The Canticle of Whispers (20 page)

Lily found that her breath was coming out in gasps. The old man looked at her, with an odd kind of respect.

“Really, Miss Lilith, I am not as useful as you think,” he said, utterly calm. “The Oracle will tell you everything you need to know.” He smiled. “Once you have given her back her name, of course.”

For one long moment, Lily seriously considered punching him in the face.

“I don't
know
her name,” she snarled.

The Director smiled. Then he held up something, between the tips of his fingers. A tiny memory pearl, the last of its sugary coating falling away.

“No, Lily. But I did.”

*   *   *

The Director had been in the Oracle's throne room for nearly an hour now, but Lily had barely noticed the time go by. As soon as he had left them at the entrance, drawing the velvet curtain behind him, all of her joy at seeing her friends again had flooded back, replacing the sudden and surprising rage. Since that moment, they hadn't stopped talking.

Some of the stories she found hard to believe—picturing Cherubina as a revolutionary figurehead took some effort. Some were all too easy. Sadly, she did not find it difficult to see Snutworth becoming the Director. She had met him only a couple of times, but that had been enough. He was everything about Agora that she had hated. It was all too likely that he would achieve anything he desired.

It was overwhelming to hear Ben's excitable tones again, to argue with Mark over where he had embellished his stories of their time together, and to hear Laud's remarks, so sharp but tender. She barely paid attention to what they said, just listening to their voices was enough to enchant her.

They had made her tell them her own stories, of course. But she found that she was barely able to get them straight. She had heard so many secrets in the Canticle, lived so many lives, that her own story seemed small in comparison. When she came to the death of her father, though, she found that the memory was so real and sudden, so unlike the whispers, that fresh tears sprang to her eyes. The three of them hugged her again, and she felt safe in their embrace, as though she was waking up at last from a very bad night.

“How long … how long has it been?” she asked, at length. “It's hard to keep track of days, down here.”

“A couple of months since we last saw each other, I think…” Mark said, shaking his head, “but…”

“Longer for us,” Laud said, intensely. “So much longer.”

Lily looked at Laud. She realized that he had been staring at her ever since they had first arrived. Even during her argument with the Director, his eyes had barely strayed. She dropped her head self-consciously.

“No need to stare, Laud. I'm not going anywhere.”

Laud hastily turned his gaze away.

“I'm sorry, it's just…” he broke off. “That is … I—we—I always knew that you'd be back, Lily. I want you to know that. You said you would. I knew you'd come back…”

Lily took his hand, confused. Laud seemed to be struggling with something, but as he opened his mouth to try again, a voice cut across them all.

“It is done.”

The voice sounded tired, and old, and relieved. It came from behind the curtain, and as they turned to face it, Lily saw a withered hand draw the curtain aside. The figure that emerged was almost unrecognizable. He was a little like the Director, but the Director with all of his pride and strength drained away. He hunched and wheezed, and looked at them through watery eyes.

“Well, that was certainly a powerful experience,” he said, laughing weakly. “When the Oracle takes your confession, you leave nothing out. I had not expected the resonance in the chamber to be so overwhelming.”

Benedicta rushed forward to offer the old man her arm. He pushed her away, lightly but firmly.

“I neither deserve, nor want your help, Miss Benedicta. Reserve that noble soul for those who are more worthy.” He looked up at Laud, who looked surprisingly angry at the Director's return. “And there is no need to curse me, Mr. Laudate. I am no one, now. Save your energies; there will be plenty of time to use them.” He turned to Mark. “Guide her well, Protagonist. There is no true Director now, and the Day of Judgment is nearly upon you.” He laughed, feebly. “Of course, that might all be nonsense. You know, I'm really not sure anymore. The approach of the end will do that to all our certainties.”

“What are you going to do now?” Mark asked, with a cautious tone. The Director sighed.

“I shall find the Conductor. He will know the proper arrangements. The funeral of a Director is a quiet affair. I shall not expect any of you to attend.” He pulled himself up straight, regaining his dignity. “Now, there is one last promise to fulfill.”

