The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  The weight of the earth above and the stifling still air is maddening. She tries a couple of deep breaths—her lungs greedy for oxygen. Graham’s comforting hand is suddenly on her shoulder.

  She imagines Eastman and the security teams arriving at the Crystal Dome above. What is she thinking? Has Eastman worked out that the dome is a secret passage? Is she wandering among the sculpted sentinels—following the barefooted prints of Yafarra on the dusted stone floor? Is she ordering the steel wench to be brought in so she might pry her way in?

  Keep moving.

  Keep breathing.

  After another deep inhale, Graham whispers to her, as if to cheer her, “Bird’s eye—that’s where we are.”

  “Bird’s eye,” Astrid repeats. She feels herself smile.

  Her entire career has been spent following the blur of a ghost. And now, within arms reach, is an impossible truth. She is following the Queen of the Itonalya beneath the Crystal Dome of the Tiris Avu Library. She is under the Bird’s Eye. Too much to be believed, she thinks.

  When the walls at either side disappear, there is a change in the air as if they have entered into a large chamber. Astrid inhales the wider atmosphere and raises her face, searching for anything but black. There is nothing. Lowering her gaze, she cannot locate the dim glow of the Queen.

  “O Chalfea? Yafarra?”

  There is a slight scraping sound, then a flash—a spark to her left. She turns toward it. After three more dazzling strobes, a flame kindles and she can see Yafarra holding a small torch beside a shoulder high stone trough. The trough resembles a flower box one might see below a house’s picture window, though its length wraps around the entire room. Yafarra drops the torch into it. Immediately a faint fume of oil rises, and a perimeter rectangle of flame ignites illuminating the chamber.

  The veil of shadow pulled away, Astrid inhales with shock yet again. Virtually untouched by time, a dry stone room surrounds her. A bed chamber. Colorful woven tapestries soften the walls. Wardrobes, cabinets, a wide desk, chairs, a rack of swords, bookshelves, all artfully made with gold filagree and carved adornments. Facing the opposite door is a large bed. The orange flames flicker and dance in the sword blades and glass beads dangling from the ceiling.

  Yafarra, trancelike, walks to a corner shadow where a suit of armor stands. The armature is her exact height and it is menacing to behold. It looks like a tall, Itonalya warrior fully girded—nearly indestructible. The silver helm and breast plate glint in the firelight. Every article has red-black stains of smeared blood. The white and gold cloak is also bespeckled with the spray of battle. Yafarra stares at her armor and reaches toward it. Her fingers touch the side of the helm, the gorget, the breastplate. She whispers words in Elliqui. Astrid translates, “The Heron is dead. The Heron kept silent. The Heron saved us all.”

  “Do you think that when the city was sacked,” Astrid conjectures, “the defenses of the lower halls held?”

  Graham answers, “Maybe. But I believe when the Godrethion stormed the keep, they never discovered the lower library or the crystal tomb. The entrance could be closed—and when it was closed, it looked like a rock wall. As I said, the only way we found it was through technology.”

  She is wonderstruck at the condition of the artifacts. Certainly time has left its mark here, but the builders took great care against moisture. The air, the stone, the walls are all bone dry. Astrid turns her body in circles, scanning.

  A burst of fright shudders through her when she thinks she sees a face peering at them from one wall. But as her eyes adjust to the orange firelight, she sees the face is an elegantly made mask of wood or leather, much like the masquerade masks that are the trademarks of Venice. It is a handsome shape, almond eyes, death pale with a single red teardrop upon its cheek. A moment later Astrid feels her stomach suddenly cramp when she recalls the meaning behind the mask itself. It is an Ithicsazj—the sacrificial death mask used to calm a captured god before the eventual beheading. The inner leather surface was said to have been coated with sedating oils and herbs meant to relax and alleviate fear. Astrid stares at the face for a moment and wonders how many eyes have closed behind it.

  She then turns to Yafarra, who has lowered herself to the floor. The tenesh and sword lie a few feet away. Her naked torso is spattered and streaked with blood. Astrid rushes to her and holds her hands out in a gesture of care. Yafarra meets Astrid’s eyes and nods. The bullet wound is covered over with a white foam. Yafarra moans in pain. Her expression remains sturdy. She presses her fingers to the injury and waits, staring at Astrid.

  Professor Astrid Finnelly watches as the gruesome hole diminishes and fades from pink to a slight blemish upon Yafarra’s pale skin.

  All of her scholarly, academic interpretations of the Itonalya’s mythic meaning are dashed. What she once deemed to be metaphor, is now revealed to be fact. The inhabitants of this city were truly, immortal.

  She shakes her head.

  Her thoughts jumble.

  Graham appears at the Queen’s side with the white and gold cloak from the armor stand. The heavy fabric is soft and remarkably well preserved. He pulls it around her shoulders and covers her body as best he can. Yafarra studies him for a moment, curious and thoughtful.

  “Iteav?” the Queen asks. “Aethur?” Her eyes glittering with sudden tears. She searches Graham’s face, then she turns to Astrid. Astrid responds with an expression of helplessness.

  Yafarra’s arms rise from out of the heavy cloak and she places her palms gently upon Astrid’s cheeks. Her hazel-gold eyes seem to speak, to invite Astrid into a shared gaze. The Queen holds her face and stares intently.

