Quintessence Sky (12 page)

The barrier had been constructed by pulling
apart split beams of beetlewood and then wrapping the halves around
each other, tangling the quintessence threads. When the halves were
stretched apart and pounded into the ground, the threads stretched
to cover the distance like crisscrossing beams of light. Since the
beams were formed from the essence of living beetlewood, manticores
couldn't cross it. Humans, on the other hand, could walk through
without even noticing it was there. It was much easier to build
than a physical wall was, and much more effective. It couldn't be
climbed.

The manticores tested it regularly. The reds
remained on friendly terms with the colonists, but many of the
other tribes, and especially the grays, wanted nothing more than to
see them dead. Every few days, a troop of manticores would try to
scale it or break through. They hurled tree trunks at it, drove
poles into the ground and scaled the poles to jump over the
barrier, and tried to dig underneath. Sentries inside the barrier
walked around it, guarding it night and day with matchlocks, the
bullets dipped in beetlewood wax so they would pierce manticore
flesh. Marcheford had strictly banned the sale or trade of
matchlocks and ammunition to the manticores, even their allies. It
was impossible to prevent the occasional weapon from falling into
their hands, but the rule had prevented any significant manticore
armament.

So far, the barrier had held. Though Matthew
had to admit, they still had only a poor idea of why it worked. By
wrapping themselves in a mesh of quintessence threads, they could
duplicate most of the manticore's miracles, even walking through
solid stone. And yet humans could pass through the barrier, and
manticores could not. What was different? Were the manticores
actually made of quintessence in some intrinsic, atomistic way? Or
perhaps the difference was the quintessence pearl: the tiny
pinprick of quintessence that all Horizon creatures had hidden in
their bodies, allowing them to use the power naturally.

"You have news of my daughter?" he said.
Parris spoke English, which most of the reds understood, though
speaking it was difficult for them.

The manticores answered in their own
language, accompanying the sounds with sinuous movements of their
tails. "She was taken by Rinchirith and his clan to be judged."

Matthew understood the words, mostly, but he
still looked to his father for the translation. Since his father
had lived among them for so long, he knew the language better than
anyone, with the possible exception of Catherine. But his father
said simply, "Rinchirith has her."

"Who is that?" Parris said.

"He's a gray, a human-hater. He blames us for
everything bad that's ever happened to his tribe."

A lot of it probably true, Matthew thought.
Human arrival on Horizon had hardly been good for the manticores.
Besides nearly sending the whole island over the Edge, they had
disrupted the balance of politics among the tribes, causing all
manner of problems.

"We insist on being present for her trial,"
his father said formally, in the manticores' own tongue, using his
hands and fingers to mimic the movement of their tails.

"It is not the gray tribe, nor the council of
tribes, that accuses her," the manticore answered. "Rinchirith
blames her for the death of his brothers, and many who mourn the
dead follow him."

"What will he do to her?"

"He will let the earth judge her for her
crimes."

Matthew didn't know what they were talking
about, but it didn't sound good. "What does he mean, 'let the earth
judge her'?" he said.

"I've heard them speak of it before," his
father said. "It's a response to terrible offenses, for crimes that
harm the whole tribe. The offender is brought high into the
mountains and dropped into a chasm they call Judgment Gorge."

"They're going to throw her down a cave
shaft?" The mountains lay farther away than any human had yet
explored. Even if she survived the fall, they would have no hope of
finding her without manticore help.

"They believe the Earth itself will determine
guilt or innocence."

"What, by smashing her body against the
rocks?"

Matthew turned to the manticores and did his
best to speak in their language. "Will you take me to her?"

"You can't stop them," the manticore said.
"Rinchirith's followers are many."

"Take me anyway."

"No, Matthew," his father said. "You can't do
her any good. Stay here and wait."

"And do what?"

"Pray for her safety."

`"I don't want to pray. I want to save her
life."

"If God wishes her life to be saved, it will
be saved. If not, then it will not, except if by humble
supplication you obtain his mercy."

"Good idea," Matthew said. "You try that
route. In the meantime, I'll go rescue her. We'll see which works
better." Without waiting for an answer, he stepped through the
barrier and addressed the manticores. "I'm ready. Take me to
her."

"At least bring a pack," Parris said. "It's a
two day journey to the mountains; you'll need food and
supplies."

Blanca, however, had anticipated the need.
She appeared with two packs from the storehouse, her quintessence
powers making it easy for her to carry both. She stepped across the
barrier after Matthew. "Don't tell me I'm not coming with you," she
said. "Catherine's my friend, too."

Matthew nodded, then faced the manticores.
"Let's go."

The manticores, however, did not move. "We
will not take humans to the Gorge."

"What do you mean?" Matthew said. "Catherine
is there already."

"She is the accused."

"And I'm her fiancé. I want to speak for
her."

"We will not take you."

Matthew hurled his pack to the ground. "You
don't trust us with your sacred spot? Is that it? You think we'll
spit on it or take it for ourselves?" He knew their concerns were
probably warranted. After all, several of the manticores' sacred
places
had
been destroyed since the humans arrived—though
not intentionally—and many villages as well. But he wasn't going to
sit by and let everyone tell him there was nothing he could do.
"This is nonsense," he said. "You're going to kill Catherine, you
savage bastards, now tell me where she is."

"Matthew!" his father said, a shocked rebuke.
He started to gesture an apology.

