Steph Swainston - No Present Like Time

A distant roar of exultation burst from the woods, tinged with fear at their own audacity. Teams of men hauled on the capstans to rack the trebuchet arms down; then others staggered forward and rolled a stone into each sling.

Appalled, I thought, isn’t Tawny going to do anything? People are actually damaging the Castle itself. Zascai are really attacking us. What have we done to make them hate us so much they want us dead? Do they want to harm the Emperor and annihilate the Circle? If Gio gets inside he knows the way to the Throne Room. My mind whirled at what would happen if every Eszai at once found himself suddenly returned to mortality.

In less than a minute the trebuchets were ready to launch again-their crews were obviously Eske’s trained fyrd. Their accuracy improved: only one block fell short, in front of the Yett Gate on the southeast wall. One went wide and bounced along the paddock fence, smashing it into matchwood; the remaining four thudded into the curtain wall. The Castle bled more rubble into its inner moat. I noticed that the wooden bridge to the Dace Gate had been removed.

Now the rebel archers started to send volleys toward the loyal fyrd. Arrows stuck in the shell of shields protecting the infantry. They found their marks in horseflesh spreading disorder and agitation throughout the cavalry.

Hayl Rosinante had had enough. He waved his horsemen forward, and they surged and gathered speed, spreading into a thin line, raising their lances. The archers immediately turned and raced back toward the safety of their own spearmen. From my vantage point I saw they wouldn’t make it. Swift as Insects, Hayl’s men ran them down. Ridged lance points devised to crack shell drove straight through the soft bodies of Awians and humans. Half the riders abandoned their lances in their impaled victims and drew swords, continuing their charge toward the rebel line.

I was…I had never expected to see mortals fighting immortals, and here of all places. In front of the Castle with Eszai leading troops against the Zascai we were sworn to protect! I wheeled around, sick with disgust, and sped toward the Throne Room.

As the breeze propelled me sideways, I kicked away from the pinnacle tops and lead sheet roofs coming up under my feet. Another horrible crash sounded from the direction of the Dace Gate.

The Throne Room spire sprang like a frozen fountain three hundred meters into the air. Its shadow swept around an enormous sundial on the Berm Lawns. The spire was built on Pentadrica Palace, which settled to accept it, ninety centimeters into the ground. The pressure caused little splits in the beams, cracks in the plaster. Its base was a harder stone, to stop the spire’s weight crushing the blocks.

The end of the Throne Room was pierced by stained glass windows in primary colors. The rose window crowned it, twenty meters across. One of its multifoil panes was propped open. I could fit through there. I pulled my wings to my body and folded them up as I felt the feathers brush the mullions. The arcuate sill passed below me; I slipped through.

The dim, silent hall was five hundred meters long, its cross-vaulted ceiling thirty meters high. At the far end was the black screen; way below me was the tiled floor with its scarlet carpet. People no taller than a centimeter looked up as I appeared in front of the rose window, my wings stretched in silhouette against its red and blue light.

I flew at the height of the diaphanous gallery adorned with different colors of marble. Above me were smaller lancet windows, the great bays divided by pointed arches below. Every window gave a fragmentary view of another part of the Castle.

My body rose and fell with wing beats. With every beat I passed an arch-with columns like bundles of thin tubes, supporting ribs interlacing the ceiling. I was in perfect rhythm with the arcades’ march down the Throne Room. They met at the vanishing point, where the Emperor sits.

The capstone bosses were larger than life-a double-headed axe, oak leaves, turtles, cascading cornucopias, flowers complex as chrysanthemums. The walls were bright with daylight. The sun shone on the east side and cast the shadow of the pointed windows all the way down the west vault. San watches these shadows tilt, shorten and reappear on the east vault every day. Above him, the ceiling vanishes up into the octagonal spire; behind him shines the sunburst.

The scent of incense thickened. The marksmen on the balcony looked distressed; then the carved ebony screen filled my vision. I swung my legs down, alighted gently on the carpet before it, and trotted through the portal, pulling my wings in and folding them. I knelt fluidly before the dais.

“My lord Emperor, I have returned from Tris and await your command.”

Acrash, scarcely muted by the pierced walls, echoed through the hall. I winced. “What’s happening out there? How can I help?”

San said, “The guards will inform me of the situation outside. Am I right that you can add little news about the rebellion?”

“Lightning is wounded. I left him at Awndyn manor.” I outlined the ambush, the spice ship, and Stormy Petrel hidden in a fissure. I paused at every clash or an outburst of shouting, wondering if they were coming nearer. I could only hear the loudest shouts, chaotic and disjointed. I fretted-why didn’t San send me outside to watch them? The rocks were smashing the outside wall and destroying the buildings in the gap. Can they reach as far as the Palace? If Tornado doesn’t keep them out of range Gio will aim for the spire.

The Emperor listened impassively and at length said, “Be calm, Comet. The Archer’s injuries are to be regretted, yes, but he is not the whole Circle. There are other ways to defeat Gio. Tell me about Tris-everything concerning the island.”

“I have Mist’s written account.” I took the scuffed stack of papers from my satchel, climbed the four steps to the rostrum and passed it to San. His pinched, wolfish face watched me keenly. Under his ivory cloak, his sleeves were loose to the elbow. His fine white hair hung down to curl on narrow shoulders.

A breathless guard ran past the screen then prostrated himself on the floor, his sense of etiquette battling with the need for urgency. “My lord,” he panted, “Hayl’s cavalry have been turned back by the rebel pikemen but casualties are light. Tornado says he must break the rebel lines in a melee if he’s to stop the trebuchets.”

San nodded. “Tell Tornado I have full trust in his judgment. However, remind him that there must be no pursuit once he has broken the resistance.”

The guard stumbled to his feet, bowed, and left.

“My lord,” I said. “Perhaps I should go and help the Strongman. We’re heavily outnumbered.”

The Emperor gave a grim smile. “This situation is not unforeseen. Last month Queen Eleonora offered half her fyrd to guard the walls. I declined as the involvement of Awia in any such engagement would increase discord. Instead the Plainslands manors have shown their loyalty, and the weakness of Gio’s support.”

Two more crashes, only a second apart; falling slates then silence. I looked tentatively at San, unable to hide my doubt.

“Comet, remember that the Circle is composed of the unsurpassed. The strongest warrior and finest horseman in the world defend us. These walls were built by a succession of the world’s preeminent architects. Gio Ami may be the second -greatest swordsman ever but he cannot be everywhere. His followers have disloyal natures or they would not have joined him, and once the battle turns against them he will be unable to hold them for long.”

“My lord.”

“Now, report on Tris.”

I began to describe everything that had happened on our voyage, in chronological order. I took pleasure in doing my job well. San listened to me talk, and act, as I paced back and forth on the carpet before the dais, in a red patch of light cast by the stained glass windows.