Lysander Spark's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Lysander reached the bottom of the tower and stepped into the open. The land stretched flat and gray in every direction. He knew a library of star charts waited somewhere near the deep. He did not know which way to walk. He turned in a slow circle and saw no road, no marker, no sign. The sun already sat low. If he chose wrong, he would wander until dark and freeze far from any wall. He pulled his staff apart and raised the telescope, not to the sky, but to the ground. He swept the horizon and searched for a rooftop, a wall, anything built by hands. He found nothing but stone and scrub. His arm ached. He lowered the tube and sat on his cart, beaten. Then the ground shook. A slow, heavy thud came from behind the tower. Lysander gripped his staff and turned. A great tortoise plodded into view. Its shell rose as high as his chest, broad and scarred. It stopped a few feet away and fixed one dark eye on him. A worn leather saddle sat strapped across its back. Lysander had seen such beasts before. Old wardens of the deep once rode them between the far places. This one wore its saddle still, though its rider was long gone. The tortoise lowered its head and nosed the dust near his boot. Then it turned and took three slow steps, away from the tower, and stopped. It looked back at him. "You know the way," Lysander said. His voice cracked. He did not truly know that. But the beast waited, and he had no better plan. A wandering man dies. A carried man rides. He left his squealing cart behind. He took only his staff, his manual, and the telescope. He climbed the shell with shaking arms and settled into the old saddle. The tortoise felt his weight, grunted, and began to walk. It moved slower than Lysander could walk himself. But it never stopped, and it never wavered. It carried him past the flat stone and down a shallow slope he had not seen. The path bent around a low ridge. Hours passed. The sun dropped. Lysander wrapped his robe tight and trusted the beast. At dusk the tortoise halted. Ahead stood a long low building, half sunk in the earth. Its roof had caved at one end. Rows of narrow windows ran along its side. Lysander leaned forward and stared. Books. Shelves. The library of star charts, real and close. He slid from the saddle and stumbled to the door. It hung open on a broken hinge. Inside, dust covered ranks of scrolls and bound volumes. He had found it. But the shelves stretched deep into the dark, hundreds of charts stacked without order. Somewhere among them lay the pattern of the lost constellation. Now he had to find which one.