No Present Like Time

To Brian

They change their clime, not their frame of mind,
that rush across the sea.

—Horace

J
ANUARY
2020

O
n this soft night I followed the Moren River valley, flying back to the Castle, hearing the chimes of clock towers in the Plainslands villages as I passed high above.

The night air was shapeless. I couldn’t sense any current. I concentrated, flapping steadily on, marking distance by time, marking time by going through all the songs I know. I lay horizontally, looking down around me, cruising with stiff, shallow beats. I felt the air rushing between my feathers on the upstroke. Then I pulled my wings down again, the feathers flattened, the tight muscles moved around my waist.

Thermals were dissipating as the sun set. I was dropping altitude to find them and the work was getting harder. Fog was forming, low in the pasture and along the river bank. The tops of the valley sides were dark shapes rising from the mist like islands. Beyond, I could see parallel hills all the way out to the beginning of Donaise. Hedges and drystone walls looked like black seams separating fields of clean, lapping white mist. There was no sound, just the skeleton zip of my wings peeling back the air.

I spotted a point of light in the distance, like a city, and checked my compass—bearings dead on for the Castle and hopefully there would be some supper left. The speck resolved into a cluster of lights, then each cluster separated again, and distances between them seemed to grow as I got closer. Lights slipped from the horizon down toward me, until I was over Demesne village. Street lights shone up, picking the mist out in flat beams. Denser wisps blew past, curling, and the fog began to take on a shape of its own.

The fog changed everything. Fog covered the river’s reflective surface, meandered to the water meadows. Fog poured between the cultivar yew plantations and spiky poplar coppices where tomorrow’s bows and arrows were painstakingly being grown. Fog drifted over the roofs of the village where most of the Castle’s staff live. It pooled on the carp ponds, stole into the tax barns and settled on the market’s thatched roof. It cloaked the watermill, the aqueduct’s dark arches, Hobson’s stable and the Blacksmith’s yard. Fog overran the Castle’s outermost boundaries. It advanced through the archery fields, lay in the tilting lists, rolled over the tennis courts. It muffled the concert hall and the bathhouse complex.

One of the Castle’s spires was silhouetted against a white light, which suffused into the mist in an immense grisaille sphere. The floodlights were on in the amphitheater. They only illuminated the sharp Northeast Tower, its black sarsen stone striking in the whiteout. Features became visible as I closed the distance. The Castle’s vast bulk was obscured. Occasionally angular roofs and the crenellated tops of walls appeared, fragmentary, through the mist. The square base of the round tower was submerged two meters deep into a sea of fog. I flew through thicker patches—then it looked as if it was receding on the plains. On a whim, three hundred years ago, the Architect had encrusted her studio in the turret with sculptures. Eagles, storks and eels loomed out of the mist, with her company’s logo and the tools of her trade in stonework blackened by kitchen smoke. The windows bristled with deep, tangled marble ivy so realistic that birds were nesting in it.

Fog cold in my eyes and throat like clouds. A smell from the kitchens of wood smoke, roast beef and dishwater had caught in it. A faint scent of lavender from the laundry house tainted it. Burned whale oil from the floodlights saturated it, turning the fog into smog.

Stories and gable roofs and towers rose behind towers. The spaces under the buttresses were filled with tracery. The Carillon Courtyard had a lawn mowed in wide stripes and a roof that had been covered in scaffolding for eight decades. On the steeplejack’s walkway was a wooden treadmill twice as tall as a man, used to raise loads of Ladygrace stone. Its basket hung from the rope wound on its axle.

Two centuries ago, I thought the North Façade was a cliff face formed by the power of nature. I had tilted my head until I thought I would fall over backward, but I still couldn’t see the top of its spire. I had crouched on the hard grass a few hundred meters away, looked up and realized—all the crevices are carvings. The cliff ledges are parapets. Statues of idealized immortals, pinnaform spires embroidered with vertical lace. The glory of the Emperor, god’s governor of the Fourlands. It had made my neck ache.

I flew an assured path around walls flaking masonry, mottled with moss. I passed pinnacles decorated with ball flowers. The Finials, a memorial sculpture, was a row of scalloped arches resting on freestanding black marble shafts. It carried the signatures of Eszai, people who through their peerless talents have won immortality, a place in the Circle, and reside here. Graffiti scarred the arches, the names of immortals past and present; I had incised
CJS & TW 1892
in a love heart on the highest topstone.

