The courtyard of the house is circular and covers perhaps two acres. In the center rises the Avu tower itself, close to three stories. The higher walls are crumbled and uneven. Four staircases coil around the circumference, each leading up just beside an entrance to the tower and also descending underground. There are more carvings and stone decoration. Astrid is astonished at the incredible condition of nearly everything she sees. She reaches out and lets her fingers funnel into the smooth feathers of a sculpted wing. The rock is cool. Her other hand rises to caress a stone heart on the wall just beside it.
“Astrid,” Graham says. He is standing at the staircase leading down. He steals a quick look toward the nearest security guard, then back to Astrid. “Of course there is much to see, but what’s below is the priority. Let’s be quick.”
She steps down the ancient slabs of rock. Rearden and Molmer follow behind. They enter a wide tunnel with ribs of solid stone like ancient bones of a massive serpent. Electric bulbs are threaded along the ceiling and the foot path. Light from the entrance disappears. The air thickens. Moisture beads on the walls. Moving steadily down they pass three wide halls. Each are lit and contain several busy technicians.
“How deep does it go?” Astrid asks.
“My favorite question of all,” he says. “We’re not sure. But we’ve reason to believe that there’s more below Queen Yafarra’s tomb. Much more. We’ve just not gotten that far. We haven’t found an entrance to the lower halls, yet. In fact, what you’re about to see we found by accident?”
Around a final turn, they arrive at a dead end. Two armed security men stand beside a crack in a stone wall. It appears that the fissure has been chiseled and widened by the archeological team to allow better access. Seeing Graham, one of the security men extends a hand.
“Hello, Dr. Cremo,” he says with a smile.
“Hi, Randy,” Graham says shaking his hand. “I see they’ve replaced the lights on the fourth and fifth level.”
“Yep,” Randy replies with a laugh, “its nice now to see the slippery spots on the steps.” He looks over Graham’s shoulder.
Graham makes introductions, “Meet Doctors Molmer, Rearden and Finnley.”
Randy examines each of their lanyards in turn, taking careful time to match the picture to the face. He does this with solemn professionalism. He studies Astrid a little longer than the others. “Dr. Astrid Finnley, cool. I got one of your books.” Astrid smiles. He says to Graham, “Watch the subfloor at grid 3, behind the sarcophagus. They’ve covered it but there’s still a risk of breaking your leg.”
“Will do,” Graham says and moves to pass inside.
Randy lays a hand on Graham’s shoulder and says, “I’ll have to call topside—give Eastman a heads up.”
“I know.”
Randy steps aside and nods to the other guard who is already speaking into the mic at his cheek. “Professor Finnelly has entered the Queen’s Chamber, copy?”
“I’m sure she’ll be right down,” Randy adds.
“I’m sure she will,” Graham says.
Astrid in the meantime is leaning her body to the right and left trying to get a glimpse of the glowing centerpiece in the chamber.
Graham extends his arm, welcoming Astrid to enter. “Welcome to the Heron Atheneum.”
Cool air greets her as she moves across through the crack in the wall. The chamber is massive. Astrid rotates her body as she walks and takes in the images of her dreams: A vaulted ceiling filagreed with stone carved leaves glimmering gold. A portrait of the night sky—silver stars twinkle as a backdrop. Within a semicircle balustrade are two stone chairs and a single knee high platform upon which sit ancient stone carved Shtan game pieces. It appears that the game was abandoned while still in progress. There is perfectly preserved dark-wood furniture, long tables, hundreds of stacked boxes of various sizes and shapes, a gridded network of shelves that extend and branch into a vast matrix—and upon those shelves are books, books and more books. Some are crumbling, their covers flaking. Others appear untouched by the years.
Graham taps her shoulder. “Take these,” he says. He offers her latex gloves. She pulls them on and reaches to one of the nearest volumes and gingerly sets it upon a table. The cover creaks as she opens it. Written in Old English with some scattered Elliqui, the author identifies herself as Cecily of the House of Wings. Astrid scans the text and learns that the volume is an account of Cecily’s life—her immortal life. Her parentage, conquests, her role in Itonalya society, and the deities that she herself hunted and killed while she existed.
