Beneath Ceaseless Skies #165 Read online

  Issue #165 • Jan. 22, 2015

  “For Lost Time,” by Therese Arkenberg

  “Day of the Dragonfly,” by Raphael Ordoñez

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  FOR LOST TIME

  by Therese Arkenberg

  The settlement in Simrandu was called Nurathaipolis-in-Exile.

  It bore some physical resemblance. Simrandu had been built when the Polean Cities still held great cultural influence, and its mansions and gathering halls mimicked the Polean style, with long terraces and fat domes supported by rows of fluted columns. Nurathaipolean violets and Therathaipolean roses bloomed in planters, and the streets were lit by pole-lamps as ingenious as any construction out of Merenthaipolis. These similarities must have drawn the settlement’s inhabitants—refugees from those cities lost to Time; Nurathaipolis the jewel at their crown, now nothing but a name that lingered.

  “Are they all wizards?” Semira asked Aniver. The Polean Cities’ mortal inhabitants had been lost with their metropolises, caught in unbreakable slumber as their homes fell to dust around them, but a gathering this large made up of nothing but wizards strained imagination.

  “And a few others—travelers who were away from home when the slippage happened, ambassadors and guests in other lands, expatriates. They found each other here. And here they... wait.”

  Five years had passed since Nurathaipolis-That-Was and its sibling cities had turned to ruin in one night. Time enough to build a new life of a sort here. Time enough to pursue possibilities, experiments, plans to undo the strange tragedy that had befallen their homes. Time enough to give up hope.

  Not for Aniver. Semira watched him descend the winding brick pathway, narrow shoulders rigid with determination.

  “Of course, it’s the wizards we’ve come for,” she mused aloud.

  “Yes.” Aniver pushed hair from his eyes and straightened his jacket as they neared the doors of this mansion, which was nearly a small palace. It occupied grounds so vast that the rest of Simrandu, or at the last the quarter given over to Nurathaipolis-in-Exile, was only visible towards the horizon, its pillared roofs rising above the hedges and ornamental trees.

  A servant answered Aniver’s knock. Colorless eyes—what must be a Nurathaipolen trait—surveyed them: Semira, slight, wiry, brown-skinned, with her long hair in a tight braid; Aniver, tall and slender, a wizard’s circle marked in the pale skin on his forehead, and around his neck a charm in the shape of a tiny hourglass. Its golden sands fell to the bottom, through the bottom, and kept falling. Eternally in one direction. As time should run.

  “We’d like to speak to Madam Melviater,” Aniver said.

  The servant seemed about to speak, then bowed instead in a way suggesting a shrug and led them inside. They passed through marble-floored chambers and down corridors with walls hidden beneath paintings—portraits with colorless eyes, forested landscapes bearing in their midst cities with canals, bronze statues, and palaces of elegant columns—until they entered a room overlooking the gardens. The servant left them there.

  They waited long enough for Semira to decide to sit on one of the plush sofas, only to rise again as Melviater swept into the room.

  Between her round eyes, a nacreous wizard’s circle stood out against her lined forehead, framed by the sweep of her coal-black hair. She received their bows with a friendly smile.

  “A pleasure.” Her voice was rich. “We don’t get many visitors.”

  “You assume I’m a visitor?” Aniver asked.

  “Rightfully, don’t I?” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You don’t seem the type to have come to settle down—not yet. But you have come to me, preeminent mage of Nurathaipolis-That-Was.” She spoke without a hint of arrogance. Sinking onto the couch near Semira, she continued, “So I expect you’re attempting a rescue.”

  “Do you get many would-be saviors?”

  “Fewer as time goes on.” Melviater beckoned for him to sit. “Where are the two of you from?”

  “I’m Semira of Timru. I’ve been Aniver’s companion... and friend... this past year.”

  “And I’m Aniver of Nurathaipolis. But as for where we’re from directly—our journey’s taken us here from Arisbat.”

  “The library?” Eyebrows thick as brushstrokes rose. “Many of us have looked for answers there.”

  “It depends which shelf you look on.”

