Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series
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The three children began to walk up the pier, away from Chrymos. Only Olivia looked back, once, her eyes pleading.
The children walked past the wreck of the Napolitana, past the Academy’s men. Then they were gone.
TWENTY-ONE
A few long minutes later
Port of Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 12.15 a.m. Tuesday January 19 1610
Even though she knew that Henricus was standing by, waiting for her decision, Chrymos lingered underneath the lighthouse, pacing nervously.
The only sensible thing to do, she told herself, is to agree to the Academy’s offer. I have no future on the streets—and no other means of escaping my fate. No dowry, so no-one will marry me. No illustrious family lineage, so even the nuns won’t take me. I’ll end up like Madalena’s mother, forced to become a woman of the night just to survive.
But what about the children? The question kept echoing in her mind. Perhaps they don’t really need me anymore—but do I still need them?
She could think of no satisfactory answer.
In the end, she pulled the blanket tightly around her and simply trudged back up the pier.
TWENTY-TWO
A minute later
Port of Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 12.17 a.m. Tuesday January 19 1610
“Have you decided?” asked Henricus as soon as Chrymos returned.
“Yes,” she said. “Take me to the Academy. I’ll study hard. I’ll take your potion. I’ll be the special one. I’ll fight in the Lost War. And, God willing, I’ll save the world. Okay? Just don’t ask me any more questions tonight.”
Chrymos went over to the Academy cart, where Adric sat talking to a fellow recruit. Adric wasn’t exactly dressed for the wintry conditions—his cloak had been ripped off during the scuffle back at the Tirabosco building, leaving him dressed in a light shirt and linen breeches. As usual, his legs were bare and his shoes were torn and ragged. He must have been freezing.
Even so, he greeted Chrymos cheerfully as he helped her onto the cart. “Hiya C! Are your ears burning? They’ve been talking about you tonight—a lot!”
“I guess they have,” agreed Chrymos. “It’s been a long night.” She looked him over—no sign of chains or any other restraints. “So you’ve agreed to join the Academy as well?”
“Sure, why not? I didn’t have anything else to do.” Adric had previously signed up for an expedition team scheduled to sail to Monterey in the Americas, accompanying the explorer Sebastián Vizcaíno, but the trip had been cancelled before it could even begin.
Adric also answered her unspoken question. “They made me a promise I couldn’t refuse.”
Adric appeared about to ask Chrymos a question of his own, but she shook her head. Not now, Adric. Maybe not ever. I simply don’t want to talk about it.
Adric, appearing to understand, changed the subject. “By the way, here’s another Academy recruit who’s also been scraped off the streets tonight. Chrymos, Ruben. Ruben, Chrymos.”
The pair exchanged nods. Ruben looked to be about the same age as Adric—mid-twenties or so. His hair was light brown, long and scruffy, though his beard was more neatly trimmed. Ruben was dressed more appropriately for a mid-winter evening—thick cloak over the top of a matching dark green doublet and jerkin combination. Below, he wore padded brown trunk hose squared-off at the bottom in the Spanish style, with knitted stockings stretching from his knees presumably to his toes, underneath the elegant boots that completed his attire. They may have snatched this fellow off the streets but I doubt that he lives there, thought Chrymos. He’s too smartly dressed.
They had no more time for private conversations, because at that moment Henricus took his place at the front of the cart. Zulian soon joined him.
As the donkey began to pull the cart and its passengers towards a hopeful but still uncertain future, Chrymos heard what sounded like a flutter of wings above her. She looked up, expecting perhaps to find a bird of ill omen—probably a vulture—but the crescent moon had hidden itself again behind yet another cloud, and nothing could be seen in the darkness.
TWENTY-THREE
At exactly the same time
In the skies above Transylvania, [Romania] 1.17 a.m. local time, Tuesday January 19 1610
Jesse’s wings were beating steadily as he hovered over the Ialomiţa River, on the outskirts of Târgoviște. His quarry Vlad Țepeș had vanished, finding shelter somewhere in the city below.
Jesse broke off his conversation as his mind was again assaulted. Now the psychic attack was far worse, as a thousand times a thousand futures solidified into a new and horrific reality.
Jesse fainted from the mental barrage. Without his mind to sustain them, Jesse’s ectoplasmic wings vanished and his unconscious body plummeted towards the river below.
It was a close call. The falling angel narrowly missed a bridge that spanned the river, instead plunging into the bitterly cold water in the center of the river with an almighty splash.
The cold water revived Jesse and he struggled to the surface, spluttering and coughing, before dragging himself to the nearest riverbank. He considered the aches and pains of his aging body, which had been due for replacement at the time of the Rebellion. The events of those days had postponed replacement forever. I’m getting too old for this.
Once Jesse had recovered sufficiently, he sent another mind-call to Ravid.
Despite his prophetic powers, Jesse had no idea where to start searching for an answer.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Tower, Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, 12.30 a.m. Tuesday January 19 1610
Contessa Stefani Della Porta seldom had reason to be on the wall-walk at the very top of the Academy’s Tower—but tonight she had received an urgent summons, delivered by a terrified Janus twin, that compelled her attendance.
