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‘And?’ Malta halted where she stood, breathless with hope.

‘And if you free me, I promise I will leave Reyn Khuprus in peace and I will rescue your father Kyle Haven.’

Malta took a deep breath. She lifted her hands and walked boldly across the chamber. When her hands rested on the wood, she bowed her head. She sighed out all resistance. ‘Tell me how to free you.’

The dragon spoke quickly, eagerly. ‘There is a great door in the south wall. The Elderlings created art here, in this chamber. They made living sculptures of my kind, from the memory stone. Old men would carve them in this chamber, safe from wind and weather. Then they would die into them and the sculpture would briefly take on their lives. The door would open, the simulacra would emerge into sunlight and fly over the city. They would live a brief time, and then their memories and false life would fade. There was a graveyard of them, back in the mountains. The Elderlings thought of it as art. We found it amusing to see ourselves copied in stone. So we tolerated it.’

‘None of that means anything to me,’ Malta chided her. The cold was creeping up her legs. Her knees ached with it. She was tired of talking. Let her do whatever she must do and be done with it.

‘There are panels in the wall that conceal the levers and cranks that open the great door. Find them, and use them. When the sun rises tomorrow and touches my cradle, I will be freed.’

Malta frowned. ‘If it’s so easy, why didn’t Reyn do it?’

‘He wanted to, but he was afraid. Males are timorous creatures at best. They think only to feed and breed. But you and I, young queen, we know there is more. Females must be ruthless, to shelter their young and continue the race. Chances must be taken. Males will quiver in the shadow, fearing their own deaths. We know that the only thing to be feared is the end of the race.’

The words rang oddly in Malta’s soul. Almost true, she whispered to herself. But she could not sort out the part of it that was false.

‘Where are the panels?’ she asked wearily. ‘Let us just do this.’

‘I don’t know,’ the dragon admitted. ‘I was never in this chamber. What I know, I know from the lives of others. You must find them.’

‘How?’

‘You must learn from those who knew. Come to me, and let down your walls, Malta Vestrit. Let me open the memories of the city to you, and you will know all.’

‘The memories of the city?’

‘It was their conceit, to store their memories in the bones of their city. They brush your kind, but you cannot master them at will. I can help you find them. Let me.’

All the pieces tumbled into place for her.

She suddenly grasped what her part of the bargain must be.

She took a deep breath. Then she leaned on the wood, pressing her hands, her arms, her breast, her cheek to it.

Another breath, as if she poised for a dive.

She forbade herself to fear or resist. She spoke with a dry mouth.

‘Drown me in the memories.’

The dragon did not wait to hear more.

The chamber sprang to life. Malta Vestrit vanished like an apparition.

A hundred other lives blossomed around her.

Tall people, with eyes of copper and violet and skin like honey, filled the room.

They danced, they talked, they drank while stars shone above through the impossibly clear dome roof of the building.

Then, in the wink of an eye, it was dawn.

The early light crept in, to shine on the exotic plants that bloomed in tubs throughout the room.

In one corner of the immense room, a tiered fountain leaped and fish darted in its water.

It was noon and doors were opened to allow the breeze to cool the chamber.

Then it was evening, and the doors were closed and the Elderfolk gathered again to talk and laugh and dance to music.

Another blink and the sun returned. A door opened, and an immense block of black stone veined with silver was dragged into the room on rollers.

Days passed like petals falling from apple blossoms. A group of old men moved around the stone with hammers and chisels.

A dragon emerged. The old men leaned on it, faded into it.

The doors opened. The dragon stirred and then strode forth to the cheers and tears of the well-wishers.

It launched itself and flew away. Folk gathered to drink and dance and talk.

Another block of stone was dragged in. Days and nights dripped by like black and white beads coming unstrung.

Malta stood rooted in time and the days flowed around her.

She watched and waited, and soon no longer knew that she did that.

The memories filled the chamber slowly, like thick honey.

She soaked in them and understood all, far more than her mind could hold.

The memories had been stored here, for that had been a pleasure they cultivated, the sampling of one another’s memories.

But not like this, Malta wailed, not in a flood that spared no detail, glossed over no emotion.

It was too much, too much. She was neither Elderling nor dragon.

She was not meant to hold this much. She could not hold this much.

It bled out of her; she forgot as much as she held.

She groped after the one important detail she must find and hold.

The panels. The levers and wheels. That was the only important memory. She let go of all else.

Her body sprawled in the cold puddle. Cold rose through her flesh and into her bones, but the months and the years turned cartwheels around her, impressing every swift second upon her burning memory.

She knew enough and then she knew more. The days wheeled out both before and behind her, time moving in both directions.

She saw the blocks of the walls being set in place, and she saw the workmen desperately bringing in the dragon cradles.

They pulled them on ropes, trundling them along on rollers, for outside the sky had blackened and the earth was shaking and ash rained from the sky, swift and thick as a black snowfall.

Suddenly it all stopped. She had reached the setting of the first brick in one direction, and in the other the folk had fled or lay dying. She knew it all, and she knew nothing.

‘Malta. Get up.’

Which one was she? Why should she matter more than any other should? They all were, in the end, interchangeable. Weren’t they?

‘Malta Vestrit. Do you remember? Do you remember how to open the door?’

Move the body. Sit up in it. Such a short, ungainly body.

Such a short life it had led. How stupid she was.

Blink the eyes. The chamber is dark, but it is so simple to recall the chamber as it once was, full of light.

The sun shone overhead, and rainbowed down through the crystal panels. There. Now. To work. The doors.

There were two doors in the chamber. She had entered by the north door.

It was too small for the dragon to pass through.

The cradle had been brought in through the south door.

She could recall little else of who she was or why she was here, but she recalled the opening of the door.

Ordinarily, it would have been done by four strong men.

She would have to do it alone. She went to the first panel beside the south door and found the catch.

Her fingernails bent against it, and still the decorative door would not open.

She had no tools. She pounded on it with her fist. Something snicked inside it.

She tugged again at the catch. This time it reluctantly swung open.

With a crash, the panel broke off its ancient hinges and fell to the floor. No matter.

Again, the chamber’s memory and her touch were at odds.

The well-oiled crank that should have been there was draped in cobwebs and pitted with corrosion.

She found the handle and strove to turn it anyway.

It would not budge. Oh. The lever. Pull the lever first. She groped for it and found it.

The polished wooden handle was gone. Bare metal met her grasp.

She seized it in both hands and pulled. It did not move.

When she finally braced both her feet against the wall and dragged down on it, the lever gave.

It moved fractionally then suddenly surrendered to her weight.

There was a terrible rending sound from within the wall as she fell to the stone floor.

For a moment, she was half stunned. A groaning shivered behind the panel.

She clambered to her feet again. Now. The crank.

No, no, that would not work. The other lever first. The door must be released on both sides before the cranks could lift it.

She no longer cared about her torn nails and bleeding hands.

She wrenched the second panel open. As she did so, damp earth cascaded into the room from the compartment.

The wall was breached here. She didn’t care.

With her hands, she dug away around the lever until she could wrap both her hands around it.

She seized it and pulled violently at it.

It travelled a short way, and then stopped.

This time she clambered up the decorative scrollwork on the wall, to stand upon the lever.

Bouncing her weight on it moved it down another notch.

Far overhead, something groaned. Malta braced her entire body and shoved down with her feet.

The lever gave, then suddenly broke off under her.

She fell past it, tearing her skirts on the jagged metal.

Her knee smacked sharply against the stone floor and for a time, all she knew was pain.

‘Malta. Get up.’