Frinelia’s fingers massaged Phos’s shoulders. Huge archways pierced the arena walls, eight dark doorways staring at her, sealed by heavy canvas. The carousel, another path, but Frinelia followed her gaze and sighed.
‘Not there, Phos. Make the carousel our last choice.’
‘Then downward. Where’s Caliper?’
‘With Mitch. They’re trying to rebuild the food factory, but there’s too much damage. More churchmen arrive each hour.’
‘I have an idea, but we need our miller.’
***
Caliper grabbed a pole from the kitchen floor and knocked down the rags stuffed into the kitchen skylights. Daylight leaped inside to scald the green stains slathering the tiled wall. Grey puddles had covered the floor, but they’d dried into wrinkled stains, and yeast smells filled the air. He’d scraped a corner clear and stood there with a surviving beaker.
Glass shards carpeted the rest of the kitchen, and Mitch sketched on a table’s dust as an elder whispered behind him. Words became pictures of pipes and flasks, and Caliper’s stomach rumbled as hunger dished out its own class of sickness.
The elder fell silent, and Mitch stared around the kitchen. ‘I know what’s needed. Two flasks did three jobs at once, but they’re smashed, and so are their spares. Can your exploits shape glass?’
Caliper put his beaker on a shelf. ‘Nothing I have touches glass.’
‘Should I get Phos?’
‘No. I’ll find her. She’ll throw herself anywhere she finds.’
‘She’s got motive with those men outside; they’re hammering at the doors.’
‘You’ll hunt for more glassware,’ Caliper said. ‘Our elder friends might have overlooked a few pieces, so follow the dust.’
‘I’ll be fine, but watch your step.’
Tens of guards and priests mustered outside, and too many elders were willing to take the church’s side, but if he kept the girl close they might find new hiding places or a tunnel out to the moor. Caliper loped through the hallways and asked for directions to the arena. The echoing cavern left him blinking, but Phos and Frinelia stood out from the cluster of elders. He clambered down, and the girl ran towards him as Frinelia strutted behind.
‘Caliper, can we find rope?’
‘Rope?’
‘You know rope: thick string.’
Frinelia’s hands made fists. ‘No, Phos – this is insane.’
‘What’s your game, Phos?’
Phos hopped from foot to foot. ‘You can’t repair the food factory, can you?’
‘Too much shatter,’ Caliper said.
‘There might be glassware underneath.’
Frinelia gasped. ‘This is madness, Phos; you’re wrapping reasons around insanity.’
Phos faced Caliper. ‘Rope,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it done: you tie rope around a man and wrap the other end around a pillar to lower the guy.’
‘Done it many times; nothing beats it for fixing a windmill’s outside, though most times it’s me letting people down. But there’re questions waiting, Phos: what if our rope breaks or I lose my grip? What if we can’t pull you back up or the rope snags?’
Frinelia crossed her arms. ‘We are not debating this.’
Phos blinked. ‘What if those priests break in?’
‘We’re responsible. I mean, I’m responsible since your dad…. There’s a reason adults don’t let children run riot.’
‘You took risks when you destroyed your windmill, but the risks brought you here, close to Christina….’
Were sparks flying from the gap ahead? Caliper studied the shifting streams of colour; Christina always brought him light against the darkness. He crept towards the edge and peered down to watch Phos’s slabs still spiralling in the beams, and he let the glistening pulses stroke his face. Was Christina watching?
One step back and half a nod to Phos. ‘If you’re content, I’ll not stop you.’
Frinelia gripped Phos’s elbow. ‘I will. Putting yourself in danger is your choice, Caliper – endangering Phos is not.’
‘So she holds the rope while I’m lowered – would that work?’ Caliper squatted beside Phos. ‘No arguments; we use the safest knots and kit you out the best way we can.’
‘Is this eidolon addling your mind? You want Phos to sniff out your ghost?’
‘Find a way, and I’ll travel myself. Christina’s on our side. If she’s underneath she’ll not want the harm touching Phos, and we might find glass in the darkness.’
‘Perhaps Christina owns a glassware shop – flasks the right shape and cheerful shopkeepers to shine your boots. Sniff reality for one moment, Caliper – there’s only dust and danger below.’
