A clear fountain on his right pours water in a delicate swoosh without ever splashing. Above him, the friendly green birds—and the butterflies Archie saw in the pastureland, the awakins—flutter around the upper curve of the dome and land on the branches of the blue trees that the structure is built around. Archie uses the collar of his shirt to wipe his damp forehead.
As he continues to venture into the citadel, Archie approaches rows of glass columns that reach from the smooth floor up to various heights as the dome arches and peaks at the center. Archie listens, past the chirping birds and flowing water. When he hears nothing—no sound of steps or doors or voices—he walks in farther. Archie notices that the first column on his left, within its inner space, is veiled in a misty, shifting cloud-cover. As he nears, the clouds in the columns part and the hot face of an unfamiliar Lord becomes defined—Archie recognizes the being’s status by the Olearon’s lavishly braided and bejeweled dreadlocks. When the face in the column suddenly speaks, Archie nearly loses control of his bladder. He stumbles backward and drops his jacket. He is about to run, certain now that the tingle of danger he felt on the other side of the doors was an omen—but the voice does not address him directly. It repeats itself, saying:
“I, the first Lord of Olearon, honor those who follow after me.”
The image in the column dissipates and zooms out to a wide view of the field Archie recognizes, which the Odyssey passengers had crossed not an hour past, but beside it there is no glass city. In the vacant, lightly treed space, the first Lord stands, fans his flame across a smoothed section of sand, then erects the inaugural cut of glass, then another, building the wall of the original structure of the city.
When Archie approaches the next column, it says, “I, the second Lord of Olearon, honor those who follow after me.” The shape of this Lord’s face is rounder than the first, but his braids and jewels are similar. When the second cloudy column shifts, Archie sees the glass city—which has grown from one to many triangular homes—with the second Lord leading a group of Olearons to cull the minuscule harvest pilled at the edge of the pastureland.
The third column also speaks into the silent citadel with the words Archie by now expects. “I, the third Lord of Olearon, honor those who follow after me.” This time, the ghostly historical records portray a greater harvest and more sophisticated tools. Archie turns and counts the columns. There are twenty-nine in total. Each one—but for the 29th, still under construction it appears—shows the evolution of the Olearon race; their architecture, language, seafaring vessels, other inventions, apprenticeships of the young, and nuptial rituals.
The Maidens—partners of each Lord—are pictured in the columns, standing a step behind their counterparts, working the fields, creeping through mountain tunnels and twisted patches of forest—places the Lords were too large to squeeze through—and caring for the wounded, along with the Lord’s attendants. In the moving three-dimensional histories contained within the columns, it is only the Lord—Archie notices—who sits on the glass throne at the center of the citadel, the same throne which Archie has now reached.
Archie tiptoes closer to the throne, constantly looking over his shoulder toward the citadel’s doors. “Oh gee, I’m sure I shouldn’t do this, but . . .” Archie climbs the ten steps and hoists himself up onto the narrow seat. He rests his back against the throne, which is broad at its base and spikes upward sharply into a needle-fine point eight-feet above where Archie rests. “Ah! So, this is what it feels like to be a king!” He laughs and smiles, pretending to speak to his invisible subjects below. He acts as though he has been given dire news. Archie scrunches his already wrinkled brow, leans one elbow onto a smooth armrest and strokes his stubbled chin with his fingers. “That is a difficult matter,” Archie muses, mimicking the formal speech of the Olearons. He is about to continue with the charade when he notices something.
A thin slit has been cut into the armrest—not visible to any unless sitting on the throne—and inside it is a hide-sewn envelope which has been delicately concealed. Archie uses his dirt-lined fingernails to prod the envelope out of the slit. It is square and pristine, not a mark or scuff across its tan face. As Archie studies it, he notices a tiny flap along one seam, which he unfolds and slips his hand inside.
“You are over your head, old chap,” Archie says to himself as he tenderly slides out the contents of the envelope. “Never lived a day anywhere other than Seattle, same job since I was sixteen, married my childhood playmate, and now—look at yourself—sitting on the Olearon throne! And what do we have here?”