Astrid raises up from the page and stares at the seemingly endless shelves of books and scrolls just within reach. Her tears shine as she turns to see an open wood box on the floor nearby. It is filled with swords. The box itself had been wiped clean to expose its shiny, sap treated exterior. The interior is lined with an oiled leather. She had read of myriad Wyn Avuquain preservation methods, and she knows these boxes are called tenesh, meaning safe hold. She points at the weapons. Her mouth open—no words.
“Chamber Guard weapons?” he shrugs. “Many more have been found rotting in the mud up above and other places. These are virtually untouched by time. There is some damage, but the Itonalya had a way of extending their immortality to nearly everything they touched.” He points to another stack of tenesh. “Those are full of royal keepsakes.” Again, Astrid wipes at her tears then circles her gaze to the dominant artifact in the center of the chamber. A sarcophagus of frosted crystal quartz appears to glow. Its shape is perfectly rectangular. Elliqui runes decorate the outer edges of the lid, though it is difficult to see where the lid and the container join.
Astrid approaches with her arm outstretched. Before she touches it she suddenly pulls back and snaps the latex gloves off —removing the barrier between her and what she’s sought for so long to touch. She lets her hand hover over the glowing stone for a moment. She closes her eyes. Then her fingers graze the cool surface and slide across the cut runes.
Of course the remains of the Queen of Immortals would be encased in quartz, she thinks. Of course. Somehow the thought had not occurred to her, but now as she stands with her hand resting upon the Queen’s final bed, it makes sense. The mythological significance is obvious. Clear quartz was believed by the earliest cultures to be water that was turned to eternal ice by the gods. Both liquid and solid. It was also known as a sun stone that could capture light and emit a spectrum of otherworldly color. Even today, crystal is believed to have both healing and mystical qualities. Astrid opens her eyes and lets the subtle incandescence of the coffin instruct her in yet another aspect of this ancient culture: the remains of beloved Immortals were encased within eternal light, for only darkness is promised to them beyond. She shakes her head.
“So this is our savior, I take it?”
Startled, Astrid turns to see a woman, mid-fifties, glasses, short greying hair with long bangs swooped over her left eye. Her other eye is bright blue. She is long limbed and athletic—dressed in deep grey, similar to the security guards. Despite her smile, her face might look more comfortable with an angry scowl.
Graham starts, nervous, “Miss Eastman, may I introduce—”
Eastman interrupts, “Professor Finnley, nice to meet you, my name is Lynn Eastman, head operator here at this site for Coldwater Security. Graham tells us that you are the one that will save the day.”
Astrid stares as if coming out of a dream. Eastman notices.
Three technicians enter the chamber. They wheel a cart of tools, cables and other archeological gear. Four more people enter. All wear lanyards and appear to have some kind of official air about them.
“Not to be irreverent, Dr. Finnley, for I’m sure this is a lifelong dream to be standing in this place, but we have all been waiting on needles and pins since your name drifted into our ears. According to Dr. Molmer and our very own Dr. Cremo, you are the one.”
“I’m the one?”
“I haven’t had the chance to share everything wi
th her,” Cremo says, moving beside Astrid and placing his fingers upon the carved runes. “I’d appreciate a few more minutes of orientation—”
“We’ve waited for you to assist us in opening the tomb,” Eastman says. “And it is time to get on with it.”
“You’ve waited for me?”
Eastman rattles off, “Expert advise. Translation. Your knowledge of this culture. We need as much information as you can give and as quickly as you—”
Graham interjects, “Archeology in some ways can be compared to a kind of crime scene. Every detail counts. Right now, this scene is undisturbed. Of all the uncovered artifacts, this one, as you’re well aware, has been said to be the Holy Grail for the Itonalya. The tomb, once opened, should be a snapshot of the past unlike anything before it—and we are bound to do this right. You are the best Elliquist and Itonalya scholar in the world. Your perspective is paramount.”
