Chapter XLIV – Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World, Part One

  “Remember your lessons,” demanded the cold and imperious voice.

  The darkness subsided.

  A young girl sat before her tutor; brush held delicately, each stroke made with supple wrist and a light, yet precise grip. Concentration was writ across the girl’s face, contorted as it was into a near frown.

  Dappled light shone through the window outside, filtered through the bamboo as it swayed in the gentle summer breeze, leaves rustling.

  The girl completed the character, placing down the brush. Her expression slackened a little, but her frown did not entirely subside. She gazed at her creation, the ink drying on the paper before her eyes.

  “Your brushwork is excellent, as always,” said her tutor, choosing her words carefully, “Yet your composition: it says nothing of who you are. It is mechanical – precise, yet it offers no insight, no commentary on virtue, no expression of your inner self.”

  The young girl shook her head. Mu took a step toward her. She knew the frustration the girl was feeling. Neither girl, nor tutor paid her any heed.

  “I don’t understand,” said the girl, “If the stroke order is correct and the brushwork precise, what else matters?”

  The tutor took a deep breath. “A computer can display a character. Precisely. Identically in every instance, without flaw, or the slightest variation. Perfect, every time.”

  The girl’s frown intensified. “So why do I need to sit here? I’ll never be as good as the computer.”

  The tutor gave a small laugh. “Because, young princess, when you hold the brush, you have a power unique to you, one no computer can replicate. The characters you create are each a unique expression of yourself, of your spirit, your individuality. This is what I want you to understand. We may have once practiced by replicating the works of past masters. That was to develop your technical skills. Now you must apply those skills to express yourself.”

  “But I should also reflect the moral lessons of the classics?” said the girl. “How is that expressing myself? I’m not some crusty old sage.” She made a gesture of tugging at her chin and added, “See? No beard.”

  The tutor laughed again. “You are a lady of the Imperial Court. You should incorporate the divine virtues of the classics into your being. Yet learning and adhering to virtues does not preclude your individuality.”

  “Feels like it does,” said the girl, crossing her arms. “Besides, how is… I don’t know… filial piety expressed in the way I make brushstrokes?”

  “We have covered this, Princess. Not every expression must be literal. The essence of the classics, when truly understood, is something that flows from the heart to the hand of the calligrapher.”

  For a moment the room disappeared, replaced by lift doors sliding open to reveal a dimly lit corridor.

  The room returned.

  Startled, Mu glanced around. Everything appeared as it was. She wandered closer to the paper, inspecting it. Light and shadow danced across it. Yet the character itself proclaimed its stillness and serenity. The brushwork truly was precise. Not a droplet of ink out of place. It looked perfect.

  Perhaps I still don’t understand, thought Mu.

  Absentmindedly, the young girl waved away a bee. The insect flew out the open window, disappearing amongst the rustling stand of bamboo.

  She turned to her tutor.

  “Let me try again,” she said, her tone firm.

  “Very well,” said her tutor, replacing the paper.

  “I want to write something else,” said the girl.

  “What would you like to write?”

  “White peony,” replied the girl.

  “That’s three characters,” said the tutor. “Let’s stick to one character for now.”

  The girl looked indignant. “Didn’t you tell me to express myself?” she asked.

  “Yes,” conceded the tutor, “But the expression does not come from the choice of characters or words – this is not a literary exercise. It is in the composition, in the boldness or softness of the strokes, in the unique qi you impart to each character.”

  The girl seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “But I want to write white peony,” she said. Mu could tell she was thinking further, formulating an argument. “Maybe… if I do the characters I want to do, I’ll be able to find my individual expression more easily… then I can bring that to other characters.”

  The tutor laughed once more. “You are both clever and stubborn, Princess,” she said. She smiled, “Very well. White peony. But if you are working on multiple characters, you must think not only of your strokes, of the arrangement of your radicals, but also the spacing of the characters. Think about how each speaks to the other.”

  “I will,” insisted the girl.

  “And you will write in running style,” said the tutor.

