The Infinity Concerto Page 19

  She held her arms down at her side and closed her eyes, lifting her chin. Her fingers straightened.

  For the merest instant, four glowing pillars rose from each corner and passed through the roof as if it weren’t there, into a greater darkness high above. She held out her hand, fingers clenched into a fist, and spun once. Her eyes flashed just as he blinked and in the moment his lids were closed, the room seemed bright enough to be seen clearly through the skin.

  She knelt in front of him, held out her fist and uncurled it. A beetle lay in the middle of her palm, like a scarab but deep metallic green, with velvety green wing cases. It moved slowly, turning as if confused.

  “That’s very nice,” Michael said, not sure whether to be impressed or not.

  “It was a cold night, with clouds and the sky filled with light,” she said. “It was a kind of road, hard and black, with white lines and golden dots and grass imprisoned in rock on each side, and trees in the grass.” She pointed to the beetle. “This was… there. So I brought it back.”

  Michael blinked. “I—”

  “I brought it for you from your home,” Eleuth said. “You live in a very strange place.”

  The beetle crawled a half inch across her palm, then stopped and rolled over. Its legs kicked feebly and it was still. Eleuth looked down on it with concern and touched it gently with one finger. Drops of water glistened on the finger, as if…

  As if it had searched through wet grass.

  “Is it dead?” Michael asked.

  Tears brimmed in Eleuth’s eyes. “I think so. I have so much to learn.”

  It was dark and very cold when he returned to the mound. The windows of the Crane Women’s hut glowed brightly. Spart waited for him between the huts, standing on one leg. She crooked a finger at him, lowered her leg, and strode to his hut. He followed. She gestured for him to pull back the cover and he complied. She snapped her fingers and the letters of the poem in the dirt glowed. “Where did that come from?

  “I’m a poet,” he said, resenting her intrusion. “I write poetry. There’s no paper here, so I write it in the dirt.”

  “Yes, but where does it come from?”

  “How should I know? It’s poetry.”

  “Do you know how old this poem is?” she asked, pointing to the last few lines. “In its Cascar version?”

  Michael shook his head. “I just wrote it.”

  “It is dangerous to write such things. Your play with the Breed girl is making you a very interesting student.” She walked away, her long limbs carrying her like a two-legged spider.

  “It’s my poem,” he called after her. He heard a scratching noise behind him and saw Nare peering around the door into the hut’s inner darkness. She mouthed a few words, her eyes focused on the glowing scrawls. “Tonn’s Kaeli,” she said, grinning at Michael. She straightened and followed Spart.

  The air smelled of dust and electricity, though the night sky was cloudless. He lay on the grass reeds, shivering, and thought briefly of Eleuth and what she had done, then more lingeringly of Helena. He wondered what Helena was doing, and when he would get to see her again… and he wondered if she could ever be as affectionate as Eleuth.

  (What Eleuth had done…)

  It seemed almost too much to hope for.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The few times Michael saw the Crane Women training Biri, they spoke Cascar and he couldn’t understand precisely what was happening. They continued to work with Michael, and as the days passed and the weather grew colder, Nare finally devoted a day to teaching him how to harness hyloka, or drawing-of-heat-from-the-center. He was just beginning to get the hang of the discipline when she abandoned him, and, for a week, they concentrated on Biri from dawn to dusk.

  On a bitterly cold morning, Michael came out of his hut and saw Biri in the middle of the mound with the Crane Women. They surrounded him with linked hands, their eyes closed and faces upturned to the cool blue sky. Snow fell around them in lazy, sauntering flakes. Michael sat cross-legged on the dirt before his hut door.

  For hours, the group simply stood, doing nothing. Michael wrote poems in the hardening dirt and scratched them out, peering up now and then to see if anything had changed. He tried to recapture the sensation of an inner, separate voice, but failed.

  Finally, Biri collapsed between them and the crane Women broke away, backing up, crouched over like birds of prey, their eyes wide and lips pressed tightly together. They went to their hut and left Biri where he lay. Michael went to him and bent over, feeling his forehead.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Go away,” Biri said, eyes scrunched shut.

