A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 28 (Part 1 of 2)

Chapter 28

Imlon

*

They thrashed the horses all through the night, never stopping, barely conversing.  Imlon’s thighs and back burned and the horses stank of sweat, but they did not relent.  He did not know where they were going, only that it was away from Myssir Nial.  No one overtook them and no one was abroad.  Anthornadia was buried by silence.

If he had not met Theano.  If he had not gone into Mudwater.  If he had not left Menentor’s house in Pekderzhun.

When the sun rose, bleak behind wet mist, the few people on the road called at them, demanding to know what had made the awful noise the night before; whether gods had struck the world, whether the Anvil had fallen from the sky.  They received no answer.  Imlon caught a glimpse of Theano’s face.  She looked anguished.

If he had not listened to Temith.  If he had not angered the Cathedral.  If he had not visited the Nest.

They stopped at noon, under the eaves of a lonely inn.  Imlon sat outside, quivering, as the rain poured down.  Isendrin emerged with bread and cheese.

“Eat it,” he said.  “Eat it, or you’ll fall off your horse.”

Imlon kept still.  Bile rose in his throat as he looked at the food, but Isendrin pushed it into his hands.  The astronomer took a bite.

“Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” said Isendrin.  “How did you know?”

Imlon remained silent.

“Are you going to say anything?”

“Yes.”  Imlon closed his eyes.  “But not yet.  Please.”

Isendrin grunted and stalked back inside.

Afternoon rain turned the road to mud.  Someone up ahead was pushing the pace, Isendrin or Menentor perhaps.  Imlon could only see his horse beneath him.  The rain drove his head down, seeping into his collar and behind his shirt, making it cling to his skin.  He shivered in the saddle.

If he had not written his treatise on the Spearhead.  If he had not taken the post with Agostes’ court.  If he had not seen those first telescopes in Casa Flow.

As darkness fell, real darkness with no Anvil to light it, they found shelter in an abandoned stone barn.

“Do you think we’ll be found?” said Temith.

“No,” said Isendrin.  “There’ll be too much madness at Myssir Nial for anyone to think about us.  We’ll be over the border before they remember we exist.”

“Those in authority will be looking south, wondering how best to obliterate the Temple,” said Theano.  “And the Temple will be destroyed for this.” 

Her black robe, unsuitable for riding, was sodden.  Imlon thought he should offer his cloak, but the cold was burrowing into his own skin.  He couldn’t bring himself to sit closer to the fire, where the others were sat.  Every few moments they glanced at him and then back at each other, each look as good as words.  They’d get the truth out of him soon enough.

Truth?  No, that was too far.  He had the black book, a dead weight in his satchel, but beyond that, what could be said?  He imagined himself at Princeheight before the gathered scholars and chapter, proclaiming that the Anvil had moved because a mysterious man had told him so, a man claiming to be a myth.  They would think him mad.  He would think himself mad.  Where was his evidence?  What had Yirilaos said that could be quantified and studied in search of truth?  Yet it had been true: he had said the tower would fall, that people would die, and they had done so.  The reasons why were obvious.  His own actions, Isendrin’s, Menentor’s, Temith’s, Theano’s, those of a thousand arcani and a thousand Temple men – all had come together to cause this.