And yet that light. The light in the sky had rattled Marvel in a way that even the prisoner with no ears had not, or discovering a spy like Juniper, from outside the compound, slinking about in a poor costume. Both of those things were concerning, to be sure. But that light? The light was worse. It could be only one of two things: the space shuttles returning or some heavenly body hurtling perilously toward them.
Marvel had never truly realized how high Canaveral Tower was until he and Juniper had made it halfway up. The white metal stairs went on forever. After a few minutes, he felt the muscles in the tops of his thighs burning. Juniper, ahead of him and apparently still amiable, remained unwinded. To be young again, Marvel thought. But then he looked at Juniper’s shoulders tilting right, then left as he climbed, and so forth inside their dust-colored fabric casings, and noticed the elbows of the jacket were patched with leather. The entire garment didn’t fit him right; he was obviously not the first owner.
They climbed in tighter spirals until the staircase crested abruptly at a large solid metal door. There was no landing, just a massive door in the wall with a ring-knocker in the center. Juniper looked over his shoulder at Marvel. “What?” Marvel said. “Go in. I’m the Hierophant, I don’t need permission.”
Juniper nodded. “But shouldn’t I knock?”
“O, probably.” Marvel put his hand to his temple.
He knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again. Then the door opened onto a circular room as wide as the tower itself, filled with uncomfortably warm, thin smoke that tumbled out onto the stairs and into their faces. Marvel and Juniper coughed as they entered. The only movement of air inside the room was provided by a single attendant—who presumably had also opened the door. She was nude, to Marvel’s great interest, as he had always maintained a high degree of appreciation for naked bodies, male or female. Her peanut-shaped body swayed. Her nipples, flat and oval like galaxies, were the only thing Marvel could look at until he forced himself to look away. She walked quickly back over to the Pardoness and began fanning her with a sheet of paperlike metal.
What in the world were they burning? He glanced at Juniper. Juniper was staring at the attendant. Her skin looked wet enough to pull from her bones in strips, she was so sweaty. Why were they up here, sweltering? The Pardoness herself reclined on a couch, almost invisible under a web of diaphanous fabric. She peered at them serenely, and touched her attendant softly on the thigh. The woman stopped fanning. Marvel and Juniper stepped farther into the stuffy room and struggled not to cough. For furniture, the room contained only a few tables, the couch, and an amply sized bed at the back end of the chamber.
“Now, I know who you are,” said the Pardoness. Her voice was melodious but strangely accented, as though she had never spoken to anybody and had learned to pronounce all her words from books. He’d assumed she would be older than himself, since she had been the Pardoness before he had even come to the Cape. But her age was hard to tell. Her gaunt face was all but hidden under the hood she wore pulled over her ears and hair. The skin around her eyes seemed sweaty and moist—hardly surprising, given how warm it was. Though the rest of her body was covered by beautiful fabrics, Marvel could make out the vague shape of her arms. Thin, spindly. But her lower half was difficult to see. Only the tips of her two swollen feet protruded.
Marvel took a slight bow and nodded. “Likewise, you need no introduction.” Then he looked at the attendant as though she might yet introduce her mistress. But she did nothing.
“I must say I am surprised to see you here, High Priest. You must have committed a grievous act indeed.”
“Why in the name of all that is holy do you have this smoke up here?” He waved his hand.
“For my health.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s not for you to judge what is insane, Priest. Not in this chamber. This room is my own kingdom.”
This was true. The title of Pardoness was a hereditary one, and had been passed down from mother to daughter for centuries, endowing its bearer with complete autonomy. It was said and most fervently believed throughout the land that she was a direct descendent of the ancient king Armstrong, who had once walked on the moon. Privately, Marvel thought that after so many generations it was impossible to know where the Pardoness’s family had come from, just as his own family’s origins were a mystery. But her title held meaning beyond that. Marvel did believe that men had once walked on the moon, and if she was their descendent then she must possess certain powers. Of that there was no question.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I think you did,” she replied mildly. “But it doesn’t matter to me. Why are you here? We are protective of our solitude, aren’t we, Discovery?”
“Very.” The attendant walked to a side table and lit a candle. A sweet smell filled the chamber, and Marvel wondered if the smoke was some kind of mild narcotic. The door clanged heavily as it finally shut, drawn closed by its own weight, leaving the chamber in near darkness. The smoking candle made useless light. A few clusters of tallow candles flickered in the corners of the room, as was the custom for royal chambers, set before mirrors to amplify their light. Marvel swept aside his cassock and went into the room as though it were his own. “Bring me a chair, girl.”
“Can you not see there
