A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 1 (Part 3 of 3)

The quiet street where Imlon resided was deserted; the door to his chambers, unlocked.  He only managed to get there a few minutes before the thumping on his door.

“Stargazer!  Stargazer!”

Before Imlon could react, the two legionaries who had been guarding him barged in, panting with fury and fatigue.  Imlon shrank back as they stormed toward him.

“Where did you go?”

“I lost you in the run to the walls!” said Imlon.

“And then where?”

“I came straight here.  But I got lost on the way, I don’t know the lower wards by the chapel!”

“You must.  You’ve been here long enough.”

“I don’t know them!” lied Imlon.

“Blood on the wings, we don’t have time for this.  Lock him in.”

The instant the key turned in the lock, Imlon collapsed onto a stool, gasping for breath.

Urgency demanded that he rise and he began pressing what few possessions he had left into a chest in his bedroom.  Tattered and shredded fragments of cheap tapestries and other homely decorations still clung to the walls of the small, low chamber, furnished with a bed, a squat wardrobe, and an empty bookshelf.  Imlon passed through to the adjoining chamber, a larger space held up by slender pillars.  Cracked lumps of glass lay on the large table in the corner along with charred fragments of wooden casings.  The bookshelves were empty, their contents having been burned, and all the tools and materials for grinding, polishing and testing the lenses he manufactured had been confiscated.  Blackened flakes of parchment were scattered around the glowing fireplace.  Six weeks on Imlon could still smell the ash.

A key turned in the lock and a legionary marched in with bread and small beer.

“Is there any news?” asked Imlon.  “Have they said...”

The door slammed shut.  Imlon devoured the wheaten husk like an animal, drained the weak beer, and continued to gather up his belongings.

He had been carefully folding his clothes, the repetition of the task soothing him, when a bell tolled nearby – midnight – and sweat trickled down his forehead.  A precious object came to mind and he rushed around casting candlelight into every crack and crevice of his chambers, only to pat his chest and find it within a pocket.  He drew it out: a thin wooden tube, the first magnifying instrument he had made, now the only one still intact.  He put it back with a trembling hand.

Time slipped by: it wasn’t long before the bell tolled for one o’clock.  Exhaustion gripped his senses.  Waking dreams flickered across his sight – the audience to come, Agostes triumphant, his brother hanging from the scaffold, or worse, or worse.

Shouting dragged him back.  He stood stock still, listening to the voices that had sprung up outside his door, angry and forceful, at least three or more men.  Imlon hid beneath the arch to his bedroom, peering out at the door.  Someone thrust it open.

“You cannot enter, his Majesty’s orders, turn...”

“I am entering, stand aside.”

Imlon stayed out of sight.  He knew the second voice, deep and wry. 

“I will not move!  Get back!”

“Stand aside.”

The grating of a half-drawn sword was met by a prolonged silence.

“Put it away, legionary.”

“Legionary,” said a third voice, “You are speaking to Lord General Held.”