Кэтрин Фишер: Sapphique

From somewhere a woman screamed, ‘Heal my son, Wise One! Heal him.’ A baby was lifted up, began to be passed forward over people’s heads.

The Enchanter turned and held up his hand.

‘That will be done later. Not now’ His voice was rich with authority. ‘Now I prepare for the summoning of all my powers. For the reading of minds. For the entry into death and back to life.’ He closed his eyes.

The torches flickered low.

Standing alone in the dark the Enchanter whispered, ‘There is much sorrow here. There is much fear.' When he looked out at them again he seemed overwhelmed by the numbers, almost afraid of his task. Quietly he said, ‘I want three people to come forward. But they must be only those willing to have their deepest fears revealed. Only those willing to bare their souls to my gaze.’ A few hands shot up. Women called out. After a moment of hesitation, Attia put her hand up too.

The Enchanter went towards the crowd. ‘That woman,’ he called, and one was shoved forward, hot and stumbling.

‘Him.’ A tall man who had not even volunteered was dragged out by those around him. He swore and stood awkwardly, as if transfixed by terror.

The Enchanter turned. His gaze moved inexorably across the massed faces. Attia held her breath. She felt the man’s brooding stare cross her face like heat. He stopped, glanced back. Their eyes met, a dark second. Slowly he raised his hand and stabbed a long finger in her direction, and the crowd cried aloud because they saw that, like Sapphique, his right forefinger was missing.

‘You,’ the Enchanter whispered.

She took a breath to calm herself. Her heart was hammering with terror. She had to force herself to push through into the dim, smoky space. But it was important to stay calm, not show fear. Not show she was any different from anyone else.

The three of them stood in a line and Attia could feel the woman next to her trembling with emotion. The Enchanter walked along, his eyes scrutinizing their faces. Attia met his stare as defiantly as she could. He would never read her mind; she was sure of that. She had seen and heard things he could never imagine. She had seen Outside.

He took the woman’s hand. After a moment, very gently, he said, ‘You miss him.’ The woman stared in amazement. A strand of hair stuck to her lined forehead. ‘Oh I do, Master. I do.’ The Enchanter smiled. ‘Have no fear. He is safe in the peace of Incarceron. The Prison holds him in its memory. His body is whole in its white cells.

She shook with sobs of joy, kissed his hands. ‘Thank you, Master. Thank you for telling me.’ The crowd roared its approval. Attia allowed herself a sardonic smile. They were so stupid! Hadn’t they noticed this so—called magician had told the woman nothing? A lucky guess and a few empty words and they swallowed it whole.

He had chosen his victims carefully. The tall man was so terrified he would have said anything; when the Enchanter asked him how his sick mother was he stammered that she was improving, sir. The crowd applauded.

‘Indeed she is.’ The Enchanter waved his maimed hand for silence. ‘And I prophesy this. By Lightson her fever will have diminished. She will sit up and call for you, my friend. She will live ten more years. I see your grandchildren on her knee.’ The man could not speak. Attia was disgusted to see tears in his eyes.

The crowd murmured. Perhaps they were less convinced, because when the Enchanter came to Attia he turned to face them suddenly.

‘It is easy, some of you are thinking, to speak of the future.’ He raised his young face and stared out at them.

‘How will we ever know, you’re thinking, whether he is right or wrong? And you are right to doubt. But the past, my friends, the past is a different thing. I will tell you now of this girl’s past.’ Attia tensed.

Perhaps he sensed her fear, because a slight smile curled his lips. He stared at her, his eyes slowly glazing, becoming distant, dark as the night. Then he lifted his gloved hand and touched her forehead.

‘I see,’ he whispered, ‘a long journey. Many miles, many weary days of walking. I see you crouched like a beast. I see a chain about your neck.’ Attia swallowed. She wanted to jerk away. Instead she nodded, and the crowd was silent.

The Enchanter took her hand. He clasped his own around it and his gloved fingers were long and bony. His voice was puzzled. ‘I see strange things in your mind, girl. I see you climbing a tall ladder, fleeing from a great Beast, flying in a silver ship above cities and towers. I see a boy. His name is Finn. He has betrayed you. He has left you behind and though he promised to return, you fear he never will. You love him, and you hate him. Is that not true?’ Attia’s face was scorching. Her hand shook. ‘Yes,’ she breathed.

The crowd were transfixed.

The Enchanter stared at her as if her soul was transparent; she found she could not look away. Something was happening to him, a strangeness had come into his face, behind his eyes. Small bright glints shone on his coat. The glove felt like ice around her fingers.

‘Stars,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I see the stars. Under them a golden palace, its windows bright with candles. I see it through the keyhole of a dark doorway. It is far, far away. It is Outside.’ Amazed, Attia stared at him. His grasp on her hand hurt but she couldn’t move. His voice was a whisper.

‘There is a way Out. Sapphique found it. The keyhole is tiny, tinier than an atom. And the eagle and the swan spread their wings to guard it.' She had to move, break this spell. She glanced aside.

People crowded the edges of the arena; the bearguard, seven jugglers, dancers from the troupe. They stood as still as the crowd.

‘Master,’ she whispered.

His eyes flickered.

He said, ‘You search for a Sapient who will show you the way Out. I am that man.’ His voice strengthened; he swung to the crowd. ‘The way that Sapphique took lies through the Door of Death. I will take this girl there and I will bring her back!’ The audience roared. He led Attia by the hand out into the centre of the smoky space. Only one torch guttered. There was a couch. He motioned her to lie on it.

Terrified, she swung her legs up.

In the crowd someone cried out, and was instantly hushed.

Bodies craned forward, a stench of heat and sweat.

The Enchanter held up his black-gloved hand. ‘Death,’ he said. ‘We fear it. We would do anything to avoid it. And yet Death is a doorway that opens both ways. Before your eyes, you will see the dead live.’ The couch was hard. She gripped the sides. This was what she had come for.

‘Behold,’ the Enchanter said.

He turned and the crowd moaned, because in his hand was a sword. He was drawing it out of the air; slowly it was unsheathed from darkness, the blade glittering with cold blue light. He held it up, and unbelievably, miles above them in the remote roof of the Prison, lightning flickered.

The Enchanter stared up; Attia blinked.

Thunder rumbled like laughter.

For a moment everyone listened to it, tensed for the Prison to act, for the streets to fall, the sky roll away, the gas and the lights to pin them down.

But Incarceron did not interfere.

‘My father the Prison,’ the Enchanter said quickly, ‘watches and approves.’ He turned.

Metal links hung from the couch; he fastened them around Attia’s wrists. Then a belt was looped over her neck and waist. ‘Keep very still, he said. His bright eyes explored her face. ‘Or the danger is extreme.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘Behold,’ he cried. ‘I will release her. And I will bring her back!’ He raised the sword, both hands on the grip, the point hovering over her chest. She wanted to cry out, gasp, ‘No,’ but her body was chilled and numb, her whole attention focused on the glittering, razor-sharp point.