But terror drew a tighter and tighter string around her heart. Whatever doom awaited her twin crept closer even as the miles flashed past.
“There,” Reuben said suddenly, pointing. “That’s the range that houses Sinai.”
Lucinda straightened her wings and coasted downward toward the clustered mountains. She was so unfamiliar with Samarian topography; she could have flown right by. “Are you sure?”
Reuben smiled. “I did not waste all my life crossing the sea between Samaria and Ysral, mikala,” he said. “Like most Edori, I have spent some time traveling through the mainland just to satisfy my curiosity. And have you not learned by now that an Edori has a flawless sense of direction? That’s Sinai. Drop closer to the ground.”
She obliged, losing altitude slowly as they approached the gray peaks. “And which of these mountains holds Sinai?” she asked. “For they all look impassable to me.”
“I was never inside it,” he said. “I would guess there’s a path up the mountain to lead the petitioners to the oracle’s doorway. Look for some kind of road, though I imagine it’s a bad one.”
“I don’t see—yes, wait, there it is! Do you see it? It looks like a dirt road and it’s winding upward—”
She followed the track around the curve of the mountain, dropping even farther to meet the path as it climbed. Thus she was almost at the proper level when they finally spotted a wide open door carved into the mountain itself.
“The portal to Mount Sinai,” Reuben said grandly. “Just where I thought it would be.”
Lucinda laughed shakily. She slowed her wingbeat even more, barely above hover speed, to position herself just so for the landing on the narrow ledge before the door. It would almost be easier to climb the rough road than to attempt this maneuver. She waited till the wind was absolutely still, then dropped to her feet. A moment of heaviness, as her body accustomed itself to gravity, and then she released Reuben and stepped away.
“Now the hard part,” she said, heading inside. “Explaining to the oracle why we have come.”
But no one was there.
At first they thought they just had not penetrated far enough down the gaslit hallways, had not peered into enough big, empty waiting rooms, looking for visitors and acolytes. But soon it became clear—by the echoing, untenanted quality of silence, by the absence of any noise they did not make themselves—that there was nobody at Mount Sinai at all. Not petitioners, not servants, not acolytes, not the oracle herself.
“Where could they all be?” Reuben wondered aloud. “Is this some holiday that we do not know?”
“Some emergency, more like,” Lucinda replied, thinking again of Tamar. Had whatever disaster befallen her sister also laid low half of Samaria? Had the oracles and all the angels been called together to soothe whatever crisis had arisen? Earthquake—plague—storm? It was hard to imagine a catastrophe so great.
“Well, whatever it is, it makes our task easier,” Reuben said practically. “Now. Where do you suppose this blue window is? The one we are supposed to write on?”
“In the center of the god’s chamber, right? So, I guess we go to the middle of the sanctuary. Perhaps it will seem obvious when we find it.”
She didn’t really think so when she said it, but as it happened, she was right. They made their way slowly through the whispering silence; even empty, Mount Sinai seemed so full of wisdom and experience that the stony walls exhaled their murmured memories. Clearly, they did not seek the kitchens or the dormitory rooms, so they need not go all the way down that corridor; and here was just another series of waiting rooms, more luxuriously appointed, designed no doubt for the more exalted of the oracle’s visitors. But here was a room that even from the hallway looked bigger than the others—and once they stepped inside, they knew at once they had found what they were looking for.
It was a spacious chamber, well lit with a soft, pleasing light, and it was sparsely furnished with a few chairs, bookshelves, and tapestries. But its central feature, the item that instantly drew their eyes and then their bodies across the floor, was a glowing blue glass plate set into the very wall on the far side of the room. It was surrounded by a wholly mysterious set of buttons, and it pulsed with an eerie, alien light, but it was built into a shape that resembled a desk, and there was a rolling chair set right before it.
“A workstation of some sort,” Reuben said to himself. “But what its purpose might be I could only guess.”
“I have heard that the oracles use amazing equipment to commune directly with the god,” Lucinda said in a low voice. “Perhaps this is it. It has a holy appearance to it.”
“It looks like a kind of console,” Reuben replied. “Something that might transmit or receive signals.”
They had walked slowly as they spoke, and now they were standing directly in front of it. The unvarying blue light was somehow seductive. Lucinda could not keep herself from putting her palm to the glass itself. She expected to burn her fingers, but the screen remained cool beneath her hand.
“What kind of signals?” she asked.
Reuben shook his head. “I have not even the faintest idea. But this is encouraging, don’t you think?” He pointed to an arrangement of keys on a shelf below the glass. “These are the same letters as those written in the Edori manuscript. The ones we are supposed to write on the screen.”
“Then we have found the right place,” Lucinda said, looking around. “I don’t see any star on the floor, though, do you?”
“In the center of the room, it said,” Reuben replied. “A pentagon. I suppose it is not visible to the casual eye. We must seek it out.”
Lucinda moved away from him, bent half over, searching through the dust and scuffs on the floor for anything resembling a pattern. Reuben followed her, dropping to his knees and searching the floor with his fingertips.
