where it overbrimmed to spill tears the size of fists down the door.
He closed the lantern shutter a little more, took a deep breath and threaded its narrowed light into the gap between the leaves. The chamber beyond was filled with jewelled people and the ghosts of other lights. He snatched his head back, trying to still the betraying hammering of his heart. He waited for footfalls, a challenge. The only sounds were his heart, his breathing. He smothered the lantern in the lurid blood-red of his robe and dared to put his head through again. Perfect silent darkness. He uncovered the lantern to release its light. He let it impale one head. There was another beside it and another, as regular as sentinels. With a jerk, he realized a light was moving on the other side of the chamber. He lifted the lantern and it lifted too. 'Only reflection,' he breathed.
He squeezed through the door, trying to keep the light fixed on one of the heads, and reassured himself that its apparent movement came from his own wobbling. A bench, friezed with silver spirals, was the foundation for the glittering stumps he had thought were people. He stepped closer. Each stump was like three heads set one above the other. He reached out to touch the glittering surface. It was cold and knobbled like lizard's skin. He peered closer. Beads. Bead necklaces wound onto wooden reels. He reached up to touch the spindle that came up through their centres. Three reels impaled like pumpkins on a spear. He moved to the next three. Then there was an empty spindle followed by two more reel stacks. He walked round the bench and saw there was a second row of spindles behind the first. He stepped back and played light over the bench. On its side were four bronze loops from which hung short lengths of rope. He scooped one up, ran its beads through his hand.
He stood back, opened the lantern a little more, then held it up to look around the chamber. Twenty benches spaced out in a grid. The walls were the burnished heart-stone of the Pillar itself. He walked towards an archway. To one side hung a tapestry of glass, that he found was made of beaded ropes fixed to a row of loops set into the wall. He fingered one of the ropes, wondering what its function might be.
He shone light through the archway, then crept into the next chamber. This was very much like the first. It too had twenty benches with their spindles and reels, its near-mirror walls, its bead-rope tapestries. He wandered through another archway, another chamber, more arches, more chambers, each with its complement of benches. He wanted to find something that might make sense of it all.
He turned in the middle of a chamber. An archway opened in the centre of each wall. He could not remember which one he had come through. He closed his eyes, turning, trying to feel for the direction he had been facing. He opened his eyes and walked back to an archway. The next chamber looked much like all the others. So did the next, and the next. He grimaced. 'Fool, fool, fool.' He shook himself. Why had he not taken some precaution? He was utterly lost.
Thus began Carnelian's search for the moon-eyed door. Only the pulsing of the blood in his ears and his scuffling steps gave time shape. His path threaded the chambers as the cords did their beads. Neither made sense to him.
Huge whiteness reared up in front of him. His lantern clattered to the ground. He cried out and swatted at something with his sword.
'Gods' blood!' exploded a voice.
A blow made him drop the sword with a clatter. Falling to a crouch nursing his wrist, Carnelian stretched for the lantern that was angling its beam up to the ceiling. He felt the lantern being snatched away. Its beam fenced the air like a sword, then steadied to come down to run him through.
'Stay where you are,' the voice hissed.
Carnelian put an arm up as the light climbed to his face.
'What have we here?' said the voice as Carnelian tried to back away.
The lantern clunked down on a bench that opened to expose its burning heart. Carnelian blinked and saw the shape standing behind it. Long, pale Master feet stepped into sight. Carnelian looked up. The face reflecting the light made his eyes hurt. He narrowed them and saw a Chosen face, its beauty only marred by a birthmark on the forehead like the impression of a kiss. The eyes were diamond nails pinning the face to the darkness.
'Are you going to get up?' the face said, offering Carnelian a hand.
It was a boy not even his age. Carnelian slapped it away. 'I can stand without your help.'
The boy's eyes moved over him as if he were reading glyphs inscribed over Carnelian's body. It made him feel uneasy.
'You surprised me,' said the boy, now scanning Carnelian's face.
'You were the one lurking in the blackness like an owl. What by the burning blood were you doing?'
The boy's nostrils flared. 'Reading.'
Carnelian stared into his eyes, fascinated. There was something familiar about this boy. For some reason, Carnelian became embarrassed.
'In the dark?' he said, affecting a derisive snort.
'In the dark.'
Carnelian frowned, wondering if the boy was making fun of him. The boy's eyes moved elsewhere, allowing Carnelian's shoulders to lose some of their tension.
The boy stooped to pick up Carnelian's sword. He angled the blade, weighed it in his hand, looked up. 'Hardly a princely weapon, my Lord.'
Carnelian blushed.
'What did you intend to do with it?'
Carnelian felt silly. 'Protection.'
The boy raised his eyebrows. 'From?'
'How would I know?' Carnelian said loudly.
The boy turned the sword round and gave its hilt into Carnelian's hand. Carnelian laid it down on the edge of the bench. 'What were you reading?' he asked, to say something.
This.' The boy held up a necklace that sagged off into the gloom. He pulled, making more of it appear. He offered it to Carnelian who took it in both hands. The beads felt like teeth.
'Beaded rope?'
'Beadcord.'
Carnelian held it closer. Stone, and shell, and pink coral all carved into different shapes. The colours?'
The boy raised an eyebrow. 'In the dark?'
Carnelian grimaced. The shapes, then?'
The boy nodded. 'Run your fingers along it. No. Without looking at it.'
Carnelian closed his eyes and rolled a bead round in his fingers. 'A little ridge.'
'And the next one?'
Carnelian moved his fingers to the next one. 'Another ridge.'
'Feel again.'
Three ridges,' said Carnelian, feeling round the bead. The boy nodded approvingly. The first one is 'earth', the second, 'flower'.' 'Jewel?' 'Exactly.'
Carnelian gaped at the beads. This is a story?' 'Rather a historical treatise.'
Then we are in a library of the blind,' said Carnelian, looking round him at the bobbins on their spindles.
'Of the Wise,' corrected the boy.
'Are they here?' Carnelian asked, suddenly alarmed, searching the darkness.
The boy's eyebrows lifted. 'Bound to be, somewhere.' He waved his hand. 'But there are many, many chambers and the Wise are preoccupied at present.'
'I shouldn't be here,' said Carnelian, lapsing into Vulgate.
'No,' the boy said in the same language, with the beginnings of a smile. 'And you?'
The boy looked amused. 'I'm as elusive as an owl.' 'I should leave.'
The boy shrugged, turned round and sat on something like a chair that was in a niche in the wall. He draped the beadcord over his knee and began counting its beads through his fingers.
'I think I'm lost,' said Carnelian.
'Yes, you would be,' the boy said without looking up.
Carnelian grew angry. 'If it would not incommode you very much, my Lord, I would appreciate it if you were to show me back to the moon-eyed door.'