‘You’ve heard the hammering outside, so nowhere is safe now.’
‘The sooner I go the sooner the food factory gets repaired,’ Phos said. ‘We need strong rope and strong people.’
Caliper chuckled. ‘There’s my work sorted. I saw henger rope above, and it’ll hold ten times your weight without stretch.’
Frinelia stroked Phos’s hair. ‘You’re sure? What if there’s more shaking?’
‘I’m not waiting here.’
Should he break into the carousel and rifle through its danger to find Phos a weapon? Sweat trickled over his forehead, and he screwed his eyes shut, but he still felt Frinelia’s glaring – a scouring tendril of blame.
***
Phos glanced up as three middle-aged women in aprons appeared on the balcony to chat with elders, and their whispers echoed around the arena. To her right, Frinelia sat and clasped her knees while glowering at Caliper. Mitch lay flat beside the hole and pushed his head over the edge; he’d agreed to watch the descent and shout if trouble came. Caliper sat to swathe her in his rope harness, one loop for each leg, and another hugging her chest. Fibres squeaked as his brawny arms tugged at the rope, and an image came unasked of Caliper pinching seeds between thumb and forefinger to feed a wren.
He took two steps back and spread his arms. ‘Can you twist at the waist and move your hands?’
She demonstrated. Phos’s arguments held firm in the silence, and Frinelia said nothing. Mitch had created space in her backpack, and Caliper slid the torch into her belt.
‘Your weight will knit the henger fibres together, so don’t panic over any creaking. Feet first all the way, keep gripping the rope, and always know your position. We’ll lower you gradually, but shout if you need a stop or if you need studying time, or—’
‘I’ll shout – I get the idea.’ Phos pulled at the rope clutching her waist. ‘Glad this doesn’t go around my neck.’
‘The hole’s edges are smooth, so the rope won’t fray, but Mitch will watch, and I’ll anchor the rope. You ready?’
‘I’m ready.’ Phos sat and dangled her legs into the gap – had those stones slowed? No need to tell Caliper.
He crouched behind and whispered. ‘I’m hoping you’ll find a way to Christina.’
‘You’ve a message?’
‘Tell her…tell her where I am, and tell her I’m waiting.’
‘That’s all?’
‘There’s words she’s not spoken, and she said the truth would leave me screaming, but she promised more telling later. Tell her I never panicked when Frinelia spoke of the tiny machines, and tell her we need to keep fat boy Rastersen outside.’
Phos nodded.
‘You’re after escape paths for us and glassware to rebuild the food factory. Don’t get distracted unless—’
‘Unless Christina. I’m ready.’
‘I’ll take up the slack, but wait until the rope grips, and grasp the edge and push.’
The shimmering rays streaked past her head, and Phos stretched out her arm. Below, the stones rolled like leaves in still water, and she blushed as she pushed forward.
She plummeted, and her sight blurred, but Caliper’s harness tightened to force out a grunt. The leg loops seized most of her weight before the creaking rope inched her towards the lumbering stones, and the light
dazzled her until she looked straight ahead. Dim ghosts flickered in the gloom, a figure on a rope, faint reflections against the darkness. She twisted her body to see more copies of herself. Glowing mites danced like fireflies through the air.
Frinelia’s voice struggled down; stonework ate the words, but arguments held their own signature. The rope creaked again, and Phos sank past a rolling stone slab and stroked the surface: ordinary stone, but fresh scratches marred its sides. Its spinning had slowed into a crawl as if the light beams were building a cradle for the blocks.
Frinelia’s shouting didn’t stop Caliper’s gentle lowering, and rope bit into her tunic, so the light didn’t hold her – good thing she hadn’t jumped. Had the shaking triggered these beams, or had the rays stroked the arena floor for centuries? Could she harness the light to build houses or shunt livestock between fields?
She tilted forward, and the rising beams played across her eyes. She squinted, but the colours still dazzled with their slow rhythm, violet through blue to green, and her breathing matched their pulse. Stone dust coated her lips.