“Here! Maybe. There’s a groove in the floor just here, and it seems to continue in a straight line—”
She hurried over to stand beside him, tracing with her eyes the route his fingers traveled along the floor. “I can see it,” she said suddenly. “There—and there—there! Yes—it’s a star, a pentagram, I guess, bigger than you’d think. There, Reuben, do you see the edges?”
He climbed to his feet and looked where she pointed. “You’re right, I see it. So we’re supposed to stand here and wait for the golden light—”
“We have to write that word first,” she reminded him. “On the blue screen. Then the light comes down.”
He looked at her seriously, silent for so long that she felt the excited race of her heart slow a little in response to his contemplation. “What?” she asked.
“Are you sure this is what you wish to do?” he asked. “You don’t know what that golden light will do to us—dissolve us, maybe, in a vitriolic haze. Blind us, make us mad. No one knows that we are here and what we are attempting. Should we wait a day and think it over?”
“No,” she said without a moment’s pause for thought. “Now. We must find out. We must take the chance. A day from now will be too late.”
“Too late for what?” he said, but she could not answer him. She just shook her head and crossed her arms like an intractable child. The Edori sighed.
“Very well,” he said. “You stand within the pentagram. I will address the blue screen and see if I can make it accept the letters I indicate. And then together we will wait for the golden light to waft us away into the arms of Jehovah.”
She stood where he had left her, too determined to allow herself a moment of doubt, even a brief speculation as to what they might find once that iridescent light around them dissipated. If it dissipated; if it came. Reuben, who had been bending over the blue screen, straightened and sprinted to her side. Absently, he put his arms around her.
“How long do we wait?” Lucinda asked.
He shook his head. “No idea. Not long, I would think, or the time would have been specified in the document.”
“Perhaps we should count, to pass the
time,” she said nervously. “Or sing.”
He grinned at her, that slow, sleepy Edori smile that no crisis ever seemed to completely chase away. “Not so wise, do you think,” he said, “to be singing as you approach the god’s ear? He might misinterpret and think you were singing to him.”
“Well, not a prayer, then, perhaps a lullaby or—”
The rest of the words scattered in her throat. The world was a well of burnished light; she could not see, or speak, or think. One by one, the molecules of her skin broke apart, drifted away; her flesh turned to whispering static. She felt her lungs flatten and her brain melt. She forgot her name.
And seconds later—or years later—opened her eyes to find herself reassembled, whole, animate, and in a wildly unfamiliar place.
She had somehow remained on her feet, though Reuben, beside her, had fallen to a crouch. She spoke his name urgently, and he stirred and looked up at her, his face blank, his mouth opened as if to speak. He did not utter a word.
“Reuben,” she repeated, tugging on his arm. “Are you all right? Can you talk to me?”
“Dead I would indeed have to be if I were unable to talk,” he wheezed out, and she laughed. “Give me a moment, mikala. That was a difficult journey.”
She slackened her grip and looked around. They were, as the document had forewarned them, in a room of white and silver-but such a room as Lucinda would never have been able to imagine. All around them were a series of consoles similar to the one they had found in Jecoliah’s chamber, an array of brightly lit screens and mysterious activating switches. The air was alive with a punctuated buzzing, interrupted and undercut by faint whistles, clicks, and chirrups. The air was completely unscented but somehow it felt very old. It was paper-dry against her cheek and stirred faintly around her as if surprised by the motion of her breathing.
“Where are we?” she asked in a low voice. “Reuben, do get up and take a look. Is this a spaceship? It looks like—it looks a little like one of the rooms at the Augustine school.”
Laboriously Reuben hauled himself to his feet and took a long, slow look around him. “Indeed it does, and no surprise, if Caleb Augustus modeled his school after what he viewed up here,” the Edori said.
“Caleb Augustus visited Jehovah? I have never heard that.”
“Only a guess that he, like I, followed an angel lover to this place.” His voice sounded stronger with each word; curiosity was rapidly restoring him. “These are monitoring devices of some sort, I would wager, and this—this looks much like the blue window we left at Mount Sinai. A communication console, it would appear.”
So far, neither of them had ventured to move one inch from the place where the great light had deposited them, but now Lucinda sidled forward a pace. As she was not struck dead, she stepped forward twice more. “Well, let’s explore! We must find some way to communicate with the ship.”
Reuben caught her hand to hold her in place. “Try introducing yourself,” he advised. “The document did say you could speak to Jehovah and it would answer back.”
She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on Reuben. She had not really believed that part, and so she had allowed herself to forget it. Feeling half-foolish and half-afraid, she said politely, “Hello, Jehovah. Are you listening? I am the angel Lucinda from Angel Rock and this is my friend Reuben sia Havita, an Edori sailor.”
The voice, when it instantly replied, was so unexpected that she almost tumbled over. “Ah, an Edori,” it said in deep, rolling tones that reminded her a little of Bael’s. But even more powerful, even more resonant. “I could not identify him because he does not wear a Kiss. It is unexpected to be visited by an Edori.”
There were so many questions to ask following that short speech that for a moment Lucinda stood silent. Have you been visited by many others, Edori or no? Can you identify anyone who wears a Kiss? Can you track them? Who are you? What is this place we have come to? “Are you really Jehovah?” she asked instead, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “And are you indeed a spaceship?”
