The Architect of Aeons by John C. Wright Read Free Book Online Page A

forms.
    Her voice was like a wind chime, singing. The words were English. “The men, officers, captain, owners, and ghosts of Her Majesty’s Ship Hysterical Blindness tender greetings and adoration to you, Master of the World That Was.” And she inclined her graceful head toward Del Azarchel. Then, “We welcome you, as well, and extend you welcome and peace and free leave to come and go, as well, Judge of Ages Past. Our Prognasticators calculate your wish will be to speak with our Swan, and to have your landing vessel drawn readied for rapid launch from the sea-mountain of our Swan, to which we bend our destination.”
    Del Azarchel looked at Montrose sidelong and smirked. Montrose realized that, by calling out the permission to board, and by drinking first, it now seemed to the currents as if Montrose was subservient, like a herald or a food-taster, and Del Azarchel his superior. But all he said in whisper to Montrose was, “We have found another English speaker, so your authority to mangle the language is curtailed.”
    Del Azarchel, answering the emissary, said, “Your Prognasticators have calculated correctly somewhat. Our prime purpose is information. Who masters this world? Man or Hyades?”
    Around her throat she wore a slim metallic band or choker made of a hard substance as pink as coral. She touched it with her slender hand, as if in unconscious gesture. “Ultimately, none is master of his own fate. Resignation is best.”
    Montrose did not like the look of the pink metallic ring around her neck. It reminded him unpleasantly of a dog’s collar. He stepped forward. “Miss? Do you need help? If you know who I am, you know I have a knack for setting things right. And breaking skulls.”
    She smiled, and glanced at the other sailors and officers standing about them. The captain, a Melusine dressed in a heavy coat of dark blue seal fur over a skintight sheath of black metallic mesh, twitched his tendrils at her, but did not speak aloud.
    She turned back to Montrose. “Do not call me Miss, for no maiden am I. The name given me is Amphith ö e. Our society is not yet recovered from the depopulations, nor have we successfully followed our cliometric plans to undo the rigid hierarchy of the Buried Years.”
    She continued, “That same cliometric plan contains a glaring uncertainty, a blindness. No one can predict whether the ancient war between the two of you will introduce unexpected variations into the smooth patterns of history. I am given to understand that the Swans imposed exile upon you, banishing you from Earth?”
    â€œNot exactly what happened,” said Montrose, raising his eyes skyward and pursing his lips.
    She continued, “Be that as it may, the Voice of the Swan was impelled to summon you, so that you might inspect conditions within this historical period, and see for yourselves that no reasonable grounds for dispute between the two of you remain; or, at least, no grounds for a public dispute which might disturb our commonwealth.”
    Del Azarchel said with harsh humor, “And by what means was this miracle manifested?”
    She bowed. “I mean no disrespect. I was given to understand that the Judge of Ages wished to repel the Hyades invasion, and the Master of the World to welcome them. The agency of the Hyades, a Virtue we call Asmodel, troubled us for a season, and now does not. Your reasons for conflict are moot. What answer shall I bring to those who send me?”
    Montrose simply laughed.
    Del Azarchel said, “No answer. You cannot know Hyades will not come again. Nor, it seems, do your predictions take into account that the Great Work of Jupiter is still ongoing. When he arises, he shall rule earth and sky, Man and Swan and all, forever.”
    â€œIn two hundred thousand years, perhaps. If our calendar has kept the reckoning correct, then the Celestial Princess of legend returns in seventy thousand years, less