‘Can you talk, Phos?’ Distance withered Caliper’s bellow into a reedy whisper.
‘I’m fine, so keep lowering.’ Her rope swung and her reflections vanished, but ghostlike panes of glass and corners winked into view further off. Each foot of descent showed more as her eyes adjusted, and frost-covered cubes hovered in the distance as if a drunken giant had slammed glass dice into unseen walls. Ribbons of colour streamed around her, and looking up showed her rope as a brilliant streak of light threading upward.
Her descent paused: Caliper might be resting. She twisted to her right as sparks flitted over the edge of one cube, and she swung through the air like a pendulum’s bob.
Phos glanced down; the floor looked closer. A grid of black pillars sat below, an indoor henge with razor-sharp corners. Lanterns glistened in between the pillars. Her rope creaked again as she swung, and bile rushed into her gullet.
Again, Caliper lowered her, and she skimmed above a black-edged pillar five yards wide. Its edges glinted like black steel. Her path didn’t shift when she flailed her legs, and another drop left her swinging three feet from a stone as her rope thrummed.
‘Caliper – land me elsewhere.’ Grit dulled her voice into a limping croak, and craning her neck back showed the gap above as a dwindling smear of colour only visible because her twitching lifeline pointed that way. Phos spat to clear her mouth.
‘Caliper!’
No reply.
The rope hauled her back towards a pillar, and she pushed her foot forward as the corner passed inches away.
The lanterns flickered for a handful of heartbeats before dying, and Phos blinked as blackness swallowed her. Had her trespass triggered an ancient trap? Phos scrambled for Caliper’s torch and flicked life into it; silver rays fanned through grime. Images flashed past, the pillar’s stone gobbling her light, crystalline pools like eyes sitting on a metal floor, distant shards of her reflection winking at her.
Colour returned as the lanterns below pulsed crimson, a bloody heartbeat, and Phos swung back to the henge. Noise grated above, and Phos leaned back. Overhead, the hovering slabs had shifted to line up with the gap and rose to repair her ceiling.
Her rope harness tightened, and pain gouged her body as she hurtled upward. Caliper had to be hauling the rope, as fast as he could, but she’d never reach the gap before it closed, and those immense stones would crush her lifeline. Phos scrabbled at her knots, but she’d risen too far to fall, and her torch slipped to clatter onto the floor.
The ropes stopped squeezing, and she fell: Caliper had realised her position and was playing out his rope. The ground raced upward, and Phos relaxed her legs before her feet slammed against metal, but she toppled onto her flank, and pain lanced through her body.
Frozen metal: the sheets stole heat from her tunic, and her breath fogged the air. The henge pillars loomed over her like unblemished ingots of night, and Caliper’s torch threw her shadow over the coal-coloured stones.
Phos struggled to her feet and winced. New shadows flickered around her body as a bright bead fizzed through the shrinking ceiling gap to plummet towards her, and sparks cascaded from the candle, a gift from Caliper, a memory of daylight. Light above dwindled into three narrow cracks before winking out, and her rope writhed like a dying snake before coiling over the floor.
Caliper’s candle tumbled, and glints of light picked out a giddying array of cubes coating the walls. Her cavern had a funnel’s shape, wide above but sloping to embrace the henge, and the cubes on one side had spilled across the floor. Blurred shadows loomed against their frosted sides. Caliper’s candle smacked into the ground five yards away and spewed out more sparks.
Chill wormed through her boots and frost stung her cheeks as the metal rang under her feet, so maybe this floor worked as an alarm. Leester metal was rare, a tool treasured through generations or a precious family ornament, but here it did the work of stone. Caliper’s flare popped with a final spurt of sparks, and Phos grabbed her torch.
Dust squirmed around her and recoiled as she stretched out her hand. She untied her harness. The crimson lantern light pulsed to vomit out shadows and show glimpses of the crystal cubes and black pillars. Caliper couldn’t reach her here; Christina couldn’t live here. She’d brought no water, and the bitter air mixed with stone dust to knife her throat, and her pain ramped up each time she swallowed.
