“I am Neil,” he says. Green and purple lights flash from the tunnel’s opening. “Ah, the netherworld is gathered in the glare. They know you’re here. We’ve retired two of Ravistelle’s people. We’re not sure how many more have arrived.” Neil stares at young Edwin and moves a little apart.
“How did they know?” Loche asks.
“The omvide at Mount Pico leads here. Though it is not likely, Ravistelle might not know which pyramid Pico is connected to, but he will know that you’re in Egypt. Nearly all omvide lead here, for Egypt is a kind of hub to more remote locations in the world. There are over a hundred omvide scattered out there in the desert. George got word to us that you were attacked—so Ravistelle knows where you were. It is just a matter of time before the plateau and other pyramid sites will be swarming with Endale Gen.”
“Where are the others?” Julia asks.
“Alexia is on the other side of the causeway. Gary is further afield, closer to Menkaure.” He shakes his head and says to himself, “All the same, we take our chances, laughed at by time.” He gestures to Edwin, “When this boy alone, so far from home, arrived here, we shuddered. We could feel his presence. Ravistelle’s people, too. Remember, the Itonalya hunt gods not only because of our sacred charge, but also to extinguish the stings of Rathinalya.” He looks at Julia, “How you’ve managed to stay near him, I cannot fathom. But then, you’ve not yet tasted the quenching relief of spilling a god’s blood. Retiring Godrethion eases the chill.” He gently touches Julia’s forehead. “I pray you shall never have to kill—but if you do, know that the Rathinalya will be easier to bear.” A sad smile drifts across his face. “Either way, it is the curse of our kind. Ithic veli agtig.” His hand moves from her forehead to her wrist. He gives it a friendly squeeze and then crawls a meter or two back to where they entered. He peers out, turns back and says, “But it is not just Endale Gen to watch for. The Giza Plateau has quite an efficient and impressive security force of its own. There are at least thirty or more armed men patrolling the site. We will need to move carefully.” After a moment, Neil says. “Let’s get you into the audience watching the light show. That will be the best way to hide you, and to move you to the southern section of the complex.”
“We don’t want to endanger innocent people,” Loche says.
“Too late for that, I’m afraid. Innocence itself is at risk, good Doctor. But come. I will point you in the right direction.”
He leads them east, following the stone wall of the causeway toward the Sphinx. Loche’s shoulder burns. He pulls his coat up, hoping to hide the stains of blood.
Crossing the back of a high wall, Neil stops at a corner and nods toward a gathering of some two hundred people. He then gestures to the ancient lion-man towering above. “We marvel after those who sought the wonders of the world,” Neil says to himself again. “Go to the gathering and blend in. You’ll be safe enough there until we can clear the way forward.” He points beyond to a huddle of low structures. “If we do not come, move steadily south and make your way to Menkaure. Stay in the crowd for a few minutes only.”
Julia leads the way. The three enter the audience from the North. They step out of the darkness and into a festival environment. Loche takes Edwin’s hand and leads him to the center of the commotion.
The program’s narration has now shifted to Italian. The soundtrack is loud and distracting.
“Let’s get closer to the edge of all of this,” Loche says.
Julia nods.
After some polite maneuvering, the trio stand on the southern line of the audience plot. Three sickly trees separate them from the darkness beyond.
Laser light lines suggest the interior halls and chambers of the Great Pyramid in orange and green. Two dimensional hieroglyphic symbols dance like cartoon characters along the base. The music is cheesy.
Loche groans. “If Basil is here somewhere, I hope he can’t see this.”
“No, I don’t think he’d approve,” Julia adds.
When all three pyramids are lit from below, Loche tries to judge the distance to Menkaure, now just slightly southwest of their position. His vision blurs. Dizziness. A moment later he is on one knee. A wave of nausea rises and passes. Julia crouches down beside him.
“We should use the leaf,” she says.
Loche shakes his head. “No. What if something happens to Edwin. I can manage. I can manage.”