The Director came close to Lily, steadying himself on her shoulder. Then, with careful deliberation, he slipped the last memory pearl into his mouth. He hesitated for a moment.

“Miss Lily,” he said, “it is not far from here to a path back to Agora. You could take it; return home without asking any more questions. You already know so much, and I can promise you this—the truth will not make you happy.”

Lily took hold of his hand. Deep inside her, the whispers rose up again.

“I have to know,” she said, meaning it with every fiber of her being.

The Director sighed.

“Then I am sorry, Miss Lilith. I hope you will forgive me.”

He leaned close and whispered something into her ear.

The world stopped.

The Director pulled back his head, and looked her in the eyes. Lily stared back at him, speechless.

“It is the truth,” he said. “Go, and tell her.”

Lily walked forward, in a daze. Behind her, she heard the old man shuffling away, back down to the mausoleum. She felt Laud take one arm, and Mark, the other. She saw Ben in front of her, asking her what the Director had said, with mounting concern. But it was as if all of them were miles away. It was like she was back inside the Canticle—all she could hear was the truth, resounding inside her own head. She broke free from their grasp, pushed aside the curtain, and walked into the Oracle's chamber as though she were the only person in the world.

Every part of her seemed to have shut down—her mind, her voice, her senses. Mark, Laud, and Ben buzzed around her, exclaiming about the Oracle's cavern. She dimly felt their awe as they edged out onto the stone walkway over the spines of rock, and gazed up at the vast crystal suspended over the Resonant Throne. She watched her friends collapse to their knees from the vibrations, but somehow the resonance couldn't touch her now.

And then, she stood before the throne. And the Oracle looked down at her from behind her crystal mask, as impassive as ever.

“I have brought you Truth, Oracle,” Lily said, her voice thick and heavy. “I have brought your name.”

Lily's words echoed far louder than they should have done. Her friends struggled to their feet, hands clasped over their ears, as the words grew into a sound like the blast of trumpets.

The Oracle leaned forward, her face only a few feet from Lily's own. Her gloved hands gripped the arms of the throne.

“Tell me,” the Oracle said, her voice bearing an unmistakable note of tension.

Lily stared at that masked face, and finally let herself form the words that the Director had whispered.

“Your name is Helen d'Annain,” Lily said. “And you are my mother.”

*   *   *

There was dead silence. Behind her, Lily heard Mark and Ben saying something to each other, amazed. Laud took her arm. And she wanted to look at him; she was sure that his face would have been full of sympathy. But she could not move. She could do nothing but stare at the woman on the throne, looking for any reaction at all.

Around her, Lily felt a vibration in the air, a faint rumble from the cavern, as though a shower of distant whispers had been set all a flurry. But the Oracle's body did not show this; the crystal mask did not move. When her voice emerged again, it was steady, and devoid of emotion.

“Yes, that is true,” she said.

Lily's eyes grew hot. She wanted to cling to the Oracle, or to strike her—to beg for love or to curse her for not even remembering that she had a daughter. But when she opened her mouth, her voice was still and cold.

“My father said you were dead,” she said, dully. “Why did he lie?”

The Oracle's reply came readily enough.

“He did not lie, Lily. Listen.”

From around the cavern, the voices of the Canticle began to increase. Then, out of it all, another voice emerged, clearer than the others, but still distant—an echo from far away. Lily recognized that voice. It was her own—reading aloud the letter her father had left for her as he lay dying:

Your mother would probably have approved. But I buried her long ago.

Lily almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat, strangled.

“So, that's what he meant,” she said. “He really meant ‘buried.' He put you in the earth.”

“Helen d'Annain became the Oracle soon after your birth,” the Oracle intoned, speaking her own name as if it were a distant relation. “Her husband objected, but she wished to go. It was a great honor. But her memories were taken from her. All Oracles must live without a self. For self brings only emotion and disharmony, and destroys the balance of the Resonant Throne.”