  “Just asking,” Michael said. Spart came running from the house, arms swinging.

  “Go!” she screeched. “Leave him alone! Get out of here!”

  “Forever, you mean?” he asked resentfully, running ahead of her shooing hands.

  “Come back at dusk.” She looked down on Biri, who hadn’t moved.

  “Is he all right?”

  “No. Go now.”

  Michael walked across the stream, glancing over his shoulder at the frozen tableau of Spart and the prostrate Sidhe. He frowned and kicked at small rocks on the road to Euterpe.

  The snow fell more heavily, forming speckled caps on the bushes and grass clumps by the roadside. He practiced hyloka as he walked, and felt a gradual spreading of warmth from the pit of his stomach.

  How many days had he been in the Realm? His concentration was broken by the question and he became cold rapidly. He had lost count of the days; perhaps two months, perhaps two and a half or three. Everything had merged into training, running, casting shadows, with highlights of terror, of Eleuth’s affection, and thoughts of Helena.

  He frowned and bore down on hyloka again, feeling new heat rise in his chest and spread down his arms. He smiled and swung his arms experimentally. The chill was dispelled. When Euterpe was in sight, he quickened his pace. His face was flushed and his fingers tingled.

  He thought of Biri lying on the ground in apparent agony and was very glad he wasn’t a Sidhe. He felt almost giddy with relief that he was Michael Perrin. He was even glad to be in the Realm, because otherwise he wouldn’t be so warm, standing in the snow; so warm and comfortable. He kicked his legs and didn’t notice the thin trickle of smoke.

  Michael was dancing by the time he reached the outskirts of Euterpe. He jigged past the outer houses, grinning and humming. He wondered vaguely why he was so happy, and turned up the street to Helena’s alley.

  A thin coat of ice crusted the cobbles in the central gutter. As he danced, his feet didn’t so much crack the ice as melt it. They left steaming tracks. He leaped and ran around the corner of the alley, hollering as he passed between the blank stone walls. In his ecstasy, he seemed to find the inner voice again, and was about to chant a snatch of poetry when he came to the bottom of the stairs. He stopped, somewhat daunted. He didn’t want to be less than dignified around Helena.

  Michael’s feet hissed on the steps. He stood by Helena’s doorway, knocking on the frame. Something was burning. He looked around, puzzled, hoping it was only a cooking fire and not the building. The smell grew stronger. He lifted his arm to scratch his nose.

  The sleeve of his shirt smoked. He stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded. Heat radiated from his skin. Flames curled from the edge of the fabric, small and dull at first; then the entire sleeve ignited. He clawed and tugged his way out of the shirt, casting it to the floor, where it sent up volumes of gray smoke. He dropped to his knees and pulled the book from its pocket, dropping it as his fingers scorched the binding.

  The pants caught next and he kicked out of them, brushing bits of char and smoking fragments from his legs.

  His breathing was deep and rapid. The walls of the hallway reflected an orange glow, but the clothing had extinguished itself. His whole body tingled and euphoria mixed with his astonishment and fear. He wanted to dance again, but instead decided it was time to do some hard thinki
ng.

  About what? About something left untended… let out of control. And that was… yes?

  Hyloka. He hadn’t stopped the drawing of heat from the center. He shook his head in comic exasperation and concentrated on the center of warmth, gradually damping it down. His hand was still ruddy, so he damped the impulse further. Normal skin color returned.

  With the heat went the euphoria. Michael suddenly realized he was standing naked in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by the blackened remains of his clothes…

  In front of Helena’s door.

  It was worse than any nightmare of embarrassment he had ever had. He had burned his clothes off his back. He bent to pick up the book, and without thinking he pushed on the wicker door. It opened—there were no locks in Euterpe—and he darted inside.

  Several seconds passed before he was calm enough to realize she wasn’t home. Chilled again, he looked around for something to wear. The closet—a wicker armoire—yielded a long skirt which he tied around his waist. He found a kind of short jacket which barely fit his shoulders and was about to sneak out when the wicker door swung open again.

