-fish stench, but he pressed his palms against the gravel. Images of twisting roots trickled into his mind, and his spindly threads rattled through the path. The grass answered, and light burst onto his face, and the glow surged out to turn the road into a gleaming ribbon riding the ridge of hills. If this track touched Morzenthal they’d find their way.
‘It’s still over an hour to Morzenthal,’ Frinelia said. ‘Or we could double back and sleep under trees.’
Mitch looked back. ‘No, we can’t.’
Caliper’s strip of light stretched ahead and behind, and below, five specks of light jittered over their track. Church lanterns, miles behind but slinking upward; lighting their path had etched a glowing arrow through the darkness.
Phos moaned. ‘Can you snuff out the light?’
‘Never learned that one.’
‘Any other exploits left?’
‘Grass doesn’t think, so I’ve nothing.’
Frinelia stared at the approaching violet-white lanterns. ‘We’re closer to Morzenthal, but they’re faster. I should have silenced Rastersen.’
‘You’re sure it’s him?’
‘Their pace has anger – passion and greed too. It’s him.’
The lights swayed, and Caliper imagined stamping, leather-clad legs, and cloaks billowing in the murk. ‘Hustle, and we’ll make Morzenthal before them.’
Daylight drained from the vault, and their shadows lengthened before dissolving into gloom. Rain spattered his face as the slope kept rising, and their path’s glow yellowed a fraction. They might drift from the path to huddle in a gully, but they’d freeze, and more priests would scour the hills. Wind needled through his overalls as hail hurtled from the swirling darkness, and one glance behind showed the lanterns closing.
Each turn uncovered another twist of track, but they crested a ridge, and the pursuing lights disappeared. Phos stumbled, and his hand grasped her shoulder. The girl trembled but broke free to lurch forward.
Caliper expected Morzenthal’s walls every time they topped a rise, but the same bitter grey landscape kept unfolding ahead. The gravel light dwindled into a sick glimmer, and he fished the torch from his backpack – the beam picked out flecks of sleet.
‘Is that safe?’ Frinelia’s voice rasped through the night.
‘We mustn’t lose the path.’ They’d escape the churchmen’s sight for five minutes, which might let them reach Morzenthal. If the priests followed him inside….
Deeper shadows on his left caught his vision, and he splashed light over a moss-slathered mound of broken stone blocks.
‘We’re near the city: that’s one of our fallen ruins,’ Frinelia said.
‘What happened?’
‘We’ve lost any records, but these stones fell from height – many are half-buried.’
‘They tumbled from the vault?’
‘People with decent eyes have checked, but the stone above is intact.’
Caliper glanced ahead. ‘So these stones floated?’
‘I’ve heard a thousand stories; wander these ruins, and you’ll invent new tales, but no one can tell true from false, since everything but stone rotted centuries ago.’
Phos reeled to her left and crashed to her knees, and Caliper jammed his torch into Frinelia’s hand before hoisting the girl into his arms and squinting ahead into the icy rain. ‘Snuff the torch: those priests will reach the ridge any moment.’
‘Take care: the entrance is easy to miss at night, and your path is fading.’
Mitch halted. ‘We’ve lights ahead.’
Frinelia gasped. ‘There aren’t lights outside Morzenthal – did those churchmen overtake us?’
‘Can’t be. Is this another ruin?’
‘No. I know this hill; we’re facing the right way, but the outer wall has been dark for centuries.’
Caliper snorted. ‘I’m starting fashions.’ An upright rectangle of golden light bleared through the rain to hint at stone walls stretching either side. Phos murmured as she faced forward.
‘I’d like to think this display is for us,’ Frinelia said.
‘Are they expecting you?’
‘Not for weeks. I visited Torzene to follow your progress and planned to stay longer.’
Caliper wiped rain from his face – did his half-drowned eyes mock him, or did the space inside the glowing frame look like a door? It was three times his height, with square panels festooning the space, two across and three high. A crease ran down the middle, and outsize hoops hung halfway up. He’d seen similar in a mansion. A cart stacked with barrels and rakes sat beside the door.
‘How do we enter?’ Caliper shifted his grip on Phos’s body as she stirred and mumbled.
‘Swing a hoop against the door, and if they’re awake….’
Metallic clanks rang out, and silver rays spurted from the door’s centre as it split open. The two halves juddered outwards, and Caliper squinted as two silhouettes fidgeted in the light. A stone apron stretched out from the doorway.
‘It’s Frinelia; I’m early.’
A woman’s voice rang out, a priest accent, clipped words baked with confidence. ‘You’ve brought friends and half a hill of mud.’
‘And you found lights.’ Frinelia strode forward with outstretched hands.
‘They lit themselves three hours ago; the doors work, and several exhibits are stirring. Even the world map is glowing.’
The other figure held back. ‘Not everyone is smiling.’
Frinelia hugged her friend. ‘We need shelter, and these doors need closing.’
Caliper stepped inside and onto a polished stone surface. Light burst from patches set into the graceful curves of the ceiling, and a short stairway with huge steps ran upward to a panelled wooden door. His boots scattered mud across the floor, and he blinked as warm air skimmed his face. Phos’s eyes opened as water dripped from her tunic.
