Cautiously, she caressed his knee.
“Lead me to the truth.”
She kissed him. He kissed her back. Again he took up the bag with the hand in it. He said, “Right seems wrong and wrong seems right.”
She nodded. He left and she felt her heart, a feather, floating down from a precipice.
She had thought he would save her, but now she understood she would have to save herself.
CHAPTER 22
FAITH
Tellochvovin. It was the language of angels, so said Tygo. Falling death. Of course he might have made the whole thing up. It was very possible. With the two stella novae hanging above their heads, an ominous quality could well be ascribed to the word. But John was not so sure Tygo have ever “seen” anything more remarkable than the weaknesses of others. John’s own, for instance. John Sousa did admit that he was in search of a miracle, and had been for a long time. A vision of the Sublime that might, once and for all, convince him of its truth. Tygo need not have been a genius to see that John was a man who had always wanted to believe.
If the stella novae were tellochvovin, they would all soon be dead and none of it would matter. John cast his eyes out the window of this great lower hall of the southeast tower, Columbia. There the lights burned, through the gray haze. He was seated at a long table with Tygo and King Michael and the Hierophant, flanked by four armed guards. They awaited the outlaw carnival’s faction—somewhat too jovially, John felt.
The horoscope he’d drawn up had been predictably vague. He and Michael had taken their usual roles. John urged caution while Michael laughed and replied that John was far, far too cautious. There are so many ways to read that, John! Why do you always choose the worst? But there had been a worrisome aspect to the reading: two opposing planets, one ascendant, one on the wane. In his view the ascendant body did not represent Michael himself—but of course Michael had not taken it that way.
He had pointed to the offending planet and its aspect, his narrow finger jabbing the chart. Michael had nodded eagerly. The horoscope showed at least one thing clearly: that the True King would be present at the meeting today. John’s thoughts had taken an odd turn: does Michael even believe he should be king? Would he be happy to be overthrown?
The whole affair had unsettled him. Now John and Tygo were seated a bit to the right of Michael and the Hierophant, lower than the dais that elevated the more important men behind the table. Michael had changed out of his plain clothing into a robe of cosmic black, sewn with moonstones. John had also affixed a dress-collar onto his own astronomer’s caftan—moonstones, again, patterned like the constellation of Orion, repeating around the length of it: the collar was a very old Sousa family heirloom, with the hereditary peacock insignia engraved in miniature upon the surface of each gem. Lately the collar had become too loose and John felt it drooped unflatteringly. Mizar had been wise enough to pack the collar in the carriage in the first place (how did he always know what to bring? And yet he did; some servant’s wizardry), as well as an extra set of clothing for Tygo, who had finally been unchained. He wore a plain dark velvet robe—probably the finest garment he’d ever worn.
The Hierophant still wore his plain caftan. He energetically glared at the large metal door, as if willing the other party to appear, his fingers absently tugging one of the hems on his sleeve. John wished the other group would never arrive—his own palms were dampening. He wiped them on his chair cushion.
Michael spoke in a low tone to Marvel. “They stated only that they had a proposition concerning the stella novae. I’m more than certain they’re here to request revisions in the Law now that the shuttles are returning. As rightly they should! I’m willing to make changes to the Law when the world itself changes. I am not my father. I will show them that.”
The Hierophant narrowed his eyes. “That this is the Return is quite an assumption. And how did these outlaws know when they would appear? How did they arrive at the perfect time? We had no idea ourselves. No warning.” He shot a pointed look at John. “By the looks of their crowd, they intend to assemble here for quite some time. Our scouts say they are armed.”
“Of course they’re armed, they’re carnivals.”
And they continued this way. John, stinging from Marvel’s passive denigration, could tell Tygo was listening as well, but felt himself pulled out of the conversation again and again by some formless anxiety, a threat of especial doom that had fallen just now upon him like a band of shadow. He was, he supposed, given to hysterics but this was different, not just a minor churning of the gut. John stared at the great ceremonial door at the bottom of Columbia Tower. He felt guided quite firmly toward the inescapable conclusion that something was about to go very wrong.
The group of five carnival men were escorted in by the lion-masked guards. Two guards took their places by the door, crossing their pikes to bar any exit. To John’s surprise, the retinue included a woman. She was nearing thirty years of age. Her dress had sleeves that covered her hands. Her face was incredibly difficult to look at, but whether this was because she was very beautiful or very ugly he could not tell. The eyebrows were pale and heavy. The mouth, childlike. The eyes, ravaging, painful to behold, like wounds in her head. Her hair had been fixed into a high hair-form, which was the style in the carnivals, though women at the Cape had long since given it up.
The
