Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (23 page)

Mist turned the stone disk over in his hands, and half-smiled. “Actually, it’s all written on here, if you know how to read the symbols. Our founders, the first of the Felynx, had been expelled from the Otherworld. They’d quarreled with Queen Malikala of Naamon, who ruled the entire Spiral for eons, refusing to accept her authority. She could have destroyed them. Instead they agreed to exile on Vaeth, on condition that they never crossed back into Naamon again. So they settled in a place with no portals nearby, founded Azantios, and let the Felynx multiply in ignorance.

“I’ve learned since that there were Aetherial settlements all over Vaeth, like a fine silver cobweb. Those societies rose and fell as successive ice ages engulfed them. Their inhabitants hibernated as ice elementals until the world warmed again. Then they’d find their cities long gone, swallowed by jungle and rain forest, and they’d move on. But in the golden age of the Felynx, we knew none of this.”

“You must have had some suspicion…?” Stevie put in. Mist shook his head.

“We lived in a layer of reality between the Earth proper and the Dusklands, but we took that for granted. It didn’t mean we suspected deeper realms … or other secrets to do with what we actually
are
.” Mist hesitated, apparently deciding not to expand. “When Rufus found out, he was furious. If you consider yourself a privileged member of the master race, as he did, you might feel entitled to be omniscient.”

“And what about you? Were you furious, too?”

“No. I assumed Poectilictis kept our history secret for good reasons. I trusted him. He was a good man.”

He fell silent, plainly struggling. He flicked moisture from his eyelashes, and continued. “I wanted us to talk calmly in private. That wasn’t Rufus’s style; he had to create a drama. He accused our parents of betrayal. He insisted that access to the Otherworld was our birthright. He worked himself into a fair rage, while our father answered coldly that the secret had been kept for our own protection. If the Felynx began finding ways into the Spiral, it would breach an age-old agreement and might even cause a war. Rufus countered that it was humiliating to live as exiles, that we’d a right to enter Naamon. The debate went on and on.

“However, Rufus lacked power. He could send rumors running through the city, but if he was hoping for a rebellion, he was disappointed. Poectilictis was loved, Veropardus respected and feared, while Rufus merely had a reputation for causing trouble. Which some enjoyed, but no one took seriously.”

“What about Theliome? You don’t mention her much.”

“Oh, she was very much loved too. She was formidable in her day, and also the kindest person I’ve ever known. But I think she’d grown tired by this stage. She was nearly ready to transform into an elemental state, and was only waiting for Poectilictis to join her.” Mist fell quiet for a time.

“If my questions are painful, I’m sorry,” Stevie said softly.

“No, it’s a relief to talk about it. Theliome may have been tired, and in the process of detaching herself from us—but, gods, she still had strength.”

Stevie thought of the god-like statues, side by side in the ruins of Azantios.

“So Rufus was angry: not much change there,” Mist continued. “But then someone was murdered. Not Felynx, but an Aetherial of the Tashralyr
eretru
who lived down in the lakes and forests. We let them alone and saw no reason to enslave them, but when they came among us I suppose we treated them as … not inferior, but different, unsophisticated. We were refined city dwellers, and they ran wild in the woods.”

“You were royalty and they were commoners?” said Stevie.

Mist groaned. “No. Yes, in a way, but it was more complex than that. They were athletes and we revered them for it, although it was obvious they could live quite happily without our attention. Anyway, this particular Tashralyr was a celebrity among us. When the body was found, it was an immense shock, because murder was almost unknown. For various reasons, Rufus was the obvious suspect. No one wanted to believe that he was guilty … so Poectilictis asked him outright, ‘
Did you do this?
’

“Rufus didn’t answer. I’ve never seen such a look of hatred as the one he gave our father at that moment. The same day, he vanished.

“A bare few weeks later, a barbaric army invaded Azantios. We were unprepared, unarmed. Rufus had gone out among the primitive human tribes and gathered them all together; they must have seen him as a god stepping among them. He’d told them that we were vulnerable and ripe for the taking. And then he led them against us. They sacked the city, slaughtered hundreds of Felynx in the streets, set our homes afire. By the time the invaders broke into the palace and entered the throne room, Poectilictis and Theliome were seated in their thrones, waiting … already dead.”