  “I want to do it in grass style,” said the girl.

  “You can practice grass style once you are more accomplished,” said the tutor. “For now, you can use running style.”

  The girl looked like she was about to protest, but she must have decided that she had already won the main battle. She did not push her luck. Instead, she set to work. Mu strolled over – unseen by either girl or tutor – and peered over the girl’s shoulder.

  As she did so, she was overcome by a sense of vertigo. In a moment, she found herself tumbling over the precipice, down, down, down into the black ink.

  Darkness enveloped her.

  She opened her eyes. She was staring up into a bright light. She blinked as she adjusted to it. She heard voices nearby. Two men. One of the voices was much deeper than the other. She tried to get a glimpse of the speakers, but discovered she was restrained.

  “Director,” came a woman’s voice, “She appears to be awake.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” replied an almost boyish voice. “She won’t remember once we’re finished. Not consciously, anyway.”

  A man stepped into her field of vision. He was extremely gaunt and she saw he hobbled as he walked, relying on a cane. His hair was greying, but his face looked youthful, almost childlike. He smiled down at her.

  “You are confident this will work?” said the deeper voice, a voice she recognised.

  “Of course, Your Excellency,” said the gaunt man, smiling down at her.

  “The mind of a future empress must be an impregnable citadel,” said the deep voice.

  “And hers will be,” said the gaunt man.

  “Even if she remembers nothing, as you claim?”

  “The battle for true control of the mind is in the subconscious. Trust me, Your Excellency, our techniques will not fail.”

  A woman approached behind the gaunt man and passed him a syringe.

  “This will hurt a little,” he said, his smile growing wider, “But it will ensure you don’t feel what comes next.”

  Mu felt the surging pain, emanating outwards from the spot on her arm where the needle pierced skin. Darkness absorbed her.

  The girl who now stood before Mu was older than the girl who had sat in the calligraphy studio. The forest was overflowing with autumnal hues. The wind that shook the leaves from the oaks and maples, also stirred her hair, so that it fluttered out to one side of her, even from under the fur hat that sat atop her head. The girl fidgeted with the archer’s thumb ring she wore, even as she listened to the woman before her speak. The difference in attitude to this teacher was plain to see: she was quiet, deferent, and even nervous. And the woman that stood before her was no Shang tutor: no, she wore Aixin Banner Dress, prepared for the hunt. She sported a robe with the classic horse-hoof cuffs at the end of the long sleeves, a high split on each side for ease of movement. Over this was a vest sporting a qilin design embroidered across the breast. Underneath the robe were trousers tucked into high riding boots. The ensemble was topped off with a fur cap.

  The girl, herself, was dressed similarly, though the design on her chest depicted not a qilin, but a rampant white mare.

  “The hunt reminds us of who we are, of where we came from,” said the woman, “From time immemorial it has been the way of our people: man and woman alike must learn its ways. We Aixin are a warrior people, a conquering people. A lesser people might become soft and pampered in the great palaces, but we are not a lesser people. We will never forget the way of the horse, the bow, the spear, and the sword. We will never forget what it is to ride free and to dominate all that we survey. The hunt is key to this, key to reminding us of where we came from.”

  The girl simply nodded; her eyes fixed on her teacher.

  “So, Mukushen, can you prove to me that you are worthy? Do so, and you can ride with me during the Autumn Hunt, and present your prizes before his Imperial Majesty.”

  The girl nodded once more: she was nervous, but there was determination too in those deep brown eyes. “Yes, Princess, I can.”

  “Very well,” said the older woman. “Show we what you are capable of. Strike the pheasant in flight.”

  The woman moved swiftly and fluidly, drawing a mighty feathered arrow and placing it upon her bow. Despite the size and draw-weight of the bow, she made easy work of it, pulling back the string, arrow held in place atop her thumb ring. A moment later she released in a practiced, smooth motion, the arrow darting forward. If it hit anything, Mu could not tell, but a fraction of a second later a startled pheasant rose from its hiding place.

