Mithila’s heart raced. She walked on. Before long, she saw the second flagstone, broken and chipped, a crack running through it. A little way ahead, the third one, also broken, grass peeking through the crevice. And then another. Each one more solid, more real than the last. As she walked, the distance between them lessened, until she saw it:

  A road through the Builders’ Woodland.

  The canopy cleared, revealing a ribbon of open sky. She stepped onto the road. Her feet felt light, springy. The flagstones were smooth, like the floors in the Forum’s towers. Above her the trees arched, high gateways for her to walk beneath.

  Upon the roads that still recall

  Alora’s steps; a memory…

  The road curved.

  Suddenly, there was a real gateway.

  On either side of the road, two white pillars rose. They met in an arch, which stood at the level of a three-storeyed Sumerian house. They had no light of their own, but reflected the sun: as if giant hands had lifted them from the Forum, stripped them of their glowing hearts, and set them down, lifeless, in the world beyond the Wall. And a little way beyond there was a line of trees, beyond which a brightness shimmered.

  She walked beneath the arch. The pillars had cracks running down their sides, fissures in which little shoots and creepers had made their home. The road was now broken in more places, split lengthwise and crosswise, with some stones uprooted and tossed aside. She stepped in and among the gaps, the line drawing closer, the sunlight growing sharper, until at last she was at the border.

  Mithila stepped out of the trees. The sky opened and the ground disappeared.

  She scrambled back from the edge. She was standing at the cusp of a bowl, which had been chiselled out of the ground. The earth dipped and curved, an outline of perfect symmetry.

  Within the bowl, there lay a shattered City.

  A lifetime ago, in a little house in the Seventh, Ananta had carved for his children a masterpiece of woodwork: a scale model of Sumer and its fifteen Mandalas, from the Forum to the Dooma. They had assembled it together, on the dusty floor of his workshop, just a City without a Wall. Then without warning, Garuda had run his hand through it, toppling buildings, casting down bridges, upending towers. ‘Am I a Builder now!’ He’d laughed.

  Ananta had smiled. ‘Sometimes, a ruin can be thrilling.’

  Looking upon the broken City, Mithila knew that in this, as in so many other things, Ananta had been wrong.

  The towers had been decapitated, leaving mangled throats open to the sky. Between one building and another, an arched bridge began a graceful loop and then ceased to exist, as if someone had hacked it through with an axe. Her eyes rested upon empty plinths, looking as desolate as the Sumerian trees in those brief, fleeting days when they lost their leaves.

  Rubble lined the streets.

  Mithila looked beneath her. The road turned into a stairway, carved into the side of the bowl. Carefully, she descended. The City was much smaller than Sumer, like a Sumer that ended by the Fifth Mandala.

  When she reached the bottom, two more pillars—all that was left standing of a gate—invited her in. Beside them, she saw a statue upon the ground, lying face up. One of its arms was extended, palm outwards, so that when it was still standing, it would have faced the visitor: the eternal signal to halt.

  Mithila grinned at that. ‘Sorry, not turning back now,’ she said out loud, to break the columns of silence around her.

  She knelt to look at the face. Her grin died upon her lips.

  Short, straight hair that framed high-cut cheekbones, and the beginnings of a smile. A smile that she had seen once and would never forget.

  The face of Ghada.

  Mithila was back again, in the hall of the Three Kings, where she had fled after the great debate, watching the two of them, Ghada and Samir, listening to them speak strange words, words from another world.

  Oh Samir, there was a galaxy.

  Her legs swayed. Ghada’s statue drew her in, like Ghada’s remembered words, like Ghada herself, or the image of her that Mithila had seen in the underground hall.

  She forced herself to turn away, and took slow steps into the City.

  She picked her way through debris. A stone finger, broken off at the palm, bigger than her foot. A crowned head, upturned, its eyes delicate and alive, as if it had simply decided one day to take leave of its body and rest by the edge of the road. Beyond the plinths, she saw the fronts of buildings, but only the fronts, like masks that somehow lingered even after the faces they covered had been burnt away.