She opens his jacket. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“I can make it,” Loche says. He pulls his coat tight around his throat when another overwhelming rush of anxiety forces him to his feet. He looks at his wristwatch. “We can’t stay here. We’ve been here too long.”
Julia looks around searching for help.
“See that man there,” she says, “just outside of the lamplight.”
Loche nods.
“He’ll lead us,” she says.
“What?”
“He’s got to be looking for some kind of money making opportunity. Look around at all of these tourists. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s led tourists out there.”
Loche doesn’t answer. Behind his closed lids he sees sparks. Julia hands him her water bottle. “Here, drink this and rest a second. I’ll be right back.”
She approaches the man. Loche can see her talking with her hands and motioning out toward their destination. A moment later, she returns.
“He’ll do it.”
“What about Neil and the others.”
Julia steadies Loche and leads him into the night. “They are out there. But I can’t navigate us with you injured. This man will lead us around the Giza security at least.”
“Did you get his name?”
“No time.”
The moon is a crescent bowl. The four trudge through the cool desert arcing their course wide around tombs and tourist survey points. The pyramids, like planets, swing Loche into their gravitational pull. Everything becomes soundless save the shushing of his feet through the sand and the heaving of his breath. Menkaure is a spike of electric purple and blue beneath the white thorn of the moon. He blinks up at the sight and the pages of some mythological text at his cabin on Priest Lake open before his eyes. He sees his fingers tap at a photograph of the megaliths he is now hurtling toward. Can it be that he is truly here? Edwin is staggering along ahead of him. He can see Julia a few feet away and their mysterious guide—his stride confident and strong. None of this seems real.
As he stumbles and falls, his awareness blackening, he wonders if there are scorpions in the sand.
The Immortal’s Deathbed
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
1:20pm PST
Steel cables dangle over the crystal. Four metal tongs vice-grip the thin sides of the top like fingers on the lid of a jar. The cables attach the tongs to a loop in the A-frame of the apparatus. An engineer with a goatee motions that he’s ready to proceed.
Eastman circles the glass coffin. “Looks good,” she says. “Graham?”
Graham is not listening. He inspects a tong connection point. “Mal,” he says to the goateed engineer, “can we back this one off slightly and move it to the right maybe three centimeters? I’d hate to see a pressure crack in the crystal.”
Mal levels his eyes to where Graham points. “Yes, I see it, too. It’ll take a few.” He pulls the tension pin and begins to reset.
Over the last half hour Astrid has wandered as far back into the vast library adjacent to the circular tomb as the lights allow. She’s explored through aisles of bookshelves, nooks, touched the swords, stared at the ceiling, and has managed to keep from crying as well as ease the pain in her face muscles from grinning too much.
She had said to Graham, “I would love to explore a bit.” His response was a near whisper, and another movie line from one of Astrid’s top five favorites, The Princess Bride). Of course it was delivered just after a moment of electrical eye contact: “As you wish.” Heat rose to her cheeks. Graham then a
dded, “Please, don’t get lost.” But not in a way that sounded as if her getting lost would be inconvenient for him or the technicians. The way he said it sounded as if he would worry if she lost her way. As if he wanted her to stay nearby. Near to him. That is how she wanted to take it, anyway.
And one could get lost in the labyrinth of passages. There are only few florescent work lamps that she can see. The floor to ceiling shelves are packed with elegant leather bound volumes colored in earthen tones, scrolls in cylinder casings, and parchment boxes similar to the tenesh designs. Time has tumbled some entire rows. There are areas that have seen some water damage. But for the most part, the chamber is dry, and the mass of the collection is beyond her wildest dreams. She wishes her assistant Marcel could see this. She pulls her phone from her bag —no service. She types a note to him anyway:
Stop whatever you are doing and get up here right now. North of the marshes. Get a boat. Get an ATV. Get a chopper. Whatever you have to do! Use the credit card. When you get here, tell them you’re my assistant. NOW! I am not kidding. NOW!
She presses send, drops the phone back into her bag and hopes a single bar might appear to hurl the message out to the nearest tower.