  Helena came in with several scraps of cloth draped over her arm and a sewing kit in one hand.

  “Hello,” Michael said by way of warning. She turned slowly and regarded him with wide eyes.

  “What in hell is wrong with you?” she asked a moment later. He was shivering, mortified, but he managed a miserable smile. “I burned my clothes,” he said.

  “Jesus H. Christ.” Helena propped the door open with her foot, as if contemplating escape. She glanced down at the blackened rags in the hallway. “Why?”

  “I was trying to keep warm,” Michael said. “It got away from me. I was, you know, drawing heat from the center… Spart calls it hyloka—”

  “You’re only making it worse,” Helena said, relaxing. She folded the fabric over the back of a chair and laid the sewing kit on the seat. “Start at the beginning.”

  Michael explained as best he could, and when he was done, Helena nodded dubiously. “So you dress up in my clothes. That’s my only skirt, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t fit in your pants,” Michael said.

  “Indeed you wouldn’t. What are you going to do? Wear my only dress around? How many clothes do you have?”

  “Just those,” Michael said, pointing toward the hall. “I was—”

  “Why did you come here to burn your clothes?”

  His mortification turned into agony. He stammered and felt the start of tears. Then he saw she was enjoying the whole situation, egging him on. “I was coming to visit. It was snowing.”

  Helena suddenly started laughing. She bent over and fell back on the chair, knocking the kit to the floor. “I’m so-o-rry,” she cackled. “I’m really so-o-o-rry!”

  Michael saw the humor, but couldn’t bring himself to join her. “I’ll go now,” he said.

  “Not in my dress, you won’t. What are we going to do? I don’t have any men’s clothes here.”

  “Borrow some, maybe,” he suggested hopefully.

  She restrained her mirth and picked up the sewing kit. “Actually,” she said, walking around him, “you don’t look half bad. Maybe I’ll let you wear it.”

  “Helena, please.”

  “All right. I shouldn’t laugh.”

  “I’m sure it’s very funny,” Michael said. “I’d be laughing, too, but it’s me standing here like an ass, and in your apartment, too. And it’s me wearing your clothes—”

  “Why did you come back? I’ve seen so little of you.”

  “To talk. Up until a few days ago, they’ve been keeping me busy.” He hoped she hadn’t heard about Eleuth; he didn’t know what kind of gossip network there was in Euterpe. No doubt he would soon find out. ”You won’t tell anybody, will you?”

  “No. Michael, you are the most unusual person I’ve ever met, and you get weirder every time I see you.”

  “It’s just this place, everything about it.”

  “Oh. You’re normal, then.”

  “Yeah—No, I mean, not like everybody else—”

  “Enough, enough,” Helena said. “I’ll go find Savarin and tell him you need some clothes. He might know where to get them—fabric is scarce around here, you know. You can’t just cook it off every chance you get.” She giggled. “I’m even bringing home stuff mangled in the tubs at the laundry,” she said, pointing to the fabric. “It’s part of my job to patch it up.”

  “Don’t tell Savarin. Don’t bring him here, please.”

  “But we’ll need an excuse. Some reason why you need new clothes.”

  “Tell him I wore mine out training.”

  “Sure. And walked naked through town to my apartment.”

  “Then make something up! Please.”

  “I’ll be circumspect. I’ll tell him it’s a secret. You know what he’ll think then?” She put on a prim expression. “Well, let him think whatever he wants.” She went to the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” he said.

  She gave him one final glance, shook her head, and closed the door. Michael looked down at the blouse that barely fit across his chest, and the dress, and gave a helpless groan. He sat on the chair and nibbed his face with his hands, then lifted his head and looked around the small apartment.

  Sitting on the wicker table near the chair was a rounded piece of what appeared to be driftwood. He wondered where it had come from; it was displayed prominently, like a kind of treasure. Wood was highly regarded by the humans. The Breeds were forbidden to trade wood, and he doubted Sidhe traders would supply any to humans. He wondered if he could procure some for Helena, perhaps a board from his hut; anything to make up for what he had just done.