  She tried to imagine the fragments that she saw back upon their pedestals, or the white scree remade into the battered buildings by the road. A broken world, put back together.

  She tried to imagine it—and failed.

  She’d been walking for a while when the principal avenue opened into what had once been the heart of the City: a circular courtyard, ringed by a passage of pillars. The passage was flanked by ravaged towers. Their exteriors had been ripped off to reveal jagged lattices of interior construction, like a human body turned inside out: a crumbling spiral staircase climbing up to nothingness, twisted gaps where doors had once divided space into hallways, windows that no longer separated an inside from an outside.

  But Mithila saw none of that. Her gaze was caught by what was in the centre of the courtyard.

  It rose from the ground, a rearing of black stone that twined around itself. In a garden of ruin, something made whole. As Mithila approached it, she saw it was human—almost.

  It was a man on his knees. His arms extended above his head, in offering or in supplication. His palms cupped a black stone, six-sided, cunningly wrought, almost glowing. Wings sprouted from his back, varicose veins visible and livid against the stone surface, as if they were burning beneath the sun,

  But it was his face that caught her. It was turned to the sky, eyes wide open, in a fixed gaze. The mouth twisted in a scream, a scream that had no words but remembered a language lost, a scream that distorted the contours of the face, like a scar.

  It was the face of a man who knew, in the moment before death, that he was alone.

  Upon his right shoulder stood—or crouched—another man. His knees were bent, his arms spread out, the wings on his back unfolding, ready to catch the air. His face was upturned, so all Mithila could see was the angle of his neck and jawbone, and the very end of his mouth, the lips drawn back in a laugh.

  The kneeling man’s hands were at her eye level. Tentatively, Mithila extended an arm, remembering how she’d reached out towards the Heartstone in the Temple. She touched the stone, drew her hand back instinctively, then reached out and grasped it. It was black, cold and utterly smooth, just like the surface of the Wall.

  Mithila let go.

  Remember Samati. Remember me.

  Those were the last words that Dhara had said to her. And here, beyond the Wall, in a shattered City, she saw a man holding up a Heartstone to the sky, and burning up, so that another could fly.

  She looked away and looked up. In front of her, there rose a high dome, most of it intact. She recognised it at once. It was the face of the Council Hall, seen from the North, walking in from the farmlands of Sumer.

  The world blurred. For a moment, she was in Sumer again. Around her, the rahi stalks waved. The towers gleamed in the summer sun. The Rasa’s song was in the air.

  Rama’s hand was in hers.

  The sun-blaze speared the vision away. Mithila sank to her knees. Her palms were on the ground. For the first time in the world, that weight was back in the pit of her chest, forcing her breath into gasps.

  Loneliness was still an unfamiliar feeling.

  She felt the stone upon her palm, cool and soft. The vice-like grip upon her throat loosened again, let her breathe. She turned her face up to the familiar-unfamiliar dome, the Forum’s dome.

  Mithila stood, the aftertaste of tears in her mouth. She walked towards the dome, and climbed the chipped steps that fronted the pillared passageway at the end of the courtyard. A doorway opened into dimness.

  She entered a large, hexagonal chamber, and passed into the domed hall that she had seen from outside. There was no exit but a spiral stairway, ascending into darkness. Mithila climbed. It yielded her into another empty room, lit by a half-caved in window.

  She wandered to the window. It faced the courtyard. She saw the ring of pillars, the black statue, and the City beyond.

  She remembered Garuda again, casting down toy-Sumer with a laugh. Had it been so easy for them to destroy the City of Ghada, sending her into the arms of an endless sleep, while the ruins above decayed into the Time of the Evening? And would it be even easier to cast down the real Sumer, which did not have even a Ghada to defend it—if that was what they wanted?

  Was that what Tefnakth had been warning them about, in those last days before she had left Sumer forever?

  Forever?

  Sadness washed over her, like summer rain upon the river.