As she turns to find her way back she notes the long carved lines of Elliqui runes along the floor, and the image of a bird’s talons embossed in the stone. It appears upon every fifth stone over what looks like an entire section. After some time wandering she notices the insignia changes to an embossed heart. It, too, appears upon every five path-stones, outlining what she believes is the near center of the library. The signs must represent the city’s Four Household sections, and she assumes if she were to continue on she would find areas exhibiting a bird’s wings and eventually, a head.
She reluctantly returns to the others for fear of missing something. She sits in one of the chairs within the Shtan game balustrade, watching the technicians check and double check their decisions. Rearden and Molmer are speaking together. From time to time, Astrid has caught Rearden seeking her out. She’s now openly scowling back at him. It doesn’t appear to phase him. Her feet are sore. She’s hungry—forgot to eat. Good, she thinks, that’s good, maybe try the same thing tomorrow.
“Shtan,” Rearden’s voice says as he approaches the game table. His focus is riveted to the game pieces. “So I am to understand shtan influenced chess, yes?” He sits across from her.
“That is correct,” Astrid replies. “Well, more accurately, the Chinese game Igo or go first, then chess—but yes.”
His long, bony fingers lift a black pyramid from the board. “You know, Loche Newirth and I often played chess. We have had games in progress for over five years.” He turns the game piece over in his hands. On the bottom of the pyramid is an engraved eye. “Ah,” he says noting it, “Godsight. Am I right? The pyramids eventually became the pawns for Chess?”
“Yes,” Astrid says. “But in Shtan, when the pyramid crosses the centerline on the board, they can move and kill in any direction.”
“Like a king in chess…”
“Yes.”
He holds up the pyramid between them. “Remarkable how the Itonalya used pyramids.”
“Haven’t we gone over this?” Astrid says with some irritation.
“Indeed,” Rearden replies. “But I have been fascinated with the idea for some time now—well, in truth, over the last couple of weeks. I’ve done my share of research in order to learn everything I can about how I might bring Loche Newirth to justice. Call it knowing your opponent. What do you know about the pyramids at the Giza plateau?”
“I’ve been there,” she answers.
“You must have read about Menkaure.”
Astrid watches how the psychologist rotates the pyramid in his hand over the board as if he is considering a move during a game. Tiny blue veins bulge along his exposed wrist.
“Menkaure has its share of mystery to the Itonalya, it is said.”
“Forgotten memory…” Rearden says. “That’s what it means in Elliqui, does it not?
Astrid blinks hard. “That is correct,” she tells him. “How did you know that?”
“As I’ve said, Professor, I’ve done some research myself. I’ve read that strange things have happened over the apex of that pyramid.”
“So they say,” Astrid responds blithely.
The sound of a machine winding up draws Astrid to her feet. She steps toward Graham Cremo as he glides his hand along a steel cable. He crouches down beside the tomb and studies the pressure points of the device. With his long legs bent and his torso taut, he looks like a frog. A cute frog, of course, about to leap. Cremo twists his head toward her and meets her eyes. He does not smile. It is as if he’s attempting true Elliqui, Astrid thinks—attempting to add more to his frightening translation. What danger? Why? He points his focus back to the cable.
“I think that’s it, Mal. What do you say?”
Mal nods. “I would think so.” Mal looks for the wench operator’s acknowledgement. He gives a thumbs up.
Cremo rises, moves back, and surveys with his hands on his hips and his head swiveling, pausing momentarily on each connection, cable and pulley.
“Professor Finnelly,” Graham says turning.
Astrid joins him. His terrifying warning is gone from his face. All she sees now is hope.
“We’re ready,” he says. “Are you ready?”
Astrid casts a glance around. Her focus lingers a second longer on Eastman and Rearden, then back to Graham. She shakes her head, wanting to plead for a few moments alone with him—to find out the danger. But she knows it is impossible right now.