The three manticores hissed and took fighting
stances, bodies low to the ground with pincers extended, their many
tails fanned up and over their heads. Blanca jumped back behind the
safety of the barrier, but Matthew was too angry to heed the
warning.

Parris dashed through the barrier and tackled
him. He dragged him to the ground just inside the barrier and made
his own body heavier to pin him down. Matthew thrashed, but
couldn't lift himself free.

"Let me go!"

"You're no good to her if you get yourself
killed."

"I'm no good to her if I can't find her,
either."

The red manticores disappeared into the
trees. When Matthew stopped struggling, Parris stood and helped him
up. "We'll find her. But antagonizing the only manticores who don't
already want to kill us won't accomplish that. We need a plan."

CHAPTER 7

BACK in the cellar room, Ramos set to work.
Barrosa wasn't there to tell him what had been tried before, but he
didn't want to know anyway. At least for now, he wanted to discover
and see for himself.

He took careful stock of the room, examining
each cage, each shelf, each golden artifact. The room was a
disorganized clutter, something that would have to change, but for
now, he just left things where they were. He didn't know enough to
organize sensibly.

He found a lot more gold carvings than he'd
spotted the day before: not only the flowers and leaves and mouse,
but a host of other ordinary objects carved in gold: a book, a
trencher, a pair of spectacles, a shoe. He was starting to suspect
that these things had not been carved after all. Only a few people
in the world could carve with such incredible perfection, and what
would be the purpose? That implied that these objects had once been
ordinary, but had been transformed into gold.

Then he found a golden inkpot engraved with
the initials J.B. Juan Barrosa. The find gave him a little shiver
of excitement. If these objects had been transformed, then it
hadn't been done on the island. It had been done right here. It was
the alchemist's dream, to turn base material into pure gold. But
how was it done?

On a table, he found a shallow tray of water
with an eel swimming in it. At the bottom of the tank, on one side,
was an ordinary gold ring; on the other side, a feather, each
barbule intricately formed in gold. The features were so tiny and
precise, he knew it could never have been carved. He wondered if
the gold would splinter away if the feather was stroked. He was
about to reach into the water when he remembered the fates of Perez
and Peinado. Caution would be wise. Instead of reaching with his
hand, he went back and found a pair of tongs he had noticed
earlier, and reached them into the water to grab the feather.

He was glad he had. As soon as they entered
the water, the ends of the tongs changed color and weight.
Astonished, he pulled them out. The top half was still iron; the
bottom half gold wherever the water had touched. Was it the water
that was special? The eel? And why was all this gold just piled up
here in the cellar? If the king had a way to turn any object into
gold, why didn't he use it to mint himself a fortune? Philip had
the armies, the influence, the intelligence, and the will to take
over the known world in the name of Christ. All he lacked was the
gold.

"I wouldn't bother pocketing any of that, if
I were you," said a voice from the stairs. It was Barrosa.

Ramos set the tongs gingerly on the table,
noticing small gold specks in the wood where the water from the eel
tray had dripped. He was careful not to let it drip on him. "Why is
that?"

"Because halfway up the stairs, it turns back
into whatever it was before."

"Up the stairs? You mean the cellar itself is
what makes them gold?"

Barrosa sat heavily on a wooden bench. "Not
at all. It's the worm."

Ramos glanced at the shining worm in its
glass ewer. "The worm isn't anywhere near this water."

"It's the source of everything. If you picked
up the worm and walked out of this room, then everything fantastic
in here would become ordinary. All of the animals would die."

"The
worm
is the source? What about
these pearls we each have in our pouches?"

Barrosa sighed. "There's a lot we don't
understand. But the pearls store up the quintessence when they're
here, and then use it up when they're not. If we don't come down
here every day and recharge from the worm, the power runs out."

"The king comes here too?"

"Once a day. And he usually wants a report on
what we've found since the last time."

"I'm still missing parts of this story. Where
are the men who brought all this back from the island? Surely we
could interview them and find out more. Was this the only worm they
could find? Where did the pearls come from?"

Barrosa looked uncomfortable. "They're all
dead." He wouldn't meet Ramos's eye.

"Dead?"

"Your brother Diego led them out, two years
ago. When they returned, half the crew was gone, including your
brother, most of the officers, and an English lord named Francis
Vaughan. The ship had all this gold and treasure, and the king
suspected a mutiny. Everyone did."

"What was their story?"

"They claimed most of the officers had been
killed by invisible manticores, your brother had been killed by the
Protestant renegades, and Vaughan had been plucked off the ship in
the night by a giant sea monster."

Ramos gave a nervous laugh. "You're
kidding."

"The surviving men were huddled in four
groups around the four pearls they had brought, refusing to be
separated. They said they used to have a chest full of the worms,
but shortly after they set sail, Vaughan had opened the chest and
attracted the sea monster, which leaped out of the sea, snatched
him and the chest of worms in its mouth, and dove back down into
the deep." Barrosa pantomimed the monster's movements with his
hands. "Only one worm was left."

"No one believed them?"

"Why would they? They were filthy and raving
and their stories were fantastic. They were in perfect health, but
acted terrified of dying. None of the gentry were left to
corroborate their tale, and who would believe a bunch of
superstitious sailors?"

"But you believe them now."

Barrosa spread his hands. "What they brought
back is as fantastic as their stories. And they were right to be
afraid of death."