A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 27 (Part 1 of 2)

Chapter 27

Imlon

*

The stars of the Anvil were being torn apart.  Imlon could see as much through his telescope.  It was a meagre instrument and the light hurt the back of his eyes, but he could see it.  None of the six stars were whole points any longer.  Thin strands were being drawn towards the centre.  He remembered his whirlpool theory.

With that thought festering in his conscience, he looked away.  Tears sprang into his eyes.  Once, this night might have marked the end of his work.  Now, it was as if his work had never begun.  He recalled Myssir Astronae, thinking for a moment how much he could have done were he there, but the moment passed.  It was worthless to try and comprehend this, as it was for all humanity.  Only God knew.

He thought he heard a sound from the door.  He turned, wiped his eyes, and waited a moment.  The second knock was unmistakable.  An arcanus was waiting when he opened the door.

“Master Held...”

Something more was said, but Imlon didn’t understand it.  “Pardon?”

“The Aracarnus, sir.  He wishes to meet with you at once.”

The astronomer froze.  “The Aracarnus?”

“Yes, sir.  You have been asked for personally.”

 “Why?”

“I am not privy to that knowledge.”

Stood there in his nightshirt, the silver light of the Anvil dappling the room around him, Imlon felt himself caught in the whirlpool.  A hand grasped his spine, shook it.  “Give me...give me a few minutes to dress.”

“Of course.”

For a full minute Imlon simply stood, waiting to wake up, a numb horror now replacing shock.  He had seen the Aracarnus only once, and briefly: a robed figure, stepping from his carriage when they had arrived that afternoon.  Isendrin had told him more.  The reaction of the people at Myssir Astronae, on the road, and in Myssir Nial told him everything else. 

A few minutes later he was led from his room.  He didn’t remember the walk to the Aracarnus’s chambers, except for the constant sensation of climbing upward.  They came to an ornate door.  It opened silently.

“Master Held, mi Aracarnus.”

Imlon drifted into the high, round chamber.  For a moment he could not see anyone in the silvery gloom.  The room smelled of decay; the incense was not enough to disguise it.  The door shut behind him.

Then Imlon saw him: the sovereign, draped in robes and again in shadow, observing him from a high gallery.  Imlon stepped back.  The mask stared at him.  The figure lifted a hand.

“Come,” said a cracked, grating voice.

Imlon obeyed.  Every step up to the gallery took an age.  When he came to the top, the Aracarnus turned, leading him on.  He limped heavily, a jewelled crutch in one hand.  They came to another staircase, spiralling up through the ceiling towards an orange glow.  The robed figure ascended.  Imlon could only follow.

He emerged into an intimate round chamber, lit by torches, but full of shadows.  Bookshelves lined the wall, full of immense unmarked texts.  Dead-eyed faces were carved into the wood.  They stared at him.  All his instinct told him to turn and run.

The Aracarnus faced him, utterly still.  “Come closer.”

Imlon couldn’t move.  He couldn’t blink.  He could only stare into the endless eyes of the mask.