Chapter 17: ancient light
Caliper stared at the rope’s stump and ran his fingers over the crushed fibres, but he’d never meet Frinelia’s stare. He glanced at the polish and smoothness of the restored floor stones, which gleamed as if the stonemasons had just left. The women and elders huddled on the balcony peered at him without words, and Caliper stared at the archway ahead, the carousel’s sealed door. A few elders wandered behind him.
Mitch stood. ‘Morzenthal’s half building, half animal. Shame we can’t train it.’
‘You may imagine my thinking, Caliper.’ Frinelia’s voice curdled the air. ‘I’ll not speak, but make finding Phos your goal.’
‘At least Rastersen won’t grab her,’ Mitch said. ‘And no one expected the city to heal itself. Can we ask Morzenthal to open passages or send Phos a message?’
Caliper dropped the rope. Phos’s words had crafted a glass, and he’d squeezed inside, but regret could wait: keep busy and new paths might open. ‘Frinelia, what’s changed since your last visit?’
‘I’ve been away, so don’t ask.’
‘Can you ask the elders?’
‘I’ll check the libraries, but you’ll stay here.’ The priestess swept to a stairway.
Caliper turned to the elders. ‘Have yous seen those repairing rays before, the ones cradling the stones?’
A plump elder wearing a pale blue cowl stepped forward. ‘I remember one carousel exhibit; no one’s touched it for years, but it sprays out blue light of every shade imaginable.’ The elder paused. ‘In normal times, we would demand you undergo rigorous training before entering the carousel. In normal times….’ The elder patted Caliper’s arm and pointed to one of the arena’s arched doorways and its brown canvas seal.
‘No, Terelian,’ another elder said. ‘They can’t see the carousel: the church won’t forgive you.’
Terelian whipped around, agile for his bulk, and faced the other elders. ‘Those thugs outside won’t respect your toadying; don’t sink to their level.’
‘They’re churchmen.’
‘Are they? Without Torzene their clothes are rags. Give them what they want, and they’ll keep taking until we have nothing.’ Terelian turned back to Caliper. ‘Through the canvas. Follow my footsteps; don’t stare at any statues; and touch nothing – especially not the birds.’
Mitch frowned. ‘What birds?’
‘Follow me.’ Dark grey canvas stretched over the archway, but Terelian stabbed the fabric with a dagger and sliced through the cloth. Mitch tugged a leather roll from his pocket.
‘A fat man at Morzenthal; that’s scary,’ whispered Mitch.
Caliper chewed his lip. The blue light had rotated the stones before the crimson beams had heaved them back, so light made a tool, and tools meant toolmakers, builders with skills outstripping those of any craftsman he’d met. Had any builders survived, or was hope misleading him?
Terelian pushed the sagging canvas to one side and stepped into the gloom. Caliper and Mitch wandered into a chamber of old-book smells washed by a dim cousin of daylight dribbling from a patch on the ceiling. Daylight was ferried through Morzenthal along unseen paths. On their left sat a set of low tables holding boxes of coloured crystals. Dusty leather books were piled over warped shelves to their right, and a sweeping set of giant stone stairs descended into a morass of crushed display cases. Shattered glass formed a sea between the cabinets, and outsize knitted dolls dangled from the broken cases as if they’d died while escaping.
‘Don’t stare at the figures,’ Terelian said.
An intact case held leathery heads daubed with shreds of orange paint. The next case contained wooden feet dangling from wires, and a set of black held beads threaded on strings. Battered metal horns spilled from two wooden crates at the foot of the stairs. Behind, wooden pipes pierced a black cloth bag. An outsize violin leaned against a stained plasterboard sheet. Paper sheets and sticks littered the grimy rugs scattered over the floor, and two more oak wardrobes huddled beside the far wall – again with the same crack in the left-hand door.
‘Is this safe?’
‘No,’ Terelian said. ‘Most figures have barely shifted since I was last here, but if you hear twittering or see tiny flying birds, tap my shoulder.’
‘How many of those wardrobes did yous make?’
‘We made nothing, but they kept appearing here, one each day for three months. Younger men than me hauled them across Morzenthal. We think they’re safe, but anything left inside can disappear.’
Lightmaker Page 17