Archie holds a square cut of glass, decorated around its border in rubies, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, garnets, and diamonds. “Wow,” is all Archie can whisper. The rainbow of sparkling colors reflects the dome’s glow and dance upon his face. Archie runs his fingers across the jewels, then over the surface of the glass. “Oh no!” Archie breathes. The fragment begins to cloud, like the columns had done, but this time with dark, billowing storm clouds. Archie rests the glass on his knees and covers it with his hands, afraid an old Lord—or a living Olearon—will look through it, like a window, to discover him in a place he should not be and touching an object so obviously meant to remain a secret. The glass morphs further into darkness where—from between his fingers—Archie sees white letters slowly appear into clarity.
“It’s the language of the Olearons! I’m sure of it,” says Archie, looking up to a section of columns where he had watched generations of old Lords begin to form their symbols on the earth, gradually converting their sounds to forms and long strokes. Their language, like their buildings, are graphic, patterned, angular, and sharp. “I wish I could read this . . .”
Archie taps the face of the glass, and mumbles to himself, “This one looks a tad bit familiar.” The second Archie’s finger touches the glass so purposefully, the white language melts into black. “Oh, great. You’ve done it again, Archibald. You’ve gone and broke the thing!”
Ever so slowly, white begins to appear once more, but this time the message is clear to Archie. He begins to read.
This is the private record collected by the 30th Lord of the Olearons —I, Dunakkus. It is compiled in secret to piece together disparate fragments of knowledge and events of Olearon history, searching for clues. All elders and public records from which this history is sourced have been successfully burnt. Soon, as to plan, none will remember.
Archie’s breath clouds the glass he hadn’t realized he’d raised close to his face. His mind reels with the significance of the object he holds in his trembling hands. Archie swiftly tucks the glass back into the envelope and as he is about to replace it in the armrest he pauses. “I wonder what the Lord wants everyone to forget. Maybe Arden is in danger . . .”
Archie retreats from the throne, tucks the envelope beneath his coat, and runs from the interior of the citadel. “I need to read more,” he tells himself, panting now though not from exertion. His mind races and he bursts through the doors of the citadel.
Bang! Archie crashes into the Maiden.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry,” he exhales, dripping with perspiration.
“What do you have to be sorry for, Archibald?” she answers. Archie suspects the Olearon knows what he has been doing, that maybe she had indeed seen him through the glass object. As he searches for an excuse, and is about to retrieve the envelope, the Maiden continues. “You obviously recognize that you should not have passed through these doors.”
“Yes—” Archie says as he sighs.
“Did you go more than a step within?”
“No more than a step, Maiden.”
“We must speak truth to each other, Archibald. Our mission ahead is perilous. Only honestly will unify us against our enemies.”
“Right, totally agree, Maiden. Well, thanks for the reminder. And good talking with you. I’m off to find my bag. I must have left it with the other preparations.”
Archie can feel the Maiden’s black eyes watch him as he skips down
the glass steps. When he reaches the ground, he turns back, smiles, and waives up at her. The Maiden turns and enters the citadel.
“If what I saw in the glass columns is correct,” Archie whispers through his teeth, “I’ll be all right. My guess is that the Lord is the only one allowed up those steps to the throne. I bet the Maiden has no clue this glass exists, and she’ll soon forget I ventured inside the citadel. When the Lord eventually discovers his magical tablet is missing, I won’t be his first suspect. Hopefully—by that point—my girls, Arden, and I will be a world away.”
Chapter 24
“We gather for a noble purpose and shall part for the greater good,” begins the Lord of Olearon. “These are not simple times, but love is simple, love is good. We fight for that which we hold dear: our land, our lives. Remember: above all, that is our quest. Let there be peace amongst us and peace we shall find.” The Lord bows to each warrior and human before ascending the steps to the citadel and pausing on the landing to watch the company depart.
Archie gulps and feigns his composure, wondering if his new possession will be discovered stolen from the throne sooner than he had hoped. He swallows down his fear and takes Duggie-Sky’s hand as they turn from the glass city, walking near the front of the group.