  The girl was at the ready, her arrow in place. Her stance was wide, almost mirroring the positioning of the legs of a mounted archer. Her draw was quick, her index finger placed lightly over her thumb. The powerful horseback bow curved deeply back. Even as she drew back the string, she shifted the bow, adjusting for the pheasant’s flight.

  As Mu watched, she knew one more thing was happening, something unseen, even to the wise teacher. Mu knew that in the girl’s head, her mind was rapidly probing different futures, searching for that moment of release that would have the arrow fly true. It happened swiftly, almost automatically, but Mu could see it writ upon the profound focus of the girl’s face as her eyes traced the path of the startled pheasant.

  Then came the moment. The arrow burst forward with speed and power – almost surprising, coming ultimately as it did, from the slight and slender form of that teenage girl. But powerful it was.

  And in that moment Mu was pulled along with the arrow, viewing the world from the perspective of its tip. She rushed between the woodland boughs; the oranges, reds, yellows, and browns becoming a single blur of colour. The pheasant never stood a chance. The arrow struck true, piercing the feathered breast, giving the quarry only a moment to let loose a fleeting, anguished cry, before it fell to the forest floor.

  Mu’s world, once more, became shrouded in darkness.

  When next her eyes fluttered open, she was standing in a lift as it descended. Once more a young girl, a mere child, stood before her. She was flanked by two men. One was tall and powerfully built. His jet-black hair was worn in the traditional queue style and he sported a thin moustache and goatee. His elaborate robes were adorned with the image of a white horse.

  Prince Aixin Ulu?un, Banner Lord of the White Horse.

  Or to Mu: father.

  Beside the Prince was a short and gaunt man, bent-backed and supported by a cane. His face was boyish and clean-shaven, though his hair was flecked with greys. His robes were far less elaborate than those of the Prince, though they were unmistakably Aixin in nature, not Shang. On his face he wore a smile that made Mu feel uneasy.

  “Where are we going?” asked the young girl.

  Prince Ulu?un regarded the girl only briefly, but offered no explanation. Mu saw the nervousness on her face – nervousness bordering on fear.

  I don’t remember this, she thought.

  The lift doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. The gaunt man stepped out first, extended one arm towards the shadowy depths of the corridor and bowed his head slightly as he said, “If you would please follow me, Your Excellency.”

  “Come,” said the Prince, grabbing the young girl roughly by the shoulder as he stepped out. She meekly followed.

  The gaunt man led them through a labyrinthine series of shadowy corridors. Each was lined with closed doors. There was no way to see what might be beyond those doors. From behind many, strange sounds emanated. Unpleasant sounds.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Deeper and deeper they journeyed.

  At long last they turned a corner and entered a long hallway that expanded into a larger room at its end. On the far side of that room was a door. Unlike the other doors, this one had windows beside it, allowing one to see what lay beyond. For now, as best Mu could tell, that was not much.

  They reached the room before the door.

  The gaunt man walked over to a console. With a few taps, a light came on in the next room, shining out through the windows. Prince Ulu?un and the girl walked over, to see what was inside. Mu followed.

  The room was empty, but for a single object. It took Mu a moment longer to work out what it was. Finally, she distinguished its features: It was a wooden puppet, slumped in one corner of the room. And by its side sat a violin.

  “What is this, Director?” asked the Prince.

  “A test, Your Excellency,” replied the gaunt man, “Or perhaps demonstration is the better word – I am, after all, quite certain of the outcome.”

  “Speak plainly,” growled the Prince.

  “Of course, Your Excellency,” said the Director, with a smile, his tone obsequious. “My apologies. I trust Your Excellency will recall that my agents briefed on an entity known as the Conductor?”

  “Of course.”

  “What you see before you is a node in the Conductor’s network of control, otherwise known as the Orchestra. This node – which, as Your Excellency may soon hear – refers to itself as a Soloist. It endeavours to control any mind that is exposed to it via its music. This cell is of course sound-proofed, so as to permit the Bureau to study this creature safely.”

  “What is the demonstration?”

