Andrea Höst - The Towers, the Moon

"The Chamber of Balance."

Rian had said it aloud, and was surprised when the arbiter answered her, even as they lifted up through the bright, chilly shimmer.

"Technically, this is the antechamber. The Chamber of Balance sits above."

There was a circular structure set in the ceiling, clear to the eye only once they had passed through most of the wash of light. There were no stairs or ramps leading up to it and, rimmed by a balcony with only one doorway visible, it reminded Rian very strongly of a birdhouse.

There didn’t appear to be any guards – Rian had not seen another person since firebird mask had departed – and they landed on the balcony precisely in front of the oversized doorway. Set back on her feet, Rian staggered two steps, and struggled to regain her poise. It was not just flying through low gravity that had unbalanced her. This was a place where those outside the Court of the Moon were not casually invited: the very top of the Towers of the Moon, where the Court’s endless competitions were judged.

"Go in," the arbiter instructed.

In was another corridor, stretching left and right to follow the outer wall of the birdhouse. Rian bounce-stepped left without wasting breath on questions, and wondered if there was any significance to the choice. There were no furnishings to break up the corridor’s smooth curve, but the inner wall seemed oddly textured. Punctured in patterns: a needle-fine filigree. Rian did not quite dare press her eye to the tiny holes in an attempt to see through them, but still slowed, not at all keen to know the purpose of this strange summons. On the far side of the wall, not close but within range of her senses, was a single, ponderous heartbeat.

At a point she guessed was opposite the first, she discovered another arch: this one with a door that opened as she drifted within touching distance. She stopped, steadying herself on the frame, and looked across a faintly convex floor to a chair that even at a distance of forty feet or more made her feel tiny. As did the occupant.

The Duke of Balance.

Members of the Court of the Moon grew taller, not older. It was rare to ever see an adult that was not at least six feet tall, and seven feet was more common even for those who were seen outside the Towers. Those were the youngest generations, most likely to mix with humans. The Duke of Balance, the first of the Court to arrive in France, was among the oldest known.

If he had a name, Rian had never heard of it. None of the five Dukes who ruled the Towers were ever referred to by anything but their title. Rian did not know how tall he had been when the Court had first invaded but, so many centuries later, he was a spindly giant.

"Come."

She had barely recognised the sound as a word. His chest might look thin, but his voice was far from reedy, and the thick air of the Towers made it doubly deep.

Rian took a step forward, and then barely stopped herself from clutching the doorway again, for the floor was not there. She was looking directly down to an antlike swarm of people, far below, and the river, and the sprawling parkland that surrounded the towers, ringed by hotels and restaurants and then the streets of Lutèce, grand and small.

But directly below this room was the antechamber of Balance, filled with swirling colour. The floor was not absent, or even a window, but some kind of illusion. She was not about to fall.

The irritation that followed this realisation helped, sweeping aside fear and wonder. Rian took a breath, firmed her chin, and walked forward with the light, skipping step made necessary by the low gravity. She stopped only when she could properly see the man waiting, her more than excellent night vision having no difficulty with the dim lighting of the room.

The seat of his chair would be perhaps shoulder height on Rian. The hands that curled over the armrests were… Rian blinked, but he was not clawed: his left hand was covered by a partial gauntlet of black metal. Spiked and spindly, it brought to mind the segmented legs of a crustacean. The right hand, uncovered, was neatly manicured, unremarkable barring the spider-leg length of the creamy fingers.

His clothes were similar to the close-fitted trousers and the flowing jacket that Étienne had so happily picked out earlier that day, but fashioned for a man built on pipe-cleaner lines. No veil or mask hid his face, but his dark brown hair was covered by a jewelled net of what looked to be silver and amethyst. Two thin braids studded with amethyst drops framed a long face, but the hints of purple near temple and ears were not gemstones. The stories about the older members of the Court of the Moon developing scales were apparently true.

It was difficult to judge when he was sitting down, but Rian thought him more than twice her own height. At least twelve, maybe fourteen feet tall. The back of the chair was cut to allow his wings to project past it while still providing support to his head, and even though he held them closed she could guess at a truly disconcerting span.

"I would like to see your face, please."

Rian hesitated, then lifted off the mask and veil. She glanced down at them, and noticed that a small table had appeared – grown – beside her. Feeling very exposed in her tissue-thin garments, she put the mask and veil down, and looked directly into his eyes.

"Did you arrange this? The reason that brought me to the Towers?"

"No." His deep voice, apparently kept deliberately soft, thrummed like a distant drum. "I am merely taking advantage of circumstance."

By annexing an unguarded pawn? Rian had to focus all of her wits, for she could not permit herself to be used against Prytennia. But how to extricate herself? She knew very little about the Duke of Balance: he did not ordinarily interact with outsiders to the Court of the Moon. And even most of the Court only saw him at the once-per-century adjudication of the balance of rule.

"I presume you haven’t brought me here to play Forfeit."

"No." The faintest hint of a smile lightened his face. "I cannot involve myself directly in the competitions. No, I wish to propose an exchange."

"Of?"

"I wish to know a particular thing about the Amon-Re bloodline. In return…" The vibration of his voice dropped to, if possible, an even lower note. "In return, I will give you the means to gain what you seek."

Rian held herself very still. She could count on one hand the number of people who knew that the vampire who had bound her was of the Amon-Re line, instead of the Ma’at line he publicly claimed. Makepeace’s real identity was something she literally could not speak of, because he had bound her against doing so. But the Duke must surely know that secret, to mention Amon-Re at all.

"The…the one who bound me has given me very little information about the bloodlines," she said, honestly enough. "I don’t think I would be able to answer questions."

"Even Heriath would not be able to answer me," the Duke said, removing any doubt as to whether he knew Makepeace’s real name. "Not without conducting the experiment I wish you to consent to. I want," he went on, "to know how the Amon-Re line reacts to my blood."

Rian stared. Took a long breath. Finally said: "I’m not a vampire yet."

"No. But the Amon-Re symbiont burns bright within you. There are some risks, of course. My blood would end the life of an ordinary human. You, who have survived Amon-Re, could not be killed by a drop of it, but there is a strong chance it will make you very ill. If that occurs, I will pay recompense."

But why did he want to know the effect of his blood on Amon-Re vampires? It seemed to Rian that there had to be consequences to this she could not see. And, yet, could she pass up a real chance to recover the mask? For Martine, who had done so much for Rian?