“Scholar…” Eastman says derisively. “Such a thing for this subject? I suppose now there is. How wonderful for you Dr. Finnelly. Tell me, what do you expect to find within the tomb? Dr. Cremo has given his estimation. We’d surely like an expert scholar’s opinion.”
The woman’s tone is infuriating, but Astrid is used to such encounters, especially today. Pausing to consider if she should let the militaristic, self righteous nature of Eastman slide, she remembers her humiliating morning, the smug Grant Board, the culmination of her life’s work stabbed and deflated by misinformed, administrative types kneeling at the alter of their Alumni sponsors and collective core underwriters. The vultures have lost the ability to reach toward truth. Easy, easy, I’m just hungry and in no mood, she thinks. Sweetness is the best approach. Sweetness is best, though she’s not at all surprised when she hears herself speak (her tone very much sounding as if she were addressing a student), “Miss Eastman, why so haughty? It would make much more sense if you were asking questions in order to learn the answers.”
Silence. The technicians stand still.
Astrid stares at Eastman. She’s been here before. How many times has she needed to assert that the data is there—the books are real—the culture existed. The science doesn’t lie. “Dr. Cremo,” she says without looking away from the woman that she assumes runs five miles a day, drinks strange protein shakes and high maintenance coffee, “I’d like to hear what you think will be inside—then let’s compare our expertise, shall we?” She narrows at Eastman, “Or, should we just keep our scholarly thoughts to ourselves and avoid the inconvenience of Miss Eastman having to think?”
Silence.
“Ah,” Graham says. “Yes, I mean, no…” His inflection begs to ease the tension. “I—I believe we will find what remains of Queen Yafarra. Her skeletal remains—minus her skull. Likely her sword. No garments, of course—the slain Immortal has no need. And, it is rumored, Her Majesty is holding the Itonalya’s written prophecy of deliverance. She will bear the scroll or book.”
Astrid releases Eastman and turns. “The Holy Grail. The Prophecy, I concur. Though I think the document will be contained within tenesh.”
Eastman waits. Graham points to the carved inscriptions and the embossed Household symbols down the center of the lid: a single eye, a bird’s head, a heart, wings and clawing talons. Astrid feels the runes beneath her fingers. To herself, she reads the first line across the head of the tomb. Before she’s able to voice her translation, Cremo points to the line.
“But I wonder,” he stops her, “If you’ll permit me—” his voice oddly enthusiastic, it eases the suspense a little, “to—to take a shot at reading the words? I can’t translate them into meaning, but I’d love to try saying them. I’ve much to learn about Elliqui, of course. It would be an honor. I’ve been practicing.”
He points to the first three word phrase, pronounces the words. He does well. She likes him. And he knows his stuff. That does it, she really likes him.
“Sovereign and eternal sleep,” Astrid translates. “Here lies the death that we cannot have.”
Graham continues with half a dozen more lines. Astrid is impressed. The verses deal with the meaning of the Immortal monarchy—and how the tomb imitates mortality, almost yearns for mortal-like death.
“You’re doing well,” Astrid smiles.
Then Graham pauses, pointing to the last words. He says, “Rav ea ag dre~shivcy.”
Astrid is about to shake her head and correct him when Graham holds her eyes and says again, “Excuse me, no, it is indeed this: Rav ea ag dre~shivcy zish.”
He is way off. Astrid leans in and reads in silence, pauses, and then in her head, she translates Graham’s attempt. A chill runs through her. What he is saying flashes red in her mind. The words mean: Do not trust east man. We are in danger. Fear.”
She freezes.
“At least, that’s what I know—much still to learn.” Then to Astrid, “Tell me if I’m wrong, but those lines mean, we place our hope in the stars and what is to come.”
Astrid glances at Molmer and Rearden. They are both curious and waiting for her to pass judgement. Eastman, too, with her arms crossed, waits.
She looks back at the words and nods. “Lit.”
Eastman, “Lit?”
“Yes,” Graham says, “lit means, yes.”