  “Your Excellency requested that we make the young Princess’s mind a citadel,” said the Director. “I will demonstrate that this is indeed what we have done.”

  He now turned to the young girl, hobbling towards her. With great effort he bent over, so that their faces were approximately level.

  “If you would please proceed to the door, Princess,” he said, gesturing.

  The young girl looked to her father, who simply nodded. Mu watched on, unobserved, as the girl slowly walked to the door. She saw how she trembled.

  The Director now returned to the console. With a few more taps on the screen, the door slid open. The girl stepped through, into a smaller chamber, separating the two rooms, a second door before her. It was akin to an airlock.

  The Prince watched on, his face impassive.

  The Director made another tap, and the second door opened. He leant forward and spoke near to the panel. “Don’t be afraid, Princess – you may enter.”

  The girl did as she was told. The door slid shut behind her. The puppet remained slumped and unmoving in the corner of the room.

  “Please, Princess, go take a better look at it,” said the Director. There was levity in his voice. “It is only a toy made of wood after all – it cannot hurt you.”

  Tentatively the girl proceeded. She stopped, still a fair distance from the puppet.

  “Closer,” instructed the Director.

  After a moment’s pause, she again did as she was told. She halted once more, not much more than two metres from the puppet.

  At first, nothing happened.

  “This is not the most scintillating display I have witnessed, Director,” remarked the Prince.

  “I beg of you your patience, My Prince.”

  Mu watched too. She did not notice it at first, for her eyes were focused on the puppet. But the movement caught her eye. From the shadows high up in the room, something huge was moving. A hand, disembodied and looming from the dark, far larger than a grown man. Strings of light descended from each of its finger tips, reaching the puppet, looping around its appendages, and lifting it inelegantly to its feet. At first its head continued to hang low.

  It jerked upward. Eyes flickered open.

  The girl leapt backward.

  “Do not be afraid, Princess,” said the Director, his voice soft.

  The puppet’s movements were jerky. It took a faltering step. Then it bent, lowering itself in stages, before picking up the violin and the bow that sat at its side. With a jerking motion, it rose once more, now holding violin and bow.

  The Director turned to the Prince. “What you are about to witness was the point at which most human test subjects succumbed to the Soloist. You will not be able to hear the music, but your daughter certainly will.”

  If the Prince was nervous about the outcome, his face bore no signs. He continued to stare directly ahead.

  “It’s a fascinating thing, truly,” continued the Director. “Despite the Bureau’s best efforts, the test subjects were so completely overcome by the Soloist’s music, that their individual will was irretrievable. Naturally, we had no choice but to dispose of these subjects.”

  The puppet began to play.

  And Mu heard it.

  It was a mournful peace. It sounded of nostalgia, of regret. It was passionate though. And lush.

  And it was beautiful.

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  Why am I hearing it? she wondered.

  The Prince and the Director showed no such signs of hearing it. Then she realised: she was not hearing it at all – she was remembering it. Remembering it vividly, though for so long it had been forgotten to her, buried in the deepest recesses of her mind.

  Of the citadel.

  The girl certainly heard it. Her eyes went wide at first, she backed away farther. But it didn’t last. Soon a look of calm, of serenity began to spread. Her eyes grew dull. Then they closed.

  The first flicker of uncertainty crossed Prince Ulu?un’s face.

  The girl sunk to her knees.

  Mu saw her father glance toward the Director. The gaunt man however remained fixated on the events unfolding on the other side of the glass, his smile unwavering the entire time.

  As Mu watched she heard her father, almost inaudibly murmur: “Remember your training, Mukushen.”

  For a moment she thought she saw Ostara standing behind him, many-coloured blood drizzling from her arm, a smile upon her face. Only for a moment though.

  She was not there.

  The puppet continued, its jerky movements of earlier quite at odds with the delicacy and precision of its playing. Mu’s eyes raised to that dark hand above, its fingers moving subtly, plucking upon the strings that hung from it.

  The girl’s eyes opened.

  She rose to her feet. Her hands clenched into fists.