Now invisible in the mist, the gravel courtyard at the foot of the Finials encircled a statue of Dunlin, recently the King of Awia. I had ordered it to be placed there with the statues of other great warriors so that he would always be remembered.

The tall Aigret Tower seemed to drift in the mist and I sheared through it. It was the Slake Cross Battle cenotaph, square openwork, completely hollowed out to a lantern of air. At every level its pillars were thicker at the top than at the bottom, so they looked like they were dripping down—melting. It had no walls, its pillars were backed by those of a second and third tower nested inside; through its worn bird-boned latticework I flew without breaking pace.

Small, indistinct groups of people were heading along the avenue in the direction of the dueling ground. Some carried oil lamps; their golden light-points bounced away into the distance. Next to the floodlights’ white glare, a whole crowd of lanterns was gathering. I must take a look and see what’s happening. Standing on one wing I bent my knees and turned. The ground tilted sharply as I dropped onto the Castle’s roof-forest, like a wasp into a very ornate flower. I swept in so low over the barbican that my wingtips touched, made a sharp right, narrowly missing the lightning rod. Airstream roared in my ears as I dived toward the dueling ground, wondering if I could see well enough to land safely.

Fog drifted with me over the low roof of the adjoining gymnasium, and a second later poured from the open mouths of a dozen gargoyles carved in the shape of serene kings like chess pieces, which leaned out, facedown, over ornamental gardens. I flew through one of the streams, taking a shower in the damp fog. As I glided in on fixed wings, vortices curled off my wingtips so I left two spiral trails.

The dueling ground is inside a large amphitheater with high, half-timbered walls topped by flagpoles. The fog had not yet smothered them but it rose up the outside like water climbing around a sinking ship—the oval building looked as if it was sliding down into the invisible earth.

Four floodlights stood at the edges of the amphitheater, on ten-meter-high iron scaffolds. I circled the nearest floodlight, feet dangling, and settled onto its metal housing. I shook wisps of fog from my wings and pulled them around me, stood cloaked in long feathers.

The shade was very hot. I shuffled to the front and perched on the edge. The only noise was the oil lamps’ hissing. Above and around, all was dark—but the pitch below was bathed in light. Two figures in the center were swiping at each other with rapier and dagger.

There was Gio Serein, the Circle’s Swordsman. When I was growing up in Hacilith, he was the immortal with the biggest fan club. Every child who wielded a stick pretended to be Serein and plenty of teenagers had aspirations to fight him. This could only be a Challenge. I peered closer to see who could possibly go a round with him. It was a young Awian lad, who kept his stubby dark wings folded so as not to present a target. His flight feathers were clipped in zigzags, the current fashion, making them lighter. Short brown hair was shaved at the sides and stuck up in sweaty spikes on top. For agility, he wore only a shirt and breeches. His sweat-patched shirt was fyrd-issue, dark blue of the Tanager Select infantry. He wore a glove on his left hand, grasping the rapier hilt. He moved as if he was made of springs.

Serein had his knuckles upward and thumb on his rapier blade to make strong wrist blows. The stranger caught one on his dagger, thrust it wide, went in underneath with dagger and rapier. Serein struck back, low, with a cry.

The newcomer swept it aside, made a feint to the face, jabbing twice, and again Serein gave ground, keenly aware of his body’s position. Then he ran in and scuffed up some sawdust with his leather pump. The Awian was wise to that trick; he parried the thrust. Metal slid over metal with a grinding swish.

I
glanced up and the size of the crowd held my attention. The twenty-tier-high banked stands were crammed to capacity and more people arrived every minute, blowing out their lanterns, shoving a path down the walkways to sit on the steps and lean against the posts. Gazing around, I couldn’t see any space where I could join them.

Directly opposite was a canopied box with the best view of the ground. The Emperor San was seated on a chair in the center, watching the two fighters impassively and completely without expression. One thin hand rested on his knees, the other was curled on the arm-rest. His face was shadowed by the gold awning, thin magisterial features framed by white hair that hung loose to his shoulders. If San was out of the Throne Room this must be really important. I folded my wings neatly so the tips crossed at my back, and bowed my head in case he was watching.