Lily turned away from the Oracle, sickened.

“Lily…” Laud said, softly, but Lily wasn't in the mood to listen. She looked back at the Oracle. Outwardly, she gave nothing away. But inside, she felt the whispers of the Canticle growing louder.

“You remember nothing about me?” Lily asked, feeling a pain in her chest.

The Oracle hesitated. Again, the room seemed to shake slightly, the light in the crystal spire above pulsed and strained, as though agitated. This chamber really was attuned to the Oracle's mind. The echoes responded to the slightest disturbance.

“I remember all things,” the Oracle replied. “Facts from a hundred thousand lives. I know every one of them.”

“But you don't feel them, do you?” Lily retorted, almost willing there to be another disturbance, another wave of vibrations in the air. Anything to show that this woman who claimed to be her mother was feeling something.

“I cannot. All truth is equal in my sight,” the Oracle said, a tiny tremor in her voice. Lily felt the pain spread through her—a terrible, gnawing ache.

“What's the use of a million lives if you can't live even one?” she asked, louder. This time, the vibrations hit her in the stomach, and she and her friends fell to the floor, the whole room shaking. One of the stalactites in the roof cracked, and fell into the chasm yards away from the walkway, splintering with a thunderous crash as it hit the floor far below.

Mark crawled over to Lily, winded from his fall.

“Lily,” he said, gently. “I understand. I really do. This must be terrible for you, but … if the Oracle really can answer our questions, shouldn't we ask them first? You've found her now, and she's alive, and well. You can make her remember, in time…”

Lily sighed, looking up into Mark's trusting gray eyes. The pain within her subsided a little.

“You're right,” she said. “I came here for a reason.”

Mark helped her up. Laud smiled reassuringly. Only Benedicta still looked troubled as she got to her feet.

“Lily, are you sure?” she asked. “It's been a big shock for you. The Oracle isn't going anywhere…”

“She's been looking for answers for so long, Ben,” Mark reproached. “We all have. I wouldn't mind asking a couple of questions myself.”

“But don't you think you've just found an answer, a big one?” Ben said, awkwardly. “Maybe if we get used to this first…”

“It's all right, Ben,” Lily said, quietly. “I want to know. I
have
to know.”

Ben frowned, still looking unconvinced. Lily turned back to the Oracle.

“Ask,” the Oracle said, with the patience of the ages.

Lily cleared her mind, looking for the right question to ask. In the midst of all her confusion and pain, a spark of excitement stirred. This was it. It didn't matter that this
thing
had once been her mother. She was going to get the truth. The truth was what really mattered. That was what had always mattered.

She smiled at her friends, but they didn't look entirely reassured. Perhaps her smile was a little too wide. She realized she was breathing in quick bursts. But she couldn't let herself think about that now. All of the secrets of the world were laid out before her. What should she ask?

And then, in an instant, she knew.

“What is in the Midnight Charter?”

The Oracle cleared her throat.

“The Midnight Charter,” she began, as though reciting from the document itself. “Text begins: It is hereby agreed that the knowledge contained herein will be the sole property of the Libran Society, and that until the time when the Antagonist shall arise, and begin the conclusion of the experiment, all those involved will refuse to acknowledge these secrets, and work only to ensure the survival of Agora and Giseth, and to preserve the structure. Be it also laid down, that those charged with watching over the Antagonist and the Protagonist must, with full support of the Society, keep all knowledge from them until the Day of Judgment. Any major breach in these measures will render the project null and void, and will lead to dissolution of both, as stated below.

“Furthermore, it must be made clear to all inhabitants of the first phase that every dweller in Giseth, and every citizen of Agora, has the duty to keep the existence of the outside world, and their own arrival, secret from their children. This will ensure the sanctity of the project until the Last shall fall, and then the full purpose of the Libran Society's greatest experiment will be able to progress, confident that the truth will be secure until the Day of Judgment…”