Nightside the Long Sun
This book is dedicated to Joe Mayhew for at least a dozen reasons.
THE MANTEION ON SUN STREET
Enlightenment came to Patera Silk on the ball court; nothing could ever be the same after that. When he talked about it afterward, whispering to himself in the silent hours of the night as was his custom—and once when he told Maytera Marble, who was also Maytera Rose—he said that it was as though someone who had always been behind him and standing (as it were) at both his shoulders had, after so many years of pregnant silence, begun to whisper into both his ears. The bigger boys had scored again, Patera Silk recalled, and Horn was reaching for an easy catch when those voices began and all that had been hidden was displayed.
Few of these hidden things made sense, nor did they wait upon one another. He, young Patera Silk (that absurd clockwork figure), watched outside a clockwork show whose works had stopped—tall Horn reaching for the ball, his flashing grin frozen in forever.
—dead Patera Pike mumbling prayers as he slit the throat of a speckled rabbit he himself had bought.
—a dead woman in an alley off Silver Street, and the people of the quarter.
—lights beneath everyone’s feet, like cities low in the night sky. (And, oh, the rabbit’s warm blood drenching Patera Pike’s cold hands.)
—proud houses on the Palatine.
—Maytera Marble playing with the girls, and Maytera Mint wishing she dared. (Old Maytera Rose praying alone, praying to Scalding Scylla in her palace under Lake Limna.)
—Feather falling, not so lightly as his name implied, shoved aside by Horn, not yet quite prone on the crumbling shiprock blocks, though shiprock was supposed to last until the end of the whorl.
—Viron and the lake, crops withering in the fields, the dying fig and the open, empty sky. All this and much else besides, lovely and appalling, blood red and living green, yellow, blue, white, and velvet black, with minglings of other colors and of colors he had never known.
Yet all these were as nothing. It was the voices that mattered, only the paired voices (though there were more, he felt sure, if only he had ears for them) and all the rest an empty show, shown to him so that he might know it for what it was, spread for him so that he might know how precious it was, though its shining clockwork had gone some trifle awry and must be set right by him; for this he had been born.
He forgot the rest at times, though at others all these things would reoccur to him, rough truths cloaked in a new certainty; but he never forgot the voices that were in fact but one voice, and what they (who were one) had said; never forgot the bitter lesson, though once or twice he tried to push it away, those fell words heard as Feather fell, poor little Feather, as the rabbit’s hot blood spilled from the altar, as the First Settlers took up the homes prepared for them in this familiar Viron, as the dead woman seemed to stir, rags fluttering in the hot wind born halfway ’round the whorl, a wind that blew ever stronger and wilder as clockwork that had never really stopped began to turn again.
“I will not fail,” he told the voices, and felt he lied, yet felt the approbation, too.
And then.
And then …
His left hand moved, snatching the ball from Horn’s very fingers.
Patera Silk spun about. The black ball flew like a black bird, straight through the ring at the opposite end of the ball court. It struck the hellstone with a satisfying thump and an irruption of blue sparks, and threaded the ring a second time as it bounced back.
Horn tried to stop him, but Patera Silk knocked him sprawling, caught the ball again, and smoked it in for a second double. The monitor’s chimes sang their three-note paean, and its raddled gray face appeared to announce the final score: thirteen to twelve.
Thirteen to twelve was not a bad score, Patera Silk reflected as he took the ball from Feather and stuffed it into a trousers pocket. The bigger boys would not be too downcast, while the smaller boys would be ecstatic.
This last, at least, was already quite apparent. He repressed the impulse to hush them and lifted two of the most diminutive onto his shoulders. “Back to class,” he announced. “Class for all of you. A little arithmetic will do you good. Feather, throw Villus my towel, please.”
Feather, one of the larger small boys, obliged; Villus, the boy perched upon Silk’s right shoulder, managed to catch it, though not deftly.
“Patera,” Feather ventured, “you always say there’s a lesson in everything.”
Silk nodded, mopping his face and rubbing his already disheveled yellow hair. He had been touched by a god! By the Outsider; and although the Outsider was not one of the Nine, he was an undoubted god nevertheless. This,
“Patera?”
“I’m listening, Feather. What is it you want to ask?” But enlightenment was for theodidacts, and he was no holy theodidact—no gaudily painted gold-crowned figure in the Writings. How could he tell these children that in the middle of their game—
“Then what’s the lesson in our winning, Patera?”
“That you must endure to the end,” Silk replied, his mind still upon the Outsider’s teaching. One of the hinges of the ball-court gate was broken; two boys had to lift the gate to swing it, creaking, backward. The remaining hinge would surely break too, and soon, unless he did something. Many theodidacts never told, or so he had been taught