“DAD is loving this,” Ardenal says to Tessa with a chuckle. She smiles, watching Archie’s white head bob in front of them.
“It’s amusing now, but what happens when the black flyers hunt us, or the trail grows treacherous?” Nate smacks Ardenal’s shoulder. “I’ve trekked through harrowing conditions, but I’m sure nothing of our world will compare to this. One twisted ankle and we may have to carry him.” Nate’s eyes flash to Archie.
“My father will be just fine. Don’t concern yourself.” Ardenal’s flames betray the emotion he otherwise succeeds in masking.
“Sorry, man, only trying to help.” Nate turns to Tessa and adds, “I’ll keep an eye on Archie.”
Leaving Tessa alone with Nate, Valarie in tow, Ardenal accelerates to walk beside Azkar, who nudges Zeno along with a stick. “I hate that guy!” Tessa overhears Ardenal growl, his flames coiling around him.
Azkar continues to prod Zeno. “Ignore him. If your woman is smart, she will know before long what kinds of men she has to choose from.”
Tessa scowls. “He acts like I’m the one who left Arden,” she huffs under her breath.
Valarie too must overhear the Olearons’ conversation. She brushes up against Nate and says, knowing full well that Tessa is within earshot, “What do they know? I’ve experienced what kind of a man you are.” She softly tickles his neck with her fingers.
“Please, Valarie,” Nate whispers. “We’ve been over this.” He arches his body away from her touch. Valarie masks her feelings behind a smug grin.
The sole company, tasked with finding Ella and defeating the Bangols, consists of eight humans: Archie, Duggie-Sky, Tessa, Captain Nate, Valarie, Donna and Harry, and the Spanish opera singer. Lady Sophia refused to remain at the Olearon city while also demanding, “Keep those yellow eyes away from me!” after claiming Zeno terrorized her on the ship. The Odyssey passengers are surrounded by Ardenal, the Maiden, and Azkar, with his three brothers—Kameelo, Nameris, and Eek—plus the stubborn Bangol, who ridicules Lady Sophia’s story and trails Archie, darting a step beyond Azkar’s reach.
The Odyssey’s passengers had been invited to join the company at will, the Maiden declaring, “Bravery can be found in the largest and the smallest alike; in man, woman, and creature; in fire, stone, water, and sun. We all must choose our moment to be brave.”
The group of fifteen cross the pasture and descend into the forest on the east side, heading in the direction Zeno had fled. Beneath the dense forest canopy, light is scattered and the shadows yearning, though it is just past midday. Tessa shivers. Nate puts an arm around her and she smiles half-heartedly. If only Ardenal and Valarie weren’t here, Tessa muses. Then I could enjoy this. Valarie’s expression is miserable, and Tessa notices the cruise director watching her with hawk-like focus.
“La, la, la, la,” Lady Sophia sings. “Listen to those songbirds! You know, this is not an altogether horrible place. The air is sweet-smelling and the humidity—well, I’m sweating like a waterfall. I’m sure I’ve dropped two dress sizes already.” She pats her portly midsection. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d set up a fancy resort here and make a killing.”
“We do not joke about killing.” The Maiden lays a hand on Lady Sophia’s forearm. “Yes, we must take lives, or let them be taken, but it is a rite of honor and reverence.”
“Are you telling me you Ole . . . uh, fire-people destroyed my ship and let hundreds of faultless people die, yet don’t want me joking about killing?”
“We must protect our waters.” The Maiden removes her hand. “If we do not uphold our part of the peace agreement with the Millia, their sands will blow into our lands and suck the lives out of our children, our elders. We did not know, at first, that you were innocent passengers of the Tillastrion.”
“I am a passenger of Constellations Cruise Line and hope to one day get back there, or to some other ship, I suppose,” Lady Sophia replies. “My fans need me.”
“Your fans?” the Maiden asks.
“Yes, I am something of a singing celebrity in my world.”
“I had never heard of her,” Tessa whispers to Captain Nate, who chuckles and meets her eyes. Overshadowing the giddy-school-girl feeling, Tessa is hit with a pang of worry. She can sense the heat from the fire-incarnation of Arden and the hate of jealous Valarie watching her. Tessa shrugs Nate’s arm off her shoulders. “Thanks,” she says quickly. “All warm now!”