  She did not know how long she stood there watching, as the sun climbed overhead, until the dull pangs of hunger returned. Mithila groaned. She straddled the window-sill, her body half in light and half in shadow. High above the City, cool breeze stroked her face. She fumbled around in her pack for today’s portion of rahi.

  Among the broken columns, sunlight shone upon a black cloak.

  Mithila stiffened, her hand in her pack.

  A flash, a glimpse of black that shifted, caught for a moment in a beam of light—and was gone.

  Mithila swung her leg back into the room and tumbled down from the sill. She struggled to her feet and peered out.

  In the City, nothing moved.

  A man stepped into the courtyard.

  From above, she could only make out the top of his bent head. He walked quickly to the black stone statue and stood there, his hands behind his back, staring at the ground.

  Mithila leaned out of the window.

  The man’s head snapped up. Mithila looked into Tefnakth’s eyes.

  She gasped and threw herself back into the room. For a few moments, she stood in the shadow, heart racing. Then she peeked out of the opening again.

  The courtyard was empty.

  ‘Fuck!’ She scrambled across the chamber, back upon the stairs leading down into the domed hall.

  Tefnakth strode into the hall. Mithila halted upon the stairway.

  The former Shoortan stopped and peered around.

  ‘Istar?’ he called. ‘What are you doing up there? Weren’t we going to meet by Mati?’

  His voice echoed beneath the dome. Tefnakth waited. Then he spoke again, peevish. ‘Where are you, Istar? Mentor said midday. It’s late.’

  Silence answered him. Tefnakth shook his head and came to the stairway.

  Mithila forced herself to move. She turned and crept back up and through the chamber. At its far end, she leaned out of the broken window, looking to either side.

  Running below the window, across the length of the building, was a thin ledge, the breadth of a human foot. Mithila gulped. She swung one leg over the window and lowered herself upon it, feet perched upon the narrow surface.

  Footfall upon the stairs. Mithila did not look back or down. Placing her palms upon the outer wall, her face pressed against the cold white stone, high above the ruined City, she began to inch sideways, step by step. She turned her face to the left once, and almost slipped. Within a short distance, the ledge ran around the corner of the building.

  Just as she heard steps in the room, moving towards the window, Mithila turned the corner and passed out of sight. She closed her eyes, breathing hard. Her face throbbed from how hard she had pressed it against the wall. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that a little way away the ledge broadened into a platform, which—long ago—had perhaps been a view-point. From the platform, winding steps climbed around the exterior, all the way up to the dome.

  Slowly, she picked her way forward, until she reached the platform. Mithila collapsed against the side of the building and sobbed, feeling the tight knot in her shoulders loosen ever so slowly.

  A sound brought her back to life. She stood and hastened up the steps. They took her into a pillared corridor that circled the base of the dome.

  Framed by the pillars, she saw the courtyard below her.

  Someone stood by the black statue.

  It was not Tefnakth. This figure was dressed in blue. A hood covered the face. Their gaze was fixed upon the statue. With a shiver, Mithila realized that she had been climbing, her back to the courtyard, in full view. She moved behind a pillar.

  When she peeked out again, she saw Tefnakth striding into the courtyard. The figure in blue advanced to meet him. That walk—surely she knew it, in another world …

  They faced each other. A low, indistinct murmur floated up to Mithila. There was a brief conversation. Tefnakth shook his head, violently. The figure in blue spread out their arms, as if to take in the world.

  At that, Tefnakth moved to stand by his companion. Both of them faced her, just behind the statue. The figure in blue raised a hand and said something. Before Mithila’s eyes, the ground opened up.

  One after the other, the two of them stepped in. The ground closed over them once again.

  Mithila stiffened, and then hurried along the corridor. Halfway across, she found a doorway that took her into a descending spiral staircase, and opened into the hexagonal chamber. She crossed it at a run and left the domed building for the sunlight.

  The courtyard remained empty.

  Mithila slowed as she approached the statue. She circled it warily, inspecting the ground. Solid, smooth, featureless. She ran her fingers along face of the kneeling man, looking for a lever, something, anything. Nothing happened.