On the Emperor’s left, Tornado, the Castle’s Strongman, was so big he filled that side of the box. He peered out from under the awning that bulged over his head. On his right, Mist, the Sailor, stood with a great big grin on her face, her hands on wide hips under a white cashmere jumper. Rayne, the Doctor, sat with her assistants on a bench at the side of the ground, ready to intervene if anything went wrong. I recognized many of my fellow immortals scattered through the crowd, all intent on the duelists. Well, I thought, it wouldn’t be a new year if Serein didn’t have another Challenger, but usually his supporters in the crowd bellowed and cheered and hissed. This time there was a breathlessness in the air.

The duelists walked in a circle, marshaling their strength. Watching tensely. Both had their sword tips horizontal in third guard, daggers in their right hands held out straight to the right side. Footprints turned the sand dark in a ring where they trod. They must have been at it for ages; their clothes were wet and the sand was damp with sweat.

Serein thrust, knees flexed. The Awian traversed sideways and Serein’s swept hilt nearly caught on his tightly taped sleeve. They never lost eye contact; I knew what that was like. Head up and body in balance, keep all the moves in your peripheral vision no matter how bright the steel is, cutting around your head.

Serein made his slicing arc too wide. The Awian jabbed at his stomach. Serein was forced back. The Awian jumped forward, thrust sword arm and leg out, aimed for the hamstring behind Serein’s knee. Serein parried but his blade sloped. The Awian’s rapier glanced off, he directed it to Serein’s calf. Serein moved away fast. Top move! Yes! Eat your heart out, Serein! I bounced up and down on the floodlight housing until the whole thing shuddered.

Sorry.

They set to circling again, obviously exhausted but trying to see what chinks might open in each other’s guard. They tried to spot any recurring foibles, to predict and use them. They were perfectly synchronized, reading the timing from each other’s eyes. Seeing through the feints. Every time Serein sought a way to break out, the newcomer was with him, close like a shadow through every strategy.

Serein shifted into second guard, spun the dagger so the blade was below his hand, took a swipe across the Awian’s face. Crash, crash! They moved apart. Serein has spent his life studying the art of killing. Why hasn’t he won yet? His footprints on the sand traced out one of his geometrical charts. He was using every trick he knew and he was getting nowhere.

S
ome people climbed up on the roof and lit the last floodlight. If the duelists registered the white glare intensify, they didn’t react. They concentrated on thrust and parry, leaned in with both hands at once, dagger blocking rapier. A spray of sweat drops flew from Serein’s fair hair as he flicked it back.

My floodlight was a good vantage point. Moreover, being half Rhydanne I could see movements faster than the flatlanders can, so I saw Serein’s cuts; to the other spectators they must be a blur. This was Serein slowed by fatigue. I knew how impossibly fast he moves when fresh, because he’s beaten me black and blue with a buttoned rapier before now.

Serein was two meters tall, his substantial arms were hard with tired muscle. He bared teeth in a snarl as he screamed at himself inwardly: Concentrate! Even at this distance I could read the frustration in his pale eyes: Why won’t you yield? Why can’t I hit you? He kept turning hatred into big, angry slashes that his opponent just leafed aside with dagger, his rapier in front narrowing the angle of attack. They were both as good as it was physically possible to be. The outcome depended on who would slip up first, or simply stop, ground down by exhaustion. Perhaps Serein was slightly more cautious than the boy, because he had more to lose.

Serein made two crown cuts to the boy’s head, lunged for his feet. The boy tried to catch the blade in his dagger quillions, missed.

T
his kid has been around, I decided. He fights like an immortal. I had been flying on my own for days and my whole body was alert to their moves. I had been in remote Darkling, which made me conscious of the crowd.

There was the Archer. Lightning stood closest to the duelists, leaning on the crush barrier staring raptly at them. A wide Micawater-blue scarf was draped around his shoulders and a quiver of white-flighted arrows at his hip. He has the physique of a cast-bronze statue. The willpower of one, too, and to be honest their sense of humor as well. This century he is less glacial than usual, because he has been enlivened by another hopeless love affair. It was easy to see him; the surrounding crowd kept a respectful distance. Though they all stood shoulder-to-shoulder, Lightning was on his own.