  Near the window looking down into the alley was a tall, columnar ceramic vase with three leafy sticks giving out one small yellow bud. He walked over and sniffed it, but there was no odor.

  The rest of the room was quite spare. Still, after his hut, Helena’s apartment seemed like the height of civilization.

  An hour passed before she returned with a cloth bag and held it out to him. “Go into the back room and put these on,” she said. “Savarin asked Risky for some leftovers. She had them from a tenant who disappeared years ago. They should fit.”

  Michael did as he was told and used the opportunity to examine her sleeping quarters. The bed was made of—what else?—wicker, with a mattress stuffed with vegetable fiber, not precisely straw. Over it were two plain, thin blankets. The area was barely large enough for a single bed. On the walls, more flowers had been hand-painted, clumsy but somehow charming.

  Helena examined him critically when he returned through the curtain. “Well,” she said, finger to cheek, “it’s not the tailored look, but it will have to do.”

  “There’s no pocket for my book,” he said. He held up the volume, which was starting to look the worse for wear.

  “I’ll make you a pocket with some scraps,” Helena said. “Give me the shirt.” He removed the shirt and handed it to her.

  “So you won’t be needing any warm clothes, hm?” Helena asked as she cut out a patch pocket and began to apply it.

  “I don’t want to use hyloka again until I know how to control it,” he said. He sighed. “There are so many really strange things to watch out for.”

  She looked at his naked chest as she sewed on the pocket. He shifted on his chair and pretended interest in the window. He wasn’t scrawny but his skin was pale and he was self-conscious. He would never pass for a pin-up.

  “You’re getting heftier,” she said. “Must be the training. Too bad baggy clothes hide it.”

  Snow was falling again. “Does it get real cold here?”

  “Looks like winter’s getting started, but you can’t always count on it. When winter sets in for sure, it gets very cold. The laundry shuts down, everything stops. Winter is a good time to hide things. The Wickmaster hardly ever comes through then.
He doesn’t want to see how miserable everybody is. He has to keep us reasonably well-cared for, and what he doesn’t see, he doesn’t have to correct.”

  She finished the sewing and put the needle away. “There. A pocket.” She passed the shirt to him and turned her chair around to watch as he put it on. “A regular ragamuffin. Have you thought much about what I said?”

  He buttoned the front and slipped the book into place. “Said?”

  “About our group.”

  “Oh. I’ve thought about it. I’m wondering what you’ll do with a piano.”

  She stood and peered out the window into the alley, then drew closer to him. “It’s not just the piano,” she said. “It’s bigger than that. The piano’s nice, though.” A distant look came into her eyes. “I’m all out of practice. My fingers are ruined.” She wriggled them and made as if to pound a keyboard. “Stiff. Calluses. But like I was saying, we have other plans. Savarin thinks we can trust you. The Wickmaster seems to hate your guts. Of course, maybe that’s just a ruse…There have been humans who have gone over to the Sidhe.” She looked at him sharply. “You’re more mixed-up with the Breeds than with the Sidhe, and the Sidhe and Breeds aren’t exactly close. But we have one reservation.”

  “Yes?” He felt vaguely guilty and grit his teeth.

  “Why are the Crane Women so interested in you?”

  “I think because of Lamia,” he said. “But listen, if you don’t trust me, forget it. Don’t tell me anything.”

  “You don’t know why you’re being trained?”

  “Savarin and I have been through all this before. I’m probably the most ignorant person in the Realm.”

  Helena laughed. “Don’t be upset…well, we have to be careful. You know how serious things are. What do you know about the Pact?”

  “That the Isomage, or David Clarkham, or whoever he is, fought a battle and won some concessions.”

  “He lost.”

  “Yeah, but he made the Sidhe agree to set up the Pact Lands. I suppose having Alyons watch over us was part of it.”

  “Savarin says Alyons was sent here as punishment for breaking a Sidhe law. But what I’m getting at is, if we put up some kind of resistance, or try to change things, the Pact is off. Alyons can do what he wants with us.”