‘Well, make sure you get enough rest,’ she said, releasing his hand.
‘Thank you, Highness, for your concern. As you know, my demise will not affect the passage of your soul to the first of the Reborns.’
‘That is not what I meant. You are dear to me, Memnon. I want you to be well.’
He was momentarily touched by her concern. But then he thought, ‘Decado was dear to you too.’ The Eternal was beautiful, and kind, and considerate, when it suited her. And chilling and deadly when the mood took her.
‘I shall rest now, Highness, by your leave.’
‘Do that. On your way out you will see a handsome soldier, with blond hair, guarding my door. Send him to me.’
Memnon did not go to his bed. Instead he walked from the palace, cutting through the gardens to the stables at the rear. Beyond them was a long, black wagon, high-sided, with a curving roof. The six-wheeled vehicle was more than twenty feet long. It had no windows, but a series of covered slits could be seen along both sides. The entrance was at the rear. The sun had sunk behind the mountains, and although the sky was still blue no direct sunlight shone upon the wagon. Memnon pulled on a lever and three steps slid into view. Mounting the first, he tapped on the wood. ‘Close your eyes, my children,’
he said. Swiftly he opened the door and moved inside, pulling it shut behind him.
The darkness within was absolute. A soft chittering sound began. Memnon felt the Shadows moving around him. ‘Three of your brothers are no more,’ he said, his voice a mere whisper. ‘They failed. They have brought shame upon us. Their deaths must be avenged.’ Reaching out his hands, he continued,
‘Touch me, my children. Touch me and see the enemies whose deaths are required.’ Eyes closed, he summoned images of Decado and Skilgannon to his mind, holding to them, as each of the seven Shadows closed around him, their touch as light as a morning breeze. ‘First must be Decado. You know his scent. Then the other, the carrier of two swords. He is a danger to us all. Kill him, and any with him.
Devour their hearts. And hide the bodies where none will find them. Tonight there will be clouds. You must travel far. I will commune with you, and lead you to the prey. Now close your eyes, my children, for I must open the door and there is still daylight beyond.’
Memnon left the wagon swiftly and returned to his apartments. A servant girl with frightened eyes brought him food and a goblet of red wine. She had not served him before, and did not know of his distaste for liquor of any kind.
As he ate he considered the events of the day. The Eternal’s desire to keep Skilgannon alive was a mystery to him. It was also ill advised. Of course some prophecies would prove false. Equally some would prove true, and it was foolish to allow an enemy to walk free. Memnon would keep his death secret. Eventually the Eternal would tire of looking for him, and all would be as it was.
Not quite all, he hoped.
The failure of his Reborns to survive beyond childhood was proving bitter and frightening. How was it that beings fashioned from his own bones should prove so frail? Why indeed had he not died as a child?
Lighting a lantern, he gathered up yet more of the papers he had discovered in the artefacts chamber and began to study them. They were interesting. Landis Kan had a fine mind, and many of his theories were thought-provoking. Yet nothing Memnon found cast any new light on the problem he faced.
Pushing the papers aside he lay back on a couch, staring up at the ornate ceiling.
As he drifted towards exhausted sleep he released his mind, allowing it to float clear of his weary frame. His spirit drifted along deserted corridors and down to the servants’ quarters, where young women were preparing food for the soldiers who guarded the palace. Their conversation was dull and predictable and he flowed past them, and down into the artefact chambers below the palace. Here his two aides were also studying Landis Kan’s journals. Patiacus, bald and round-shouldered, sat hunched by a table reading slowly. The younger Oranin suddenly leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. ‘A clever man,’ he said.
‘Too clever,’ responded Patiacus. ‘His ashes are scattered through the gardens.’
‘Why do you think he spent so much time drawing necklaces?’
‘Necklaces?’
‘These notes are full of them. He talks of structures and debilities and instabilities. I cannot understand a tenth of it.’
‘Look for references to the Lord Memnon,’ advised Patiacus. ‘That is what is important.’
Oranin rose from his chair and ran his hand over his close-cropped red hair. ‘There are hundreds of these journals. It will take weeks.’
‘You have other plans?’ asked Patiacus.
‘There is a plump serving girl with inviting eyes. I think she likes me.’
‘Then she has no taste,’ observed Patiacus. ‘Now stop interrupting me.’
The two men returned to their work. It was obvious to Memnon, and not for the first time, that the two men liked one another. In a way he could not explain Memnon found this dispiriting. Affection was an emotion he had never experienced. There had never been anyone that Memnon had truly liked. At first he thought most people were like him, learning how to socialize, establishing working relationships, knowing when to smile and when to be solemn. But he was older and wiser now, and knew that he was different from others in many subtle ways. Mostly he tried to convince himself that his lack of emotional response to people was an asset. At times like this his confidence in that belief was less sure.
Returning to his body, he sat up and drank a little water.
People believed he was devoted to the Eternal. Once, when floating unobserved above Unwallis, he had listened as the statesman told a colleague: ‘It is his only redeeming human quality.’
Yet even this was not true. He looked upon the Eternal as he looked upon his clothes. Beautiful to gaze upon, to observe, to enjoy.
‘ You think I am evil, Memnon?’ she had asked.
‘ I do not know what evil is,’ he had replied.
It was not strictly true. Evil was anything that hampered or obstructed his life and his plans. Good was anything that facilitated his desires.
He felt the weariness of his body and decided to float free once more. In spirit form there was no exhaustion, no heavy weariness. He swam up to the royal apartments, and watched as Jianna entertained the young cavalry officer, their bodies locked together, sweat glistening on their skin. Then he moved away and saw Unwallis pacing the corridor outside, his eyes angry.
Memnon relaxed. Who could possibly desire to know such jealousy? Who could want to be locked in such a sweaty embrace with a stranger? Leaving the palace, his spirit soared up and over the mountains.
The machines of the ancients were incredibly complex, their component parts a mystery. It was not even possible to ascertain the method of their construction. The metals were extraordinarily fine and light, alloys, Memnon guessed, of gold and other metals unknown in the present. When the power was in them they functioned automatically, following a pattern laid down by ancient wizards, whose knowledge was as far above Memnon’s as could be imagined. They were perfect. Which made the failures of Memnon’s own Reborns all the more galling. His Reborns should have been exact duplicates of himself. Why they should be prone to cancerous growths in childhood was a mystery that filled his mind. He could not recall ever being ill. His own body seemed capable of fighting off any infection or disease.
Pausing in his flight, he realized he had come to the site of the lost temple. He gazed down at the two passes leading to what had once been the Mountain of the Resurrection. Now there was just an empty bowl of land, full of twisted shrubs. He saw the wind blow a dust cloud towards the bowl. The cloud disappeared as it reached it.