The woman glanced at Caliper’s boots before holding his gaze. Flowing grey hair framed a face with a scattering of wrinkles, and a smile simmered below her skin. ‘You need washing and new clothes, and we have both.’
‘We’d love the sleeping too,’ Caliper said.
Frinelia coughed. ‘Shut and lock these doors: we’re being followed.’
‘Bandits?’
‘Churchmen. Much has changed outside. Torzene lies in ruins, and they hold us responsible.’ Frinelia glanced at Caliper.
The woman glared. ‘You’ve angered the priests? What happened at Torzene, and how many are chasing?’
‘Five or six.’ Caliper let Phos’s feet touch the floor, but he held her upright, and her head lolled against his sleeve.
The Morzenthal elder drew her cloak around her and fastened the clasp at her neck. ‘Six now and six hundred by morning?’
‘They’re puppeteers, and if they catch us here, they’ll ransack Morzenthal, so you must lock them out.’
Wind gusted through the open door and rain spattered over stone as the woman’s hands
balled into fists.
‘Still imagining divisions, Frinelia? No one needs your labels, and don’t expect my support for any rebels you’ve grubbed up.’
‘We have two children.’
‘Blackmail won’t lock these doors.’
‘They’re exhausted.’
‘You will all step outside.’
Mitch’s voice echoed over the glazed walls. ‘They’ve crested the hill.’
Caliper glanced outside; lanterns hurtled towards them in a running frenzy, and he faced the elder. ‘I’ve talked with your eidolon and learned her name, and she asked me here.’
Shock silenced the two elders, but one mouthed the single word, ‘Eidolon.’
‘She’s waiting for us, and maybe she’s behind your city’s waking. Let us in, and there’s every chance you’ll meet her,’ Caliper said.
No exploit he knew could touch these glossy walls, but his hand stretched inside his apron pocket to snaffle his mallet. Caliper focused, and tiny buds burst from the wooden handle and bloomed into lacy white flowers to form a promise and a plea.
‘Christina taught me the exploits, and you’ll want the learning that’s in them.’
The brittle frowns on the elders’ faces turned into stares like hunger, and as a pair, they glided to the door to press their hands against a darker patch on the outside wall. Morzenthal’s immense doors groaned and jolted before shuddering back to fill the doorway and block out the frozen night with its running invaders. The slam echoed for a few heartbeats, but even in the gloom, he’d felt the fury in the chasing churchmen’s faces, and they’d find tools outside to chip at the stone; he’d only won a few hours of safety.
Chapter 15: beware the breakfast
Her dreams of drowning faded, and Phos woke into a silence where clean sheets draped her body in a pine fragrance. Could Morzenthal’s people bottle breath from trees? The nearest wall was a polished stone slab ten feet away. Sixty feet above, a white tiled ceiling wafted out a soft glow.
She coughed, and her hacking echoed over the chill hall as her breath fogged. Two lines of sheetless beds stretched across the chamber, but a low table and a long wooden box sat beside her. The floor numbed her feet, but the box only held her filthy boots and a shapeless overall; she remembered arms peeling her clothes away, though dried mud still glazed her skin. A massive doorway pierced the wall in front, a rectangle capped with a pointed arch; its stone carvings modelled leaves and acorns.
‘Hello?’
Another echo, and Phos tugged on the sack-like garment before running her hand across the wall. The huge bricks fitted without mortar as if they’d grown into place, and indigo ridges like veins meandered across the surface.
Two silver-headed women in shawls and black dresses bustled inside and smiled before speaking. ‘We didn’t want to wake you earlier, but your friends are planning breakfast.’
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘We kept them safe, but they’re beyond washing, and we had nothing your size, so we made new ones.’
Phos stared. ‘You’ve no children?’
‘You’re the youngest by decades.’
‘Young or not, I need washing.’
‘We’ve a new bathing place that started working yesterday. Does that suit?’
Yes, thought Phos, that suits. She needed to see Morzenthal work. The first woman shepherded her into a vast hallway, a road stretching from right to left, and a gentle curve showed in the tiled walls; the passageways facing her would lead into Frinelia’s immense arena. Statues of bearded men stood flush against the walls twenty yards away.
No, not twenty yards, nearly forty. These statues were giants, standing to attention as they gazed over her head, each twice her size, swathed in togas of carved stone, and each face showed character. The closest figure looked bemused, the next concerned, and a third perplexed, so had the sculptor planned a story? The three to her left clutched books.
An arched canopy of glass panes glowed in the daylight, and two rows of slender stone pillars plunged from ceiling to floor. Carved ridges girdled the pillars to imitate tree trunks. Chestnut and tan tiles traced out squares and diamonds on the surrounding walls, and glossy floor stones used tints of grey to mirror the patterns. A few battered wooden benches filled the spaces between pillars like an afterthought. Phos stood by a pillar and stared across the curving hallway before looking up; lines of arched windows pierced the walls halfway between floor and ceiling to form a second storey.
‘Are those wall tiles made of different stone, and who stuck them up there?’