Menkaure
November 11, this year
Cairo, Egypt
7:55pm EET
Stairs for giants. The three travelers descend the tall pyramid blocks. Loche figures that it is about a half mile to Menkaure in a straight line, but the way will be blocked with tomb structures, cemetery partitions and walls. Julia suggests going around the dark side of the massive Khufu, but she then decides against it. “We should stay in the shadows, but not leave the light completely,” she says. Loche agrees.
As they make their way down, Loche recounts again the reasons for coming here. There are two. First, the anomalous message Julia discovered in Basil’s Venetian studio. She told of how Basil had splattered paint upon his walls, and the pattern resembled a constellation that Julia had memorized as a young girl. Below the rendering was a sketch of Elpis, the Greek mythological personification of hope. A spray of paint like a path led to a photograph of the Menkaure pyramid, and tacked underneath was an image of a woman with a pitcher upon her shoulder—Hebe, the goddess of youth. The equation, while rather cryptic and obscure to Corey, Julia found to be simple and completely obvious. She deduced that the accurate depiction of the star pattern was enough to believe that Basil was speaking to her, but with the addition of hope (her home was in Hope, Idaho), a picture of the goddess Hebe (the goddess of youth—Julia’s name means, youth), all pointing to Menkaure—she felt that without a doubt, Basil was asking her to go to Giza. Corey Thomas is likely still dubious, Loche thinks. But Loche is not. Loche had studied the photo that Julia had taken of the studio wall, and there was no doubt that amid all of Basil’s seeming chaos, the message was intended.
The second reason: Loche himself had experienced Basil within the painting at Mel Tiris. Before they were forced to part ways, the two were near a great pyramid. And now, as Loche’s feet touch the sand at the foundation of these godlike megaliths, he is confident that they are moving toward something resembling a resolution. Will Basil be standing atop Menkaure smoking a cigarette and complaining about the pollution disaster that is Cairo? Will they be hurled into the void again only to find themselves at Stonehenge, Machu Picchu or Easter Island?
And maybe now, a third reason: the pyramid’s name, Menkaure, and the Elliqui word menkor share the same pronunciation. Loche wonders if they share the same meaning. The meaning Corey Thomas had shared—forgotten memory. Perhaps there is something to remember in all of this. Or, perhaps, something best forgotten.
Drying blood sticks his shirt to the wound in his shoulder. The pain is searing. He can no longer carry Edwin. He sets the boy on his feet and takes his hand. Loche hisses through his teeth. Julia follows a few meters behind.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m f
ine,” he lies. “It seems that now we’re all three afflicted.”
They thread through a narrow trench between Khufu on their right and the Queen’s tombs on the left. They hear the dramatic narration droning on, but now the language is French.
A modern road is just ahead and then the causeway that connects the Sphinx to the middle pyramid of Khafre. Raising up, he can see to the East a portion of the tourist audience that have gathered for the light show.
“Let’s get to the causeway, there,” Loche whispers to Julia. “It’s not far.”
If they run, they might cross the distance unseen. Or at the very least, they will be dashing silhouettes—nothing more than passing shadows.
Julia points to where the land appears to drop. “Let’s head there. It looks like a tunnel.”
“Good,” Loche agrees. “We’ll follow you. Ready, Edwin?”
“I’m tired, Dad.”
Loche kneels and touches the boy’s cheek. “I know, Bug. So am I. But we need to try, okay? Once we stop, we’ll have a treat and a rest. How does that sound?”
“I can try,” Edwin says.
Julia starts. Loche takes Edwin’s hand and the two hurry into the dark. Edwin tries to run. He stumbles and Loche drags him back up and carries him. They reach the road, scurry across and rush toward the sloping section near the causeway’s midpoint. Once below the flashing lights they can see a small access tunnel leading through the stone embankment. Julia is already waiting for them, her back to the wall just to the right of the mouth.
Loche lowers Edwin down and sits beside her. She points into the tunnel. A body is lying along one side of the passage. The head is missing. Loche diverts Edwin’s eyes.
“It is not Orathom Wis,” he whispers.
“Dr. Newirth,” a voice hisses in the tunnel. Then from out of a shadow one of the Orathom Wis soldiers appears and motions for them to join him. The three scuttle inside.
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