“I am an interplanetary space cruiser designed to provide life support for no more than seven hundred individuals for as long as my systems survive,” the melodious voice replied. “I was christened Jehovah many centuries ago, when I first ferried your ancestors to this planet from the world known as Eleison. You may refer to me as a spaceship if you like.”
“Amazing,” Reuben said under his breath. “Simply amazing.” He had lost most of his fear and was beginning to circle through the equipment, examining the knobs and buttons and putting his hands briefly to each glass monitor. “What does this—ah, yes, I can see that. And then this must be a navigational—but how does it—or is this where—ah, there. Amazing.”
“Feel free to examine any chamber you like,” the voice invited them. “There is much to see. This room, as you may have guessed, is the bridge, where most of the functions of the ship are centered and monitored. Elsewhere, you will find living quarters, self-contained greenhouses which produce crops and grain, storage facilities, the energy crystals that power the ship as well as the basic circuitry—”
“Yes, we’ll look at all that later,” Lucinda said somewhat sharply as Reuben eagerly turned toward what appeared to be the exit. “First, I have some questions to ask you.”
“Yes, Lucinda?”
“My sister, Tamar, appears to be in some kind of trouble. Can you tell me where she is and what’s happening to her?”
“It is not in my power with accuracy to determine where any individual is located. I can tell you that she is in Samaria and she is alive. More details are not at my disposal.”
Lucinda felt a crushing weight of disappointment settle across her shoulders. Reuben turned to show her a sympathetic expression. She waited a moment, till the leap of panic subsided, and then began asking all the other questions she knew should be addressed to Jehovah.
“Is it true that the angel Alleluia came here to visit you a hundred years ago?”
“It was, more precisely, one hundred and three years ago, but yes, she was here several times. The engineer Caleb Augustus was also here during that time period.”
“And others before them?”
“From time to time. Not often, once the planet was colonized.”
“And is it true that you control the weather? And that you can dispense seeds and drugs when they are asked for? Is it true that you can track the lives of all Samarians by the Kisses that we wear in our arms?”
“I cannot precisely control the weather, but I have the capability of altering weather patterns if the angels sing a certain combination of notes that signal me to perform functions that will affect air temperature and wind formations on the planet below us. It is true that, again when my reactors are triggered by specific sound patterns, I can release my accumulated stores of grain and medicine. It is also true that I use the Kisses to follow the numbers of mortals and angels being bred on Samaria, and they are a useful source of data to me.”
She took a long, shaky breath. “Is it true you will destroy the world if the Gloria is not sung?”
“I am so programmed.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Certain functions have been laid down unalterably in my circuits. If this occurs, I must react in this way. I have no independent will. If an angel prays for a particular kind of rain, I respond with a prescribed combination of chemicals. If the Gloria is not sung, I respond with a blast of destructive energy. I cannot control these functions. Only you and the other angels can do so.”
“Well, maybe, but it’s nothing like control if we have to go along with what you’ve already been programmed to do,” said Reuben in his most colloquial voice. “What if the angels and the mortals living on Samaria today decided they no longer wanted to come together to sing the Gloria? Could your circuits be altered? Could those commands be undone?”
“That is not a piece of knowledge I am equipped with,” the spaceship replied, sounding almost prim. “As my circuits
were programmed by men, I assume those instructions can be reworked by other men. But perhaps there is a fail-safe device built in which would prohibit the circuits from ever being tampered with. I do not know. I was not informed.”
“Fail-safe. That’s just what you’d expect from the sort of men who would design the likes of you in the first place,” Reuben muttered. “I wonder where I might look to find that information? Just for curiosity’s sake, you understand.”
“In a minute,” Lucinda said. She was not through with her interrogation of the spaceship. “You can hear angels from any point on Samaria, can you not? For instance, you could hear me when I sang from Angel Rock.”
“Yes,” Jehovah acknowledged.
“Then why must the Gloria be sung from the Plain of Sharon?”
“In point of fact, it could be sung from anywhere on the planet and I would hear it. But there are special receptors buried under the Plain that carry voices to me most clearly, and your ancestors wanted to be sure that, if I heard no other music, I heard the Gloria as it was sung every year.”
“And it sounds like music? Like words? Like the conversation we are having now? It is that distinct?”
“Yes. If you like, I can open my receivers and allow you to overhear what is transpiring on the Plain even now, so you can experience exactly what I hear.”
“But there’s nobody on the Plain right now, is there?”
“Indeed, some kind of commercial event is being held there this entire week. A farmer’s fair, I believe. There are many voices upraised, though most of it is unimportant chatter.”
“Yes, I would like to hear this,” Lucinda decided. “Just so I can say I stood beside the god and heard the talk of mortals.”
Almost before she had finished speaking, the chamber around them was filled with an unbridled commotion. For an agricultural fair, Lucinda thought, the event seemed to have stirred a lot of tempers. The noises were so clear and so perfectly translated that she could catch the sounds of running footfalls, squealing horses, and rumbling motors over the confusion of angry discussion. Lost in amazement, it took her a moment to sort out individual voices, their words—and their meanings.