The Tower itself was dark and unwelcoming, a frightening place even for those who had been fortified with the necessary elixirs and enchantments—but for the Contessa, mistress of the Academy, the Tower was a powerful symbol of her strength and that of her family. She strode confidently along the wall-walk, pausing occasionally to look down at the Academy’s lands below.
The crescent moon slipped in and out of the clouds high above the Tower, which seemed to absorb rather than reflect the moonlight. Lesser mortals would have shuddered. The Contessa merely smiled, a bitter, icy grimace, while she waited.
A short while later, the Contessa’s vigil was rewarded. The occasional moonbeams revealed a shape rising from above the city, wings rhythmically rising and falling, heading towards the Tower. The Contessa watched, seemingly indifferent but in fact intensely fascinated, as the being drew closer and closer.
Thanks to the flickering moonlight, the Contessa could begin to make out a female figure clad in form-fitting dark armor from head to toe.
The creature’s wings were bat-like, black and leathery. Even the Contessa felt a moment’s dread as she awaited her visitor.
A few minutes later, the Darke Warrior Nekhbet landed. She was unusually tall, with long black hair that cascaded down her back. Her complexion was dusky, offset by glowing green eyes that usually entranced her victims. Those unfortunates who found themselves under her spell discovered only too late that she was needlessly cruel and completely merciless.
Unlike her fellow Darke Warriors, Nekhbet did not bother to carry a sword, relying instead on
several chakrams attached to her belt. When Nekhbet threw a chakram with a single flick of her wrist, the circular blade would spin through the air and strike its target with deadly force, usually slicing completely through whatever it struck. Only Nekhbet herself could catch her impossibly sharp chakram without being cut to ribbons.
One unfortunate characteristic that Nekhbet did share with her fellows was the inescapable stench of brimstone.
The Contessa, trying not to recoil in distaste at the smell, greeted the new arrival with a question. “You asked to see me. Is this about the woman?”
Nekhbet nodded. “It is done. Your people have convinced her to join your Academy.”
“Does she suspect?” asked the Contessa.
“Not from what I could see.”
“Good,” said the Contessa, “I shall advise the Consiglio dei Quattro.”
“You know what you have to do. But remember, time is limited. You have less than six months,” warned Nekhbet as she stretched her wings, preparing to depart.
“That’s not long enough,” protested the Contessa.
But the Darke Warrior had already flown away.
PART TWO
TWENTY-FIVE
Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Early Morning, Wednesday April 7 1610
Chrymos awoke drowning. Again. A colossal storm still raged in her mind. Huge waves pounded the battered shoreline incessantly, first demolishing, and then scraping the land bare of, any infestation of civilization.
Through the cascading spray from endless waves, despite the sheeting torrential rain, despite the malevolent storm clouds propelled at breakneck speed across the sky, Chrymos caught a fragmentary glimpse of a fearsome demon flying high above. This apparition was clad from head to toe in black armor, vast leathery wings keeping it airborne whilst with one arm, it cast mighty lightning bolts and with the other, it seemed to control the impossibly violent winds. The surely-hell-spawned creature seemed to be the cause of all this horrendous destruction—and it laughed and reveled in the chaos.
Chrymos herself was stranded far out to sea, an angry black sea whose surface was swollen with broken bricks and dislodged boulders, wooden beams, tree roots, branches—all slamming together in a gigantic whirlpool of debris. She clung to the remains of a thatched roof that was being steadily reduced to its component pieces by the relentless elements. Chrymos knew that unless she could escape from the tumult she would never survive. Then a faint cry caught her attention.
Just beyond Chrymos’ reach, the sea threatened to engulf a terrified young boy. He screamed for help, his cries barely audible against the unfettered fury of the elements, as he tried and failed to make any headway against the outgoing monster tide. Despite the fact that any attempt to save the boy would take her even further away from land, Chrymos desperately swam towards him. Kicking frantically against the walls of water, Chrymos threw herself towards the distressed youngster, forcing her way through the crashing waves. Before she could make much progress, she found herself hammered against a jagged chunk of broken wall that carved a deep, bloody furrow in her left leg. Her lungs were bursting as she swallowed large mouthfuls of seawater.
At the very moment that she thought she was finally making headway towards the child, Chrymos felt a hand grip her shoulder. No, not a hand, a claw. She felt herself being pulled around to face whatever it was—and then the nightmare finally released her, the moldy smell of straw and mildewed earth broke through her nostrils to her brain and reminded her where she actually was. On solid if uneven ground, in her basement chamber underneath the stately mansion of Giambattista Della Porta, home of the forbidden Academy of Secrets.
This is crazy! I have these drowning dreams constantly, but I’ve never even left dry land! At least this time dead bodies didn’t surround me. On the too-frequent occasions when Chrymos suffered such nightmares, they invariably left her physically and mentally exhausted. That’s the last thing I need, today of all days.