  “And what shelf did you investigate?” Melivater asked with conspicuous patience. If, as she implied, she’d been visited by many would-be saviors before, she must find each renewed encounter rather dispiriting.

  “There are only so many shelves full of books on the dead, are there not?” Aniver smiled at her. He smiled so rarely that it was hard for Semira to read this one. “And it was among the dead that the Lotorai Sibyl told us to seek answers. I went to the dead—I met Semira while crossing the Glass-Clear Sea. The ghosts there told me... Well, I say this all so circuitously in part because I’m trying to avoid speaking her name.”

  It was bad fortune to say Kahzakutri’s name aloud, but also—the real reason Aniver held back in Madam Melviater’s presence—it was impolite.

  Her eyes grew moon-large. “The Queen.”

  “To some, She would be the first to come to mind when we speak of the dead. It is Her kingdom, after all. But I suppose we’d all rather exhaust our other options before risking it.” “And,” Aniver added quietly, “we have exhausted them, haven’t we?”

  “Yes.” Melviater rearranged her skirts. “Many have come to me—wizards and mortals both—with many theories of how the Polean Cities were lost, and how to save them. Your... suggestion is certainly more creative than most.”

  Semira, sensing that Melviater was about to leave, spoke up over whatever comment Aniver might make next. “In the Library of Arisbat we found a book that spoke of the Rivers of Time—Alteration and Unmaking. They flow at the borders of Death’s Kingdom. Their mists dance across the world, making ages pass. But if a few drops in excess of the proper proportion fall somewhere—”

  “As on the Polean Cities,” Aniver said, “the result might be... unparalleled.”

  Melviater’s lips narrowed. “Even so, no wizard, or even a cadre of us, can contend against such Rivers.”

  “No.” Aniver’s gaze was distant as he rested his head on one hand. “I was thinking of Someone a great deal more powerful. They are Her Rivers, Her responsibility. I thought I might petition Her.” Even he couldn’t keep his voice entirely steady as he said it.

  Melviater’s nostrils flared as she took deep breaths. Her distant vision seemed more astounding than Aniver’s. “And you think I can help you?” she said at last.

  “We’ve been traveling West, to meet with the Queen. But I thought it would be better to... first scout out the territory, so to speak.”

  “There’s one sure way to get a look at Queen Death’s Kingdom.”

  “Yes,” Aniver said. “It’s getting back which is uncertain. That requires help.”

  Melviater shook her head. “Help, perhaps... but even the greatest wizard could only take you so far.”

  “I understand.”

  She looked between them. “However—the fact is, you are a wizard yourself.”

  “This isn’t wizardry I could work upon myself.”

  “But you have—” Her gaze touched on Semira, who bristled without quite knowing why. Aniver’s own eyes darkened.

  “Semira is my companion,” he said. “All and only that. I could never ask her to undertake such a risk.”

  “So you admit it’s risky.”

  “You think I’m mad,�
�� Aniver said. “But pay the small courtesy of not thinking me a fool.”

  The two wizards met each other’s stares and held them a long time. An undercurrent flowed that Semira couldn’t read: anger would be petty beside it, yet it was less animosity than the opposite, edged with fear and incredulity. What Aniver was suggesting was awesome and awful. And Semira, not being a wizard, didn’t understand half of it. She probably never would.

  Melvaiter sighed. “Anything’s worth trying, I suppose.”

  Aniver started upright. “You’ll do it? I know it’s no small task I ask of you.”

  And what is it? Semira almost asked, but then Melviater snorted, on the verge of laughter.

  “Escorting you to the border of Death and back?” She nodded. “No small task indeed. I’ll begin preparations at once. Would tomorrow night be acceptable?”

  “Not a moment too soon,” Aniver murmured. He looked to Semira.

  “It’s your choice,” she said, “you’re the one participating.”

  “I was going to ask if you would come with me.” He sounded almost shy. “Not as part of the ritual.” His glance at Melviater was stony. “Only for... support.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then tomorrow night would work well for us, Madam Melviater.” He bowed before clasping her hand on it.

  * * *

  Every night at Madam Melviater’s house at Nurathaipolis-in-exile there was dancing. She invited Simrandu’s natives and visitors from farther afield to join the exiles. They trod the floors to music that had been old when Aniver’s grandmother first courted, in steps as ancient as the stones.

  “Feel free if you want to join in,” he encouraged Semira. Neither of them had, that first night—they’d made it to their rooms and collapsed—but this evening they were too restless to simply sit and wait for Melviater to summon them for the ceremony when the time came. The music had beckoned them.

  “You’ll tell me before you go?” she asked. But already she was returning one of the admiring glances sent her way. She wore a shimmering violet tunic and leggings sheathed her trim legs, while a pair of silver earrings, in Timri design like the rest, matched the glimmer of her dark bright eyes. No wonder the Simrandi and exiles alike were looking.

  “I’ll tell you.” He added the whole truth: “I’m not sure I could do it without you.”

  She graced him with a brief, startled smile before a young man crossed the room in answer to her silent invitation. His features formed the epitome of narrow-boned and delicate Polean Cities stock, though he was so suntanned that he neared Semira’s coppery complexion. His hair was nearly as long, falling from a gathering of curls around his face. Taking her hand, he bowed over it and introduced himself as she returned the gesture: “Houriven Matlos, your servant.”

  Semira, glancing beside her, realized Aniver had stepped away, leaving her to navigate this introduction herself. “Of which city?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It matters less now that I’m here—and with you, Madam...?”

  “Semira,” she said, adding a little awkwardly but firmly, “of Timru.”

  Houriven surveyed the room, from the musicians on the dais to the couples whirling across the floor. “Do they dance like this in Timru?”

  “If I could keep up with Fimean’s Reel, I’m sure I’ll manage this.” All the same, Semira threaded her arm through Houriven’s with the air of lashing her storm-tossed body to the mast. The music carried them away.

  Aniver watched until the crowd swallowed them, seeing enough to confirm Semira’s confidence in herself and to catch the smile she threw his way.

  “He’s been to Zandar,” a voice said at his shoulder. “Houriven Matlos.”

  The speaker, like Houriven, wore his hair long with elegant curls but was paler and somewhat more solidly built. Though his soft tone was hard to read, the fact that he had marked Aniver’s attention on the couple suggested interest in Aniver himself. And of course no one would bring up such a burningly interesting topic as Zandar—especially not to a clearly marked wizard—unless he desired a discussion. Though not a long one, Aniver amended, noting the sheet music in the man’s hands.

  “When?” Aniver asked him. “And why?”

  “Almost two years ago now. It’s still all he ever talks about, every night. He thinks we should all go there.”

  “Why?” Aniver repeated.

  “So that we see home once again—as he has—and realize, as he has, that it isn’t home any longer, and we can move on with our lives.”

  “But Zandar’s illusions aren’t home.”

  “Are they really not?” Asked softly; all the man’s words were soft. “Zandar’s magic draws its shape from the very souls of its visitors—their hopes, their dreams, their fondest memories. Not exact representations of a place, no. But when we judge based on that fact, it’s the real which disappoints, which comes up short. So perhaps what’s in Zandar’s mirror is truest of all.”

  “Do you plan to go, then?” At once Aniver felt sorry as the man flinched.

  “No. I still hold out hope... that one day I’ll see the real Istanthaipolis again.”

  “Houriven’s given up that hope.” Aniver noted. Anyone who set foot on Zandar forever forfeited their native land; that was part and parcel of the uncanny sorcery of the place. For some it was worth it, to see their fondest dreams, if not made real, then brought as near to reality as possible.

  “Perhaps he feels it’s better to give it up than lose it. So many are losing it.” The man sighed. “We gather here as around a dying fire, for whatever warmth is left... That and perhaps the dancing. Do you dance, sir...?”

  “Aniver of Nurathaipolis-That-Was. And no, not usually.”

  “Endreidon, of Istanthaipolis-That-Was.”

  Aniver shook the offered hand and accepted Endreidon’s bow, though he’d never been comfortable himself using that formal, at times over-effusive salute between peers. It was liable to be misconstrued.

  For a moment Semira and Houriven reappeared, sailing past them. Aniver nodded in case she spotted him.

  Endreidon saw, at any rate. “Of course, it depends on the partner.”

  “For many people,” Aniver agreed—keeping humor from his voice in case that, too, could be misconstrued. He did not intend to mock. “For some it is difficult to find a suitable partner. Or the right song. For me, both have proven, so far, utterly elusive.”

  “And have you given up trying?” A gleam in Endreidon’s eyes suggested he was not beyond humor himself.

  Usually here Aniver would have replied with polite gallantry—I would not want to become tedious to my partner in such attempts, and I would be tedious, truly. Gallantry, too, could be tedious. Endreidon had been open with him, so he returned it. “I’ve found trying isn’t worth the trouble. I do not enjoy dancing. It is not a flaw of my partners, who often prove excellent company in other ways.” Endreidon’s brows lowered as he no doubt reconsidered Semira. Or perhaps himself. “Nor do I consider it a flaw in me.”

  “Of course not,” Endreidon said. “There are many tastes.”

  He and Aniver smiled at each other—fragile smiles, suddenly a little shy.

  “In any event,” Endreidon added, shifting the folio in his hand as if weighing it, “I would not have been able to dance for long.”

  “What’s your instrument? I... used to... play the violin.” He’d lost the skill while he and Semira were fleeing the pursuit of the Hounds. Along with much else.

  “The harp—they’re carrying it out now.”

  The Istanthaipolen harp was legendary, and with justification. Aniver’s breath tightened as he considered how long it had been since he’d heard it. Aniver glanced at Endreidon’s fingers, callused, strong, yet with a suggestion of delicacy and care. “I do not dance, but I will be privileged to hear your music.”

  “I am grateful to play it,” Endreidon said.

  After a few minutes of lighter, inconsequential talk, the song ended. Couples separated,
catching their breath. Some exchanged partners, though by no means all. Semira and Houriven, for example... Her laugh, low and clear, carried across the hall.

  Endreidon took his leave, and as the music swelled for the next dance it carried the thrum, deep and sweet, of notes drawn from the tall silver-stringed harp set in a place of honor on the dais. Aniver listened, so intently that the crowd and dancers faded in his vision, and he could feel as well as hear the fingers tenderly moving across the strings. He absorbed the music—not the way a wizard gathered fuel for future spells. He drank it in as a man in the desert gulped orgua-nut juice. In his stillness he did the same as Semira did with her dizzying steps. She let herself be guided by a partner, and perhaps Aniver did, too.

  He was guided, everywhere and nowhere at once, until Melviater’s hand on his arm brought him back to Simrandu.

  * * *

  “But going to Zandar—” Semira wrestled with the incredible weight of the thought while Houriven, aided by the incredible music, lifted her like a leaf in the breeze.

  “It wasn’t a hard voyage,” he said. “Used as you are to the oceans, Madam Sailor, the Nerrening Sea would likely rock you to sleep.”

  “I couldn’t.” She laughed helplessly, as if being tickled. “You’re right, I am a sailor—if I set foot on Zandar, could I ever return to the sea? Could I ever leave?”

  “Perhaps you’d have to fly away.”

  She flew, swept into the arc of a circle described by his hands in hers. “Still,” she said, brought back to his arms, “it seems an incredible... exchange to make.”

  “You dance like a Grace,” he said. “Do I really have you only half the night?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She kept from bristling as his words, though she didn’t favor being spoken of as if she could be had. “Aniver and I promised to meet with Melviater soon.”

  “And why must you keep such a dreary promise?”

  She chuckled, but her laughter turned rueful. “We have to make up for lost time, I suppose.”

  “Have you lost a lot of it, on your journey?”

  “Oh, yes.” Sometimes literally, as at the Tindalo pass and the... months following. Sometimes, figuratively, chasing false hints or finding even the true ones much more difficult than expected. And through it all, time had dogged them—its Hounds hunted them, its Queen bewitched them, and the secrets it had covered rose to them out of layers of darkness and dust. It was Time, mishandled, misplaced, that had taken away the Polean Cities. When it came to lost time, they had much to make up for.