“One of my favorite roles to play is Lucia di Lammermoor of Donizetti’s score,” Lady Sophia continues. “I have been singing since I was in diapers, with the most beautiful cries my mama has ever heard—and that’s saying something. I have seven brothers and sisters. I would sing as I skipped to school. Sing when heartbroken—or in love. But my parents did not understand. They shunned me for learning Russian, French, and German, filling my mind and my mouth with their long histories of opera; songs that would rattle your bones and send shivers across your skin. When I told them my hero was Anna Renzi, the seventeenth century opera performer, they looked at me with blank eyes.
“My family believe in hard work,” Lady Sophia continues, her voice so commanding that it dominates the entire company and all fall quiet to listen. “Hard work, dirty hands, change in the pockets, and full stomachs. That’s what matters. To them, singing is a frivolous, girlish pastime.”
“You have a lovely voice!” Valarie beams. “It reminds me of—”
“Why thank you. I quite agree!” laughs the singer heartily, cutting off Valarie mid-sentence. Lady Sophia’s voice is rhythmic and passionate, especially when she dithers on about herself. “I would sneak out of school for auditions, but my town—Grado, not far from Oviedo, in the northwest of Spain—was not a hub. The roles were pathetic and people’s appreciation for finer music unimaginable, simply unimaginable! Old women would shush me as I walked circles around Plaza la Cruz, singing my heart out as if I was Donna Anna in Mozart’s Don Giovanni.
“So—what else could I do? I snuck out in the night and ran. Some people say they run and never look back. I looked back a hundred times as I carried my heavy bag to the bus, and every day of my first ten years in Madrid. The life of a soprano may seem all glitz and glamour—and believe me; now that I’ve made it, it surely is—but a career in opera never starts out that way.”
Lady Sophia raises her arms wide, fans her fingers, and drops her jaw, doubling her chin. As she begins to sing, even Archie—Tessa observes—appears impressed with the lyrical beauty of Lady Sophia’s tone. The Olearons, too, do not ask her to stop, only to quiet the amplification of her highest notes. As Lady Sophia walks, she nearly dances, as if the forest is her stage and the company her audience of a thousand twinkling eyes in the flare of stage lights. As she continues
to sing, in a language Tessa does not recognize, each member of the company grows lost in the tangle of their own unspoken desires. Fears. Memories.
THE Olearons easily discover the skyward trail of the balloons, intersecting with the Bangols’ trajectory not far northeast from the place of their initial attack, where Ella had been captured. The company track the littered debris of discarded Bangol foodstuff along the forest floor—stale yet spongy bread crusts, gnawed bones, and impatiently peeled fruit skins—and the line of busted branches overhead. Zeno collects every peel, filling his cheeks and sucking loudly before spitting the fruit skins sideways, spraying saliva carelessly. After a few hours spent walking through the azure woodland, Azkar declares, “There! The blood of the fallen! And the footprints of the Bangols!”
“Blood?” Tessa repeats. Her breathing is suddenly loud and shallow. “Hurry!” She bursts into a sprint and passes Azkar and Ardenal. At the foot of a small hill, Tessa stops so quickly that she tumbles. “Archie, look!”
Archie’s eyes grow wide. He confirms Tessa’s excitement, saying, “Ella’s drawn her Grandma. My Suzie. And a Bangol, too.”
“Ella!” Tessa says, smiling, though frantic. She searches the area, finding nothing, before running over the hill. Ardenal is beside her. “She’s not here. And this blood . . .”
“It’s Bangol blood,” sighs Ardenal, relief easing the tension on his face. “She must still be alive.”
“They’ve been gone six hours, at least, judging by what’s left of their fires,” Kameelo reports, studying the cracks in the charred-black timber.
Mounds of coal and ash are spaced around the clearing in a lopsided circle. There is broken clay, displaced moss, and splatters of thick blood where it appears that at least three of the Bangols’ aircrafts had crash-landed. Zeno walks tentatively, unsettled by the blood of his kin.
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