Lysander Spark's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

Lysander stepped from the buried library with the chart tight in his hand. The three southern stars burned in his mind. He needed high ground that faced south, high enough to clear the ridgeline. But he knew no such place, and the last light was fading fast. He turned in a slow circle. Ruins. Low hills. Nothing tall enough. Then he remembered his own home. He had left it forty years ago and returned to it a thousand times in his thoughts. A grand tower stood at the edge of the deep, crowned with a domed chamber and rings of tall windows. Its balconies faced open sky on every side. From the top gallery, the southern horizon lay bare. If any place could hold all seven stars in one view, it was there. But the tower stood far off, and night was almost on him. He would never reach it on foot before the stars drifted. His heart sank. Then he heard slow steps on the stone behind him. The old tortoise had waited. It swung its wrinkled head toward the dark path and gestured, the way it had gestured before. Lysander climbed into the worn saddle. "South," he said, and pointed. The beast turned and walked into the falling dark. The ride was long and cold. Lysander held the chart against his chest and watched the sky wheel above him. He fixed the three southern stars in his mind and would not let them slip. The tortoise never hurried and never stopped. Hills rose and fell. At last a shape cut the sky ahead. His tower stood black against the stars, its dome catching the thin moonlight. He slid from the saddle and pushed through the ground door. The stairs climbed round and round. His knees screamed. He did not slow. He passed the bands of tall windows and came out onto the top gallery, breathing hard. The whole south lay open before him. Lysander pulled his staff apart and drew out the small brass telescope. He unrolled the chart on the rail and pinned it with his elbow. He raised the glass toward the low southern sky and searched. There. One faint star, exactly where the chart marked it. He swept left. A second, weaker still. His hands shook. He held his breath and looked for the third. But the glass showed only black. The third star sat too low, too faint for his weak lens to catch. It hung just above the ridge, drowned in haze. He could see two of the three. He could not see the last. Lysander lowered the telescope. From this gallery he could face all three stars at last. Yet his single lens was too weak to pull the faintest one from the dark. He had the right place now. He needed stronger light.