great blank face, under the twin horns of the great ray, a circle of golden luminescence shimmered, grew stronger, solidified into being.
Once more Mo focused her mind on the forebodings she felt in her heart and spirit, for Alan, and through him, also for Kate.
She stared at the golden circle, observing how shadows invaded its liquid metal shimmer. The shadows swirled and metamorphosed, as if on the verge of becoming the shapes of living things, creatures she might recognise. A single shadow condensed to the figure of a very old man with thinning white hair falling about his shoulders, sitting behind an antique desk, its corners decorated with gargoyles’ heads; the figure and desk floated in mid-air, hovering weightless over a featureless white plain that ran in all directions to infinity. The eyes of the old man were inhuman, all black, as if the absence of light were a tangible property of whatever mind resided there. The figure laughed, an old man’s gentle cackle, but it chilled Mo’s heart. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle. But Mocould only watch in horror as the words emerging from his mouth changed to a stream of insects, blue flies, wasps, locusts – a buzzing conversation exuding from the jaws and the nostrils of what now appeared little more than flaky skin stretched over a skull. Yet still she heard that dreadful voice inside her mind, and she understood every word:
You struggle to evoke the paltry power of the bauble on your brow. You cannot understand its extinguishing by my power. Even then you seek to find comfort in the fact that it confers a debased immortality, not of the carnal flesh but of the spirit alone. Be warned that the spirit is even more vulnerable than mere flesh. It can be tormented in ways more grievous than any rending of skin and bone. The anguish of the spirit can be extended to eternity …
Only then did Mo see Alan. He stood on the strange-patterned ground of lines and curves, unmoving, as if he had been turned to stone. He was staring, his eyes fixed far into the distance, to where something awkward and golden was twinkling against the uniform sea of white.
The horribly buzzing yet incongruously calm voice continued, the words oozing and swarming out of the skull-like face:
A poor adversary, indeed, have you proved to be, your imagination limited to that of a mechanical world. So have I created a fitting execution. A sage of your world, venerated for his wisdom, imagined a machine. For my amusement, I made real his creation. Behold the instrument of your fate.
Mo realised that the golden object was moving closer, however slowly, however jerkily and erratically. The sense of dread was overpowering. Mo felt her mouth open to scream but no sound emerged from her throat. The sound, when it did come, came not from her but from the hateful skull as the twinkling object drew nearer.
Yet still would I save you in both flesh and spirit if only you would go down on your knees and pay homage to me.
Mo heard Alan’s determined mutter, ‘Never!’
Perhaps you should take a little more time to consider.
Mo heard a distracting sound: a loud ticking, as if a thousand clocks had invaded her mind.
‘Qwenqwo – that monster is toying with him.’
Mo felt the hands of the dwarf mage press upon her own as if urging her to preserve her observation yet keep it hidden. With a shrill anxiety she saw that the object approaching was a clockwork figure, a robot, made out of gold. In less than a minute of her watching it had quadrupled in size, and it was still growing rapidly.
You craved to confront the Fáil. But that council of shaven-headed foppery refused to lead you to it. I will so indulge you. I will allow you a glimpse so that you may be allowed to reconsider your position. But first, a warning!
The ticking grew louder. But throughout all Mo heard a slower, more powerful beat, the implacable footsteps of the robot. By now she could make out every detail of its construction, even at
Once more Mo focused her mind on the forebodings she felt in her heart and spirit, for Alan, and through him, also for Kate.
She stared at the golden circle, observing how shadows invaded its liquid metal shimmer. The shadows swirled and metamorphosed, as if on the verge of becoming the shapes of living things, creatures she might recognise. A single shadow condensed to the figure of a very old man with thinning white hair falling about his shoulders, sitting behind an antique desk, its corners decorated with gargoyles’ heads; the figure and desk floated in mid-air, hovering weightless over a featureless white plain that ran in all directions to infinity. The eyes of the old man were inhuman, all black, as if the absence of light were a tangible property of whatever mind resided there. The figure laughed, an old man’s gentle cackle, but it chilled Mo’s heart. His voice, when he spoke, was gentle. But Mocould only watch in horror as the words emerging from his mouth changed to a stream of insects, blue flies, wasps, locusts – a buzzing conversation exuding from the jaws and the nostrils of what now appeared little more than flaky skin stretched over a skull. Yet still she heard that dreadful voice inside her mind, and she understood every word:
You struggle to evoke the paltry power of the bauble on your brow. You cannot understand its extinguishing by my power. Even then you seek to find comfort in the fact that it confers a debased immortality, not of the carnal flesh but of the spirit alone. Be warned that the spirit is even more vulnerable than mere flesh. It can be tormented in ways more grievous than any rending of skin and bone. The anguish of the spirit can be extended to eternity …
Only then did Mo see Alan. He stood on the strange-patterned ground of lines and curves, unmoving, as if he had been turned to stone. He was staring, his eyes fixed far into the distance, to where something awkward and golden was twinkling against the uniform sea of white.
The horribly buzzing yet incongruously calm voice continued, the words oozing and swarming out of the skull-like face:
A poor adversary, indeed, have you proved to be, your imagination limited to that of a mechanical world. So have I created a fitting execution. A sage of your world, venerated for his wisdom, imagined a machine. For my amusement, I made real his creation. Behold the instrument of your fate.
Mo realised that the golden object was moving closer, however slowly, however jerkily and erratically. The sense of dread was overpowering. Mo felt her mouth open to scream but no sound emerged from her throat. The sound, when it did come, came not from her but from the hateful skull as the twinkling object drew nearer.
Yet still would I save you in both flesh and spirit if only you would go down on your knees and pay homage to me.
Mo heard Alan’s determined mutter, ‘Never!’
Perhaps you should take a little more time to consider.
Mo heard a distracting sound: a loud ticking, as if a thousand clocks had invaded her mind.
‘Qwenqwo – that monster is toying with him.’
Mo felt the hands of the dwarf mage press upon her own as if urging her to preserve her observation yet keep it hidden. With a shrill anxiety she saw that the object approaching was a clockwork figure, a robot, made out of gold. In less than a minute of her watching it had quadrupled in size, and it was still growing rapidly.
You craved to confront the Fáil. But that council of shaven-headed foppery refused to lead you to it. I will so indulge you. I will allow you a glimpse so that you may be allowed to reconsider your position. But first, a warning!
The ticking grew louder. But throughout all Mo heard a slower, more powerful beat, the implacable footsteps of the robot. By now she could make out every detail of its construction, even at
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