Sixty-one pylons. Fourty-seven of them still have intact prisms at various heights and pump violet light into the sky. When you stand on the Mandari tower at dusk you can see each of them winking out in turn. The order is always the same, but I don't think anyone knows for sure what it means. The Antiquities Guild and the Prophecy Cults probably think they do, but they aren't really talking to each other and won't give outsiders a straight answer.
When I was seven, we climbed Pylon 17. We had to do it at night so the University Constables wouldn't see us. The structures are ancient but solid, mostly brass with fluted or scalloped designs, and plenty of hand and footholds. I guess it was dangerous, but we were kids and only looking up. If I'd done that today I'd probably be looking down all the time.
I remember the hum of internal machinery; I could feel it whenever I put my palm on one of the resonant plates as I felt for the next handhold. The tower was wide enough at the base for three people to stand inside, but it had been locked and rusted shut for centuries, so we had no idea what was inside. The only hint of something animated was the fabulous resonant prism at the top of the structure.
When we got to the top, Farad said "I dare you to touch it."
The crystal looks flawless from a distance, but up close it was weather worn at the edges. Some time ago - maybe years - some heavy flying thing had collided with it. The tip was chipped and ragged, and I guess the bit that fell off had been ground to sand by millions of passing boots in the street below.
Of course I touched it. It was warm and vibrated slightly. When Farad saw that I'd come to no harm, he put his hand there too. We grinned at each other as the vibration trickled through our arms, into our chest and seeped through our bodies. It was like having my bones tickled, and it made me want to shout with joy. That's the only way I can describe it.
A few weeks after I'd touched the crystal, I got an odd flash of tingling in my hand an wrist, as if the bones were being tickled again. It came and went. It didn't hurt but it worried me. It kept me awake at night; I'd massage my hand until the bone itch went away.
Farad died two months ago of a lung infection. He'd been sick on and off for a few years. We never talked about climbing Pylon 17 after that night; but even though I know his illness couldn't possibly have been caused by touching the prism, it doesn't stop me rubbing my hand and wondering if my time is about to come too.