She wants to answer him with, I’ve come this far—what will come, will come. She squints. Too cryptic. “I’m ready, if you are.” That’s better, she thinks.
Graham nods at Mal. Mal and the wench tech start the machine. The two affix surgical masks. The gathered technicians and witnesses do the same. Molmer, Rearden and Astrid are quickly given masks. Astrid places hers over her face and moves nearer the coffin.
The cables tighten. Along the lid the steel tongs engage and squeeze. There is a slight crackle as the top of the tomb gently moves upward.
Graham lets out the perfectly delivered quote, “Open the pod bay doors, Hal.”
Mal laughs with his eyes tracking from the cables to the machine’s instruments. “Love that flick,” he says. He quietly sings, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you…”
Graham bends forward with his hands lying flat on the slab. “Good. Nice and easy. Nice and easy.”
A rising pitch in the wench’s motor suggests the weight is substantial. The cables are now fully taut and vibrate like a stringed instrument. Mal falls silent. The lid gently raises a centimeter.
“Here she comes. Keep it steady.”
Two, three, four centimeters. A hiss of air pressure and a light, white vapor lingers from the fissure. Graham steps back. The scent is unmistakeable, even through the mask. It is similar to summer rain on rock. Petrichor, Astrid thinks. How fittingly mythological, she smiles knowing that petrichor’s root meaning is stone fluid, or better, the blood of the gods.
The lid now clears the edges. Graham and Mal hoist the A-framed arm and rotate the suspended lid to the right exposing a rectangle of hazy vapor, like dry ice in water.
Graham stands motionless beside the open tomb and stares down into the white fume. Slowly it dissipates and mingles with the chamber air. Barely audible, Graham’s voice is whispering, “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.” Astrid sees it, too. Unconsciously she reaches for Graham’s hand.
In the mist is something that Astrid might have conceived of as possible, that is if her scholarly, academic mind would allow for such a reach. Of course the Itonalya were said to have been graced and cursed with the blood of the gods—a blood that sustains an immortal body—an immortal life. Astrid has tried in vain to empathize with the Wyn Avuquain metaphorical notion of long life, great joys, countless grief and anguis
h. Even the phrase ithic veli agtig, or why does my death delay? haunts her. Why one would want death to come, and yet, after so much time, it makes some sense how such a fate, an end, death could be lusted after—but this—this is the ultimate horror. Before her is a torture she can only blink at and search for meaning.
Encased within the tomb is a fair skinned, green eyed woman, a sword at her side, a crown upon her head and a tenesh at her feet. She is nude. Her hands are balled into fists, her eyes thrown open like lit windows at night. Golden hair is matted caked to her cheeks and shoulders. Her face is beautiful despite the terror and sorrow seated there. She has been encased there for over a thousand years.
Graham does not hesitate to touch the woman’s brow.
“Oh God… she’s warm. Jesus Christ, she’s alive.”
Menkaure #2
November 11, this year
Cairo, Egypt
7:15pm EET
“I’ve got you. Stay! Stay! Stay! Loche!” It is Julia’s voice.
A blurry speck of light sharpens into a thorn of white in the Egyptian sky. Edwin’s face is crowned with stars. He feels pressure on his shoulder, but no pain. To his left, Julia has both palms bearing down upon him.
“What—what are you doing?”
“You fainted,” she says.
“Yjb ‘an nasrae,” a voice says.
“Who’s there? Where—where are we?”
“That’s our guide, just ahead,” she replies. “I think he wants us to hurry.”
Memories, like heavy stones, tumble into his mind: Giza, desert sand, pyramids, must escape, Menkaure…
“Are you alright, Edwin?”
The child does not answer.
Julia says, “He’s very tired.” She slowly lets her hands ease the pressure, “How’s your shoulder?”
There is no sensation save a slight tingling. He moves to touch the puncture but finds nothing there but dried, flaking blood.
“I had no choice—I used the leaf, Loche. I used your father’s leaf to heal you.”
The pain is gone. “So it is true? The leaves can heal.”
The Shape of Rain Page 13