Stevie had frowned. “But when you say dead … how? You use the term rather loosely.”

“I mean that their soul-essences had departed, leaving empty shells for the barbarians to find. They sacrificed themselves. They deliberately vacated their physical forms in order to use their soul-energies against the barbarians.”

Daniel’s triptych.
He’d perfectly captured the invaders’ death-by-terror as they confronted the towering god statues, while the citadel crumbled around them. And the carved symbols in the pillars seemed to convey a message, if only she could translate them.

Stevie got up and prowled the apartment—pacing from the cramped living area to her bedroom and back—as she recalled the end of Mist’s narrative, and his pallor as he told her. His horror was raw, as if these events had happened yesterday.

Her spectral cat jumped onto her shoulder as she paced, as if to comfort her. It was weightless, but she could see it from the corner of her eye.

“It was too late for us to save ourselves, but Azantios held what you might call a self-destruct mechanism. Of course I tried to dissuade my parents from self-sacrifice, but their plan was set. My last words to my father were a promise that I’d never rest until I’d hunted Rufus down. Then Aurata, Veropardus and I, with several others, barricaded ourselves in the Chamber of the Felixatus, and we worked a tenfold web to cause an earthquake that brought the city down upon the barbarians’ heads. We destroyed Azantios, rather than let them take it.

“I crawled out of the ruins alone. Aurata and Veropardus died, along with thousands of others. I don’t know why I didn’t perish with them. If their soul-essences escaped and found their way into the Otherworld, to this day I don’t know. I never saw them again. Some days later, though, Rufus found me. He was crazed. We both were. Was he sorry? He barely possessed the intellect to grasp the enormity of what he’d done. Should I have killed him? Yes, but I couldn’t.

“You need to understand that these questions weren’t important, because when the ashes of the holocaust settled, we had nothing left except each other.”

*   *   *

Stevie knew there was more to the story, but Mist was beyond telling it.

She heard nothing from him over the weekend, but was so busy she barely noticed. Twice a day she called the hospital to check on Frances; her condition was poor, but stable. She phoned every acquaintance of Daniel she could think of, without result. She visited her foster-grandmother, Nanny Peg, and sat reading to her and holding her fragile hand—an activity that warmed Stevie’s heart, until Nanny Peg had turned to a nurse and said without guile, “Make this woman shut up.”

Oh well. Oh well
. Stevie bit down hard on tears and gently kissed Peg as she left.

Very early on Tuesday, infinitely relieved that her sick leave was over, she made her rounds of the factory. She said good morning to the unseen workers, then wandered through the upstairs gallery with a duster, cleaning fingerprints from the glass domes that protected her beloved skeleton clocks. Each one was a feat of engineering in its own right. One day she’d wrest control of her workbench from Alec and begin a grand project of her own. Just a dream, but it was heaven to be back.

Stevie was counting money into the till when Fin arrived early, looking harrassed.

“Have they told you?”

“Good morning to you too. Told me what?”

Fin gave a pained grin. “We have to close on the dot of four. Trustees’ meeting. I wish they’d give us some notice.”

“Oh, great,” said Stevie. “They’ll want quarterly figures, a breakdown of visitor numbers, all the usual stuff—do they expect it out of thin air?”

“We’ll do our best,” said Fin. “They might at least bring you a bunch of flowers for your bad head. It’s wonderful to have you back, by the way.”

They bantered easily as they got ready to open. Soon Ron was there ready to greet visitors, and Margaret on café duty. Alec arrived late and ensconced himself at the clock-repair bench without a word to Stevie. Surely he wasn’t still sulking from last week? She didn’t care. It felt so good to return to normal that she floated on happiness.

All day the ghost cat sat on her shoulder, peering through the waves of her hair. Unsettling, but Stevie kept reminding herself that no one else could see it. The hours passed swiftly. With a pang she realized she’d barely thought about Daniel.