Thankfully, Chrymos was alone. No other students had witnessed her desperate panic because Chrymos had this tiny subterranean shelter all to herself. She was the only female student in the Academy and the Academy’s Master, Giambattista Della Porta—or, more likely, his wife, Contessa Stefani—had decreed that Chrymos should get her own room.
Not that the room was anything much. The space allocated to Chrymos was in fact little more than a converted food storage bin below the scullery. If Chrymos looked too closely—which she usually tried not to do—there was still plenty of evidence of the room’s previous purpose: partly-germinated seeds, coarsely ground grains, the rotting remains of a few hardy vegetables. Entry and exit into the chamber was by way of a rickety ladder, which Chrymos had to climb up every morning and down every night.
There was no natural light—the room had been dug deep within the bowels of the Della Porta estate, it was really just a pit—and the only available illumination trickled down from any candle that might be lit in the scullery above. When Chrymos first arrived at the Academy, Luca—a venom-tongued student from the class a year ahead of her—had initially made a nightly ritual of sneaking in and closing the scullery hatch so that Chrymos found herself in total darkness. Luca eventually tired of the game though, because Chrymos never screamed or complained. Not because she wasn’t affected—in fact, Chrymos felt nauseous and had trouble breathing every single night that she climbed down into her bedroom pit. She hated being enclosed in such a small room and her panic dramatically intensified when there was no light at all. But Chrymos would never give Luca the satisfaction of knowing that he could affect her, so instead she suffered in agonized, lip-biting silence.
Luca didn’t give up on mischief-making, though. Every so often, Chrymos would be in her basement dungeon and hear muffled thumping, accompanied by unpleasant moaning sounds. At such times, she would simply shake her head. Luca, when will you get it through your thick skull that you can’t scare me away from the Academy with your cheap tricks?
There were no such distractions this morning, fortunately, and candles from above partly illuminated the room, which helped soothe Chrymos as she lay quietly in her bed of straw.
It must be time to get up. Chrymos fancied she could hear quiet voices above, probably in the main kitchen, as the staff began to prepare breakfast for the Master and the Contessa. If I hurry, I should be able to eat before the others get up.
Chrymos preferred not to eat with the other students. Far too often, she was the target of mindless bullying by several of the older students, sons of the rich gentry of the Kingdom of Naples, who thought that their fathers’ exalted status somehow made them special as well. Chrymos’ scathing responses usually showed them otherwise. However, the inevitable backlash—tutors tended to favor the students whose families had paid handsomely to attend the Academy ahead of those like her who had been abducted from the city’s streets—was best avoided wherever possible.
Chrymos had also shown herself to be a natural with the sword—or, at least, its wooden equivalent in the practice rooms of the Academy. More than one tormentor had expected to engage in school-sanctioned violence against this presumptuous lazzarone, only to be sent sprawling to the stone floor, blood streaming from nose or limb painfully broken. Those raised amidst the pampering comforts of the Vice-Regal Court of Naples tended to be less than capable swordsmen. Unfortunately, Chrymos’ successes tended to create enemies rather than admirers.
Time I was going. Chrymos stood up, smoothing out the straw that served as mattress and blanket, and straightened her hemp under-tunic. Stretching her arm out to gather the woolen tunic dress that was her usual outerwear, Chrymos pulled the blue tunic over her head and arranged it so that it fell modestly to her ankles. She then reached around behind her head, clasped her long strands of braided hair and tugged them out from beneath the tunic. Shaking her head briskly so that the braids of hair would rearrange themselves obligingly down her back, Chrymos pulled her cap out of her tunic pocket and adjusted it on her hea
d.
As she lowered her hand, Chrymos caught an unwelcome glimpse of the bronze ring that was a constant reminder of Olivia, Madalena, and Sirus. She shuddered, closed her eyes, and offered up her usual prayer. Lord, please protect the children, wherever they are. Chrymos had not seen the children since they left the pier and walked away from her three months earlier, despite many Sunday afternoons spent searching the city streets.
As ever, her guilty conscience condemned her. You, Chrymos, you were the one who was supposed to protect the children. Instead, you sacrificed them—for this pathetic existence. Save the world? You can’t even save yourself!
Why don’t you just leave the Academy? No-one would stop you. In fact, they’d probably applaud as they watched you crawl away!
Such sentiments had become a regular refrain. In her stronger moments, Chrymos had a ready reply. Because I’m not doing this for the Academy and their mysterious “Lost War”. I’m here to gain special powers so that I can protect all the Olivias, all the Madalenas, all the Siruses.
At her weakest moments, Chrymos could not bring herself to believe that argument. But the alternative—walking away and abandoning any chance to redeem herself and remedy at least some of the injustice in the world—was intolerable. So, she persisted—but the self-doubt took its toll.
Eventually, Chrymos composed herself. She slipped her feet into the well-worn cord sandals that were her only footwear and then climbed up the ladder. She was first to the table and was able to have breakfast by herself.