  The puppet continued to play.

  But only for a moment longer.

  The girl moved swiftly. She wrenched the violin from the puppet’s grasp. She did not stop there. In her next movement she lifted up the violin and brought it down on the puppet’s head forcefully. Then again. And again. She did not stop until puppet and violin alike lay in splinters.

  Panting, she let what remained of the violin’s neck clatter to the ground. She turned to face the observers.

  “Our processes have proved effective,” said the Director. “The Soloist was unable to incorporate her into the Orchestra.”

  Something unusual happened. The faintest hint of a smile flickered across Prince Ulu?un’s face. “She is a Princess of the White Horse Banner. She is Aixin. We are not conquered. We conquer.”

  The doors opened and the girl was beckoned to come out. Neither she, nor the Prince, nor the Director was still looking at the ruins of the puppet and its violin.

  But Mu was.

  She observed as the swarm of bees rose from the ruin. She heard the buzzing, the droning, growing louder. Louder and louder.

  Until it was all she could hear, as black once more enclosed her.

  Tavian did not look back at the noise behind them. The screams of twisting and breaking metal, the yells of many voices, a single gunshot. He just kept moving forward, as fast as he could manage with Mu’s unconscious form in his arms and their way barred by the endless tangle of vines and undergrowth. They dove straight into the jungle, away from the mob, away from the ship. Ostara led the way, Kal behind her, Toghrul’s limp form slung over his shoulder. Jiwen, Harry, and Nova followed.

  Already, Tavian was wondering how long he could sustain this. Mu’s slight form was not weighty, but everything was heavier on Luanyuan, and while not moving at a sprint by any means, he still found himself compelled to move swiftly over uneven terrain. The strain was taking it out of him, even as the humidity pressed in about him as ever it did, soaking his clothes and plastering them to his clammy skin.

  And at any moment these vines could once more reach out to grab them.

  How much control can Ostara truly exert?

  There was no point worrying about that which he couldn’t fix. All that mattered right now, was putting some space between themselves and whatever was happening back at the crash site. The mob. That girl. The monster.

  So, against the better judgement of every muscle in his body, he pressed on. Because no alternative bore thinking about.

  There came a crunching sound ahead.

  “Bones!” yelled Jiwen.

  Tavian looked about, searching for any sign of movement among the foliage. As he looked, he saw it: the tip of a vine twitched. But it didn’t lunge for them. And the others stayed still, draped across the lichen-covered branches, coiled about the mossy tree trunks.

  “I can sense their hunger,” said Ostara.

  “You’re holding them back?” asked Tavian.

  “For now,” replied Ostara. “But let’s keep moving. It’s not just hunger… there’s something else… it almost feels like I’m fighting some… will.”

  “Will?” asked Tavian, looking around once more as he contemplated her word choice. He didn’t overthink it. “Let’s move.”

  A loud choral note sounded across the jungle. Bells and chimes. Tavian felt it again: the pressure in his skull. But it did not cripple him. They had space now. It no longer sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once. It was clearly now behind them.

  “C’mon,” said Kal.

  They started moving once more. Tavian noticed Nova raising her hands in front of her face. She squeezed her eyes shut before opening them again. A troubled look spread across a face that had hitherto mostly been merely impassive.

  Just hold it together, kid, he silently urged her.

  They had not travelled much farther when they were again stopped in their tracks. Not by the vines, and not by that alien call, but by a voice. A human voice.

  “I understood we were to meet at the ship,” it said.

  Tavian saw who it was a moment later.

  “Dr Zhao,” said Ostara. “How nice to see you. We feared we would not have the pleasure again.”

  “You will have to excuse my lengthy and unexplained absence,” replied the doctor, adjusting his glasses.

  “You know of a way out?” asked Ostara.

  “I do indeed,” said Dr Zhao.

  The alien cry went up in the distance once more. Tavian saw Zhao flinch.

  “I assume that has something to do with the source of your distress?” he asked.

  “It’s certainly distressing, yes,” said Harry.