Since there was no boardroom, as soon as the museum shut at four they pushed furniture together in the café to create an official-looking table lined with chairs. She was helping Margaret to make tea and coffee as the trustees filed in: descendants of the Soames and Salter families and officials from the city council including her nominal boss, Ruth, the senior curator. Fifteen in all. A frantic effort between Stevie and Fin had produced the statistics they’d want to see, and she’d written a rushed but enthusiastic report full of ideas for the museum’s future.

The trustees would not wrong-foot her with an unexpected meeting. Stevie was ready to greet them with refreshments, figures and a broad, friendly smile.

Her palms turned clammy when her smile was not returned.

“Sit down, Miss Silverwood,” said one of the Soames grandsons, a florid man in his sixties. “The rest of the staff, would you mind waiting outside?”

Out went Fin, Ron and Margaret, radiating curiosity and tension. Alec, last to leave, folded his arms over his belly and gave her a flat, smug smile. Alone, Stevie sat in the spotlight of the trustees’ kindly but grave attention.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

Mr. Soames sat forward. “It’s come to our notice that you had quite a nasty accident on museum premises. How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly fine, thank you.” Out came the lie again. “I was in my own front room. I’m not planning to sue for compensation, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, no, that would be a legal matter. Our concerns arise because sharp-eyed Alec claims there were signs of a break-in, the night you went to hospital. On opening up, he found the rear door unlocked and the alarm not set. Also, there were blood spots and scuff marks on the floor in the events area. A piece of artwork was missing. He claims, too, that his workbench had been disturbed and tools taken.”

Stevie sat frozen.

“All we’re asking, Miss Silverwood,” said Mr. Soames, clasping his plump hands, “is whether you heard or saw anything suspicious that night. Did you forget to set the alarm and lock up? Did the break-in occur after your accident—a coincidence—or were the two events connected?”

Stevie shifted, felt blood rising in her face. Fifteen pairs of eyes brimmed with curiosity. On her shoulder, the spectral cat snarled softly.

“Take your time,” Ruth added gently. “All we’re asking is that you tell us the truth.”

*   *   *

A knock at her front door made her start. “Stevie? It’s only me. Can I come in?”

Stevie opened the door and let Fin over the threshold. “What’s going on? You came out of the meeting as white as a sheet.”

“I’ve resigned,” said Stevie.

Fin sat on a sofa arm, looking shocked. “I know, they told us, but why?”

“I had no choice. I lied, and put everyone in danger. I didn’t trip. Someone broke in and hit me.”

She explained. When she’d finished, Fin was gaping. “But—but surely there’s no need for you to leave over this? They can’t sack you for being a victim of crime.”

“That’s not the point. I should have called the police, but instead I tried to cover it up. I know Alec was only doing his duty, telling them his suspicions, but he’s never approved of me and now he’s got his way. He’s levered me out.” She stopped, strangled by the tears that she’d managed to hold back until then.

“I wondered why he had that smug look on his face! The old git!”

“It’s not his fault. He did the right thing.”

“But…” Fin foundered. “You live over the shop. They can’t … this is awful. They can’t really make you resign, can they?”

“No, but my position’s untenable. Improper conduct, they said. And they’re right. I lied about something really serious. It could have been any one of us who got attacked. Someone might have died. That’s why I have to go. I have two weeks to vacate my accommodation.”

“Oh my god,” said Fin.

Stevie sat down and wept, unable to hold back. How pathetic, that the museum had become her entire life, her home, the only security she’d ever known. The truth was, she’d only ever been a tenant. The enormity of loss began dawn on her. The future had dissolved from steady, reassuring routine into a fog of nothingness.

Fin touched Stevie’s hand. She asked softly, “Stevie, what actually is going on with you? You were always rock-solid. Ever since the triptych and your strange-but-gorgeous new friend turned up, you’ve been all over the place.”

Stevie gave a weak smile. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Oh yeah? You should hear the tales my children spin.”

“No, it’s too weird. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I’ve heard weird and crazy stuff in my time. I keep an open mind.”

“Not this strange.”

Fin’s gaze grew firmer, as if she took this as a challenge. “All right. When I was at university, I met a girl called August, a history student. She was meant to be studying the twelfth century, but instead she became obsessed with the story of King Richard III to the extent that she was actually living it. Or rather, living a sort of parallel-world version of history that was equally real. She confided in me because I took her seriously.”