  Blinking, Astrid thinks she hears her speak, though there is no sound. Then all at once, it registers. A knowing, an imprinted thought, but not her own, forms in her mind. A rush of heat rises to her cheeks. Elliqui, she thinks. Elliqui in its Original Mode. She had read about its telepathic character—but never truly believed it possible. Yafarra’s simple utterance drifts easily into her mind and waits there.

  Astrid concludes there is nothing more powerful in all of existence than this connection, this communion—thoughts that can reach across a field of light and mingle like stars on the surface of dark water.

  —We are one, the Queen’s thought aligns. This thought is heralded with a single thread of golden light vibrating somewhere behind Astrid’s eyes. For an instant, Astrid tries to focus on the beam, but when she does this, the glowing string darts into her periphery.

  Astrid raises her fingers and lays them upon Yafarra’s cradling hands. Tears burn in her eyes. The intensity of her smile almost hurts.

  —I, I see you, she tries. As this thought leaves Astrid’s mind, she senses a pale green line of illuminated thread leave her eyes and reach to Yafarra. The woven, silky light lingers out and pulses in the dim room.

  —And I see you. The deep green of illuminated morning leaves, Astrid thinks. The light of Yafarra’s reply is like fragile vines branching across her thought.

  Astrid’s hands begin to tremble as Yafarra’s next utterance threads its way in. This time the transcending ray turns to a pale blue, serpentine noose. It is a torturous, suffocating sensation. Her lungs arrest, and she begins gasping, gulping for oxygen. Graham’s hand grips her shoulder.

  —A thousand years deprived of breath, Yafarra’s suffering overwhelms Astrid’s mind. A thousand years frozen in stone. In blackness. Ever and anon, dying. Tell me that I am free.

  The strangling horror recedes and Astrid can feel her body relax. The snake of light recoils and is replaced by another golden tendril.

  —Tell me that I am free, the thought persists.

  —You are free, Astrid sends. She’s fascinated that her reply flings a rope of white, like a line to one that has fallen overboard.

  —Iteav. Where is my Iteav? Tell me that he lives.

  “Astrid?” she hears Graham say. The slender wires of light dim slightly. “Are you alright? What is happening?”

  “We�
�re speaking together—in thought,” she tells him. “It is—it is Elliqui. True Elliqui.”

  Yafarra’s expression is trapped in disbelief. She shakes her head and lowers her hands from Astrid’s face. She leans to the side and reaches across the stone floor to her sword and tenesh. Graham turns toward the items and assists pulling them into her possession. She sets the sword next to her long legs. The tenesh she pulls onto her lap and begins to unclasp the knotted metal latch. She fires a thin ray of lit silk into Astrid’s vision.

  —Where is my son, Iteav? Where is The Poet, Aethur?

  Astrid shakes her head.

  —The Poet can see beyond all others. He can see from on high. He weaves the paths upon which we wander. We named him Aethur. But he is in pain. He is tortured.

  “What is she saying?” Graham asks.

  Her thoughts still entwined with Yafarra, Astrid answers, “She wants to know where the Poet is. His name is Aethur.”

  Rearden speaks suddenly. “The Poet? Here?” Something in the psychologist’s voice raises a field of goose flesh along her shoulders and arms. “Here?” he repeats.

  “Yes,” Astrid answers.

  “She calls him Aethur?” Rearden asks.

  “Yes.”

  At the naming of Aethur, Yafarra’s eyes blink away from Astrid. The Queen looks up at Rearden.

  “Why does she call him, Aethur?” says Rearden. His tone slightly incredulous.

  “What do you mean?” Astrid says.

  “That’s not—” he breaks off as if weighing his words. He then finishes without hesitation, “That’s not his name. That is not the Poet’s name.”

  Astrid scowls. “What the hell do you mean, Rearden?” she blurts out. “What do you know about any of this? How would you know the name of the prophesied Poet?”

  Rearden doesn’t answer.

  He is gaunt. His skin is almost translucent in this flame lit room. How old is this man? His black suit fits him well. He looks relatively healthy, but there’s something strangely synthetic about his appearance as if he were wearing makeup, or perhaps he’s had plastic surgery. He’s unnervingly calm, Astrid thinks. Why is he here? she wonders yet again. Professor Molmer invited him. But why? A million electrical impulses trigger in her mind attempting to unravel the question. She doesn’t trust him. A barrage of images tick behind her eyes—pictures of him online with his high powered connections, his awards and stories about his illustrious past in criminal psychology, his recent murder case in Sandpoint, Idaho.

  “Aethur?” the Queen says aloud. Her fingers are now clicking back the latch on the lid of the tenesh. Rearden leans in closer, his eyes trained on the wooden box upon Yafarra’s thighs.

  “Aethur?”

  Aethur. When the name filters through the translation center of Astrid’s brain, her body jolts. She stands. She steps back a pace. Her heart pleading with her coursing blood to deliver more oxygen.

  “What’s the matter?” Graham says standing, his arm out in a gesture to steady her.

  “Elliqui,” she whispers. “Aethur. Aethur. Of course!” She looks down to Yafarra and then back to Marcus Rearden. Marcus’ raised hands are shaking as he watches Yafarra begin to crack the lid to the tenesh.

  “What’s wrong?” Graham asks, reading her panic.

  “Aethur,” she responds haltingly. “The word—the name means… new earth.”

  Yafarra opens the tenesh. The lid hinge creaks. From out of the oiled leather sheathing, she gingerly presents an anomaly: an eight and a half by eleven, red notