Doctor Who_ Lungbarrow - Marc Platt [20]
Arkhew took moments to get his breath back. Thoughts raced along with his blood. Suppose this was another trick. Another bet between the others to see how foolish he was.
Suppose it wasn't. Suppose the will was hidden in the clock. They would al laugh if he didn't find it.
He was sure there had once been a time when he could think things out clearly; to remember things without starting to weep or wanting to hide away forever.
That was before it al went dark, of course.
Don't think. Don't remember. You crooked fingers on the bet. Just get on with the job in hand.
He edged along the few last digits towards the clock. Final y, he grabbed at the tarnished metal wires that circled the device, presenting the orbits of the local planets. He ducked under them, finding a new purchase for his weight on the painted lattice spheres. One inside another, they showed the Mansions of the Stars and Houses of the Gods - red/black for Death, white for Pain and some indeterminate shifting colour for Time. When the clock had died, the spheres had settled their open segments together, exposing the heart of the clock face like a shattered eye.
Arkhew leant over the top of the opening as far as he dared. It was dark inside the spheres. He reached in, but could feel no more than he could see.
He slowly lowered himself over the clock face and into the dark eye.
***
The Ancient of Flames rose into the air from its place on the table. It hovered and then settled gently on the pinnacle formed by the Three of Souls, the Six of Clouds and the Last of Deeps.
Cousin Innocet closed her eyes. Building a mansion of cards by levitation was a very draining exercise. Her skills at cartomancy were out of practice and keeping the circular cards in place required a tremendous effort of willpower. Even so, the conelike structure was seven storeys high already. Only a few cards to go, but these were always the most precarious. One slip would bring the whole house tumbling down and there would be no future to read.
She perched on the high stool at the table and felt the weight of her hair on her shoulders. It grew down in a single plait so long that she had to wind it round like a shell on her back. The hair was a journey in time. It grew white on her head, but as it travel ed back, it grew grey and final y, at the furthest reaches, some six hundred years into its past, it was red-gold like the first flowers on the mountain after the winter snow.
It would never be cut. Not until she stood at her window and looked out on the sunlit orchards again.
34
She sat on the stool, for it was no longer comfortable or possible for her to sit in a high-backed chair, so great was the weight of her burden. Her room was furnished with a few items that she had salvaged after the dark began. A meagre and small selection of treasured books - the sort that did not need a powered screen; a bust of the scribe Quartinian; a compendium of games and a faded display of dried blooms in a glass cabinet. The big furniture was worn, but still attentive. It was dominated by a heavy dressing table, over whose expansive mirrors Innocet had draped a heavy shawl.
A tiny, aged voice nearly broke her concentration. 'When's he coming? He said he'd be here.'
'Who?' intoned Innocet, willing the next card into the air.
Cousin Jobiska sat huddled in the corner of a gigantic armchair. She was so old and tiny that her head nodded when she spoke. 'What's-his-name.'
'Owis?' suggested Innocet wearily. Jobiska had come to visit her two candledays ago and had dropped no hint of leaving yet.
'No, that wasn't it. He was a Cousin of mine, dear.'
Innocet lowered the Duke of Dominoes again. 'We're all your Cousins here.'
'It was Arkhew,' the old lady declared. 'He promised me a game of Sepulchasm.' She fell silent, so Innocet took the opportunity to levitate the Duke of Dominoes into position on the card mansion. As she balanced the disc-card on its edge, she heard a sob from Jobiska's chair.
The old lady's face had crumpled up like a wizened nut. 'Take me home, dear,' she pleaded.