  She let her hands fall to her side. ‘Oh, fuck this,’ she muttered to herself. She turned around on the spot, staring at the ground, the statue, the pillars, the sky. She turned a full circle, back to where she started. The world remained the same.

  Mithila kicked at the kneeling man, and squealed as it sent a wave of pain shuddering through her right leg. She circled the statue with quick, uneven steps.

  ‘Tefnakth,’ she spoke into the emptiness, between breaths, her voice escaping through clenched teeth, her body shaking. ‘There was a way out. Always has been. You knew it. You. Shoortans. Damn the Builders, you—you—oh, I hate you.’

  She came to a halt, and forced her mind to still, to think. Tefnakth had not come from underground. Which meant…

  Still trembling, Mithila walked to the pillared corridor, and sat down on the steps, with a clear view of the statue. Now to wait.

  She ate her portion of rahi at last, and took a few careful sips of water. Her aches were back. To distract herself, Mithila pulled out the book of Alora from her bag, flicking its pages open even as she watched the black tree from above the rim of the book.

  And if that life you would restore

  From Circles of our history

  Come walk between the worlds once more

  West of the river, South of the sea

  She turned the page.

  After the poem ended, the words began, thick black strokes, unfaded by time, the lines clear and straight.

  In the Time of the Afternoon, we raised a tower to the stars. For our garden, we made a forest. For our chandeliers, we patterned constellations. For our fireworks, we brought down meteor showers.

  Tell me, were we wrong to do so?

  The shape of the things was not to our liking. So we unspooled the world and wove it anew, nearer to heart’s desire. The grammar of being constrained us. So we shattered it and spoke language from nothingness. We brought winged myth to life, to be our chariot in the sky.

  Some things were undone. So many more made whole.

  Tell me, were we wrong to do so?

  We spoke life into existence, we suspended death, we grasped the arrow of time and twisted it into a circle.

  Tell me, were we wrong to do so?

  Here in Gumfraude, beside the crystal pool, with the Heartstones we made, we drew light from light, burning glass, a bridge to the worlds. So what if that needed sacrifice?

  We knew there would be no light without a burning. We accepted it.

  Tell me, were we wrong to do so?

  This was the world we made.

  This is the world you broke.

  In the Time of the Evening, in the spindrift of dying seas and the silence of dead forests, you will know that you were wrong to do so.

  She read it through, and read it again, her finger pausing at the second line, at the first unfamiliar word.

  Forest.

  The shadow again, a memory in a word, a vast green carpet she had glimpsed from the sky, smell of leaf and moist earth.

  She looked up, beyond the courtyard, towards the invisible edge of the bowl, where the earth rose and met the line of trees.

  In the spindrift of dying seas and the silence of dead forests.

  Then the story began.

  A story filled with unremembered words, words that her eyes paused and tripped over, a language more vast for a world without a Wall—but language nonetheless, grammar and form moulding itself into sense and image, filling her mind.

  A story woven out of the scenes that had visited her that night in the Dooma, woven out of all the dreams of Sumerian childhood, the dreams that had faded for others but not for her, that had entwined with smara, an unending ache in her heart. Here, by the ruined City, where Ghada’s statue lay, a fallen guardian, she read in the Book of Alora those dreams made flesh, and flesh made memory.

  The story of Alora, who measured the skies to their last degree, and the story of Ghada, who held time in her fist and altered its form like a piece of wet clay, and the story of Samir, who travelled time and space for the glory of Gumfraude, beside the river Geroun. Here they seized the laws of being and rewrote them by their will, a morning’s task to take apart the world and remake it once more. Here was the coruscation that pierced the night, the music that flowed from the stars, and the Heartstones—the three consorts of the sun—because from light shall break the light. And for that there came the fall of Gumfraude, the City of the crystal pool, an end of the Afternoon, an eternal sleep beneath the ground, and for the children of Alora, and of Ghada and Samir, a world within a Wall.

 

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