‘We wouldn’t know.’
‘You’ve never wondered?’
‘What’s the point in wondering?’
Phos frowned. ‘Is that glass above, and do you have clouds inside?’
The women smirked and ushered her forward. She stared at the floor tiles, and stumbled as she realised they formed arrows. How could she spot the difference between decoration and sign? Clouds swirled into every shape imaginable, but they didn’t hold secrets.
They passed through another archway, three times her height, and into a curving corridor. Their path became a walkway dangling over an immense gulf, where taut wires made railings, and Phos darted to the edge to stare down onto a path crossing underneath. Amber light trickled through frosted windows in the ceiling, but cracks crazed the glass.
Doorways appeared, rectangles slicing through the thick stone walls, and green light stole into their corridor from one room. Inside, a glass dome threw tinted daylight over shelves holding rows of potted spiky brown fronds with metallic thorns. Saucers holding red and orange pastes littered a workbench, and brushes poked from glass jars.
‘Medicinal herbs,’ her companion said. ‘It’s warmer inside.’
‘You’re allowed medicine?’
‘Churchmen come for treatment.’
Holes gaped above the plants, and bleached patches of plaster striped the walls. ‘This room’s changed jobs,’ Phos said.
A slow nod. ‘Change has its place.’
‘What used to go on here?’
Another watery smile leaked onto the woman’s face, but her silence stretched out until Phos glanced back at the room and up at the glass ceiling.
‘Did this place hold books?’
The woman frowned as if Phos had sworn, and gestured her back into the corridor. The three scuttled into a passage with pitted walls and mould-tainted air, and grooves scoured the floor as water dribbled from the sooty ceiling.
‘This stretch has always been shabby, but the leaking started yesterday, which is strange when there’s cloudless sky above.’
‘Do you have libraries?’
‘Why fuss over books? I’ve dusted a few, but they’re full of nonsense.’
Phos didn’t bother arguing. Rastersen’s feet churned through the outside mud as he hunted for entrances, and books might help her learn of hiding places and escape routes.
A mob of toga-wearing elders stamped down the corridor towards them; sandals splashed through puddles. Four syllables old maybe, and they might have shared words with Dad. She opened her mouth, but their heads stayed stiff as they barged past her.
‘Rude,’ whispered Phos.
The corridor opened out into another echoing chamber, crammed with empty glass cases. Thin banners with faded letters she couldn’t read dangled from the glass ceiling, but the women led her through a door on her right and into a room with gleaming walls. A high-pitched hum whistled through the soap-scented air.
‘Here’s our new bathing room. Yesterday you’d never have believed the dust, but now everything sparkles.’
Phos’s overall chafed her hips, and she stumbled over the slippery floor. Bundles of satin fabric covered a chair, and six cubicles ran along a wall.
‘Try the cell beside the clothes, but don’t go in dressed.’
Phos tugged her overall over her head and faced a cubicle before entering. Three walls surrounded a stippled floor – she imagined herself standing in
side a creamy dice. The corners were rounded as if the stone had flowed, and shallow ridges tickled her feet.
‘We wash here? There’s no water.’
‘Not yet there isn’t.’
Phos shrugged, and a warm mist rolled around her. The ceiling stayed blank; water squeezed itself from the air without fuss. She rubbed her hand against her flank, and her fingers glided over skin as dirt streaked the floor and droplets beaded on her palm.
The women smiled. ‘Morzenthal has woken. Visit our kitchen and wave your hand in the right place, and clean water flows. Extra passageways have appeared that no one dares explore, and another room copies clothes; you have new garments on the chair.’
Phos walked out, and oil glistened over her skin before vanishing. The chair held brilliant white trousers, a vest and tunic, and her cotton undershirt with a tear running across the left sleeve. White leather boots sat beneath.
‘This is my undershirt.’
‘No. We made a copy.’
Phos frowned. ‘You copied the rip?’
‘We didn’t notice your rip; we copied the whole shirt. You were sleeping, so we guessed your measurements, though we don’t know how to add colour.’
Everything was too large, and her buttons were missing, but leather belts hung from the chair, and they helped wrap the stiff tunic around her chest. The cloth belched out a burnt-leaf odour.
‘You’ll want breakfast.’
And ten thousand answers, thought Phos. Did Morzenthal heal itself? Had Christina woken the city, and what was Rastersen planning once he’d breached the walls? Knowledge might keep her free, but Morzenthal’s stacked corridors and rooms would have her darting between chambers, and Dad’s words rang through her mind: trying to see everything meant seeing nothing. Her stomach ached; she’d start with breakfast.
The women sent her clambering down a giant flight of stairs where workers had stuffed dark wooden blocks into the corners, and light faded into a fuggy gloom as a sour-beer stench rotted the air. Five elders waited at the stairway base with crossed arms. Bald heads with stray tufts of faded hair sat on flowing white togas, and each man used the same glare on her as if they wanted her to fall. The two women had vanished, and Phos struggled downward as a block rocked under her feet. Stains daubed the walls, and bundles of cardboard and paper littered the corridor’s left side.
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