  “They may come after us,” said Kal. “So, if you know a way out, lead on.”

  Dr Zhao gave a thin smile. “Of course. Follow me, please.”

  He had clearly travelled this way previously. There was a defined path amongst the undergrowth that Tavian was sure could not be natural. At any rate, it made for far swifter progress than they had been making hitherto.

  “I imagine you have many questions,” said Zhao without looking back at them. “I am at liberty to answer some, though I am certain you will have many more before this is over. We should wait, I think, for now.”

  “Sure,” said Harry, “Nothing has made sense for a while now. I’m entirely happy to focus on staying alive for the time being.”

  They emerged at a place that looked familiar to Tavian. There was a clearing in the jungle, where many streams converged, trickling over rocks smoothed by the waters of time. Sunlight streamed in from the gaps in the canopy overhead.

  Across the streams a steep embankment loomed. Over it and through it snaked the roots of a mighty tree, great buttresses spreading out over a wide area.

  “Watch your footing,” warned Zhao as he began crossing the stream, nimbly stepping from dry rock to dry rock with practiced precision.

  Tavian felt his muscles burning from the strain of carrying Mu. He pushed aside the sensation as he set out across the stream.

  Don’t drop her here, he thought to himself, She’ll never forgive you.

  Up ahead Nova stumbled, her foot slipping off one of the rocks and plunging down into the stream up to just below her knee. Harry, nearby, grabbed her arm to prevent the rest of her going down into the water.

  “Fuck!” she snarled in uncharacteristically bitter frustration. She pulled her leg out, the lower portion of her pants now sopping wet.

  “Might wash the blood out,” said Harry, brightly.

  She glared at him until he awkwardly murmured, “Ah… sorry… that was…” he trailed off.

  They continued across the stream, Zhao watching their crossing with folded arms and an unreadable expression. When at last they stood upon the relatively dry shore, in the shadows of the root-riddled embankment, he broke his silence.

  “Things will get a little stranger now,” he said, leaning forward and with one arm sweeping back a curtain of lichen that hung from one of the mighty buttresses. Before it was a hollow within the embankment, damp and redolent of the scent of organic decay. And at the very back of that hollow was an unmistakably metallic door.

  It was covered in moss and lichen, its colours faded, but Tavian could make out the characters on it clearly:

  Chaotic Garden.

  From within his coat, Zhao withdrew a small device and tapped it. The door rolled aside with an unobliging screech of metallic reluctance.

  “Please,” said Zhao, his thin smile once more upon his face, “Come in.”

  Before anyone could do anything else, Nova’s voice sounded.

  “We should hurry,” she said, her eyes vacant and far away, “She’s coming for us.”

  “She?” asked Harry.

  “The Hive Queen,” replied Nova.

  “The Hive—how do you know?”

  “I can hear their voices. They’ve been getting louder… they want me to drink the Blood. They want me to return… but if I don’t, they…”

  “No need to explain,” Kal interrupted. “Let’s move.”

  With one more glance back into the jungle, Tavian made his way through the door. The passage beyond immediately commenced a steep descent. It wasn’t wholly artificial like the door, as he’d expected, rather earthworks were supported by steel beams. Everything within was still damp, indeed the smell of rot was almost overwhelming, the dense humidity of the dark feeling like a smothering blanket. Only a few dim lights shone at sparse intervals, providing the minimum illumination by which to find one’s way during the descent. Eventually, everything before him vanished into impenetrable shadow, deep below the jungle.

  “This is the research station?” questioned Jiwen, pausing on the threshold, now just behind Tavian.

  “It will lead us there,” said Zhao.

  The group filed in.

  “We will show her the way,” said Nova. She paused, glancing back the way they had come. “I’m not sure if she can see through my eyes, or she can sense Mu and Toghrul, but she knows where we are.”

  She paused again.

  “You’re guiding her to the station,” she added.

  Zhao sighed. “So be it. Our work here is done.”

  “Are you abandoning Luanyuan?” asked Jiwen. Zhao didn’t immediately respond, so Jiwen continued, “You’re one of them, right? An Imperial scientist? Working on Chaotic Garden?”

  “You know a lot for a convict,” said Zhao. He tapped on the device he held again, and the door rolled back into position. The passage became darker still. “Come,” said Zhao and he set off ahead of the others.

  They descended for what felt like an interminable amount of time, the corridor winding about as they progressed, but always leading down. The air was utterly putrid, breathing felt like a chore. Tavian’s arms ached more and more. He wondered how Kal could possibly be carrying the much heavier Toghrul with no sign of difficulty.

  They moved in silence, save for the sound of their footfalls. Tavian had the sensation that the air was as thick with reverie as it was with humidity, each mind there present processing what had happened, what was happening, what might yet happen.

  There was a liminality to the dark, to that passage into the earth. Above the jungle had seemed ubiquitous, yet now they were leaving it behind. This place was other – other than a place, somewhere that only existed between. Between what?

  The research station of course. He knew that. Zhao had already told them. Yet, he couldn’t shake the impression that there was more to it than that.

  At length, the passage levelled out. Ahead of them was another door, illuminated by a dull circle of light, cast from the ceiling above.

  Zhao clicked his device. Light – natural light – flooded in.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said Zhao as he stepped out, his form becoming a mere silhouette to Tavian’s eyes, accustomed as they were to the shadows of the passage.

  Alarmed?

  Tavian stepped into the light.

  It was not so bright, he now realised, as his vision adjusted. There was sunlight, but it filtered down from far above, a mere patchwork among the shadows. Yet light came from elsewhere, too. It was not at first apparent, but it came from the walls, from the ground, from the streamers of lichen that hung from above, from the vines and flowers he now saw about them in abundant profusion, and from the fungi in all conceivable shapes that grew in layer, upon layer, wherever he cast his eyes.

  They had stepped into a steep-sided defile. Craning his head back to the utmost, he could see the light of the sun far, far, far above. A short distance ahead of them, the defile opened up, revealing an incredible explosion of plant life in an incredible array of shapes and colours. Lush – lush was not a sufficient word.

  As Tavian’s mind struggled to come to terms with what he saw, Jiwen had already realised where they were.

  “The Heavenly Pit…” he said, awe and fear dripping from his words in equal measure. “We… we can’t survive down here.”

  But others of their party had different ideas. She was behind Tavian, so he did not see her speak, but he knew her voice, even though he heard in it a tone he had never before known from her.

  “It’s… beautiful,” said Ostara, her voice trembling in the presence of the sublime.

  Tavian strolled forward slowly, temporarily forgetting the burden on his arms. The smell of damp and rot was still there, but joining it were many other scents. Many were sweet, others sour. The scents so abounded that it was the olfactory equivalent of the chorus of bird calls one might hear in an ordinary rainforest. Each of those odours competed with every other to stand out above the cacophony of aroma.

  Another thing became apparent as Tavian walked forward. Everything moved. Not swaying in the wind, for there was little of that down here. No, it moved of its own initiative. Not mere vines, and not in the writhing manner he had observed above. Vines slowly crept along branches like snakes. Flowers shifted about to capture the dancing rays of the sun above like satellite dishes. A plant covered in orange and yellow bulbs pulsated, opening and closing as it did so, as if breathing. Yet it was difficult to focus on any one of these aspects, for the whole was such an intense, overwhelming confusion of movement and colour, that it was an assault on the brain’s very capacity to process visual stimuli.

  “Behold, the true heart of our Chaotic Garden,” remarked Zhao, indicating the maddening vista with a sweep of his arm, pride swelling in his usually clipped and officious voice.

  “I saw it from above…” remarked Jiwen, “But I never…”

  As Tavian stepped forward, he felt something brush against his leg. Looking down he saw he had brushed against a fern. A rain of glowing spores drifted in the air, settling against the fabric of his trousers and upon his boots.

  “We must cross,” said Zhao. “Follow me carefully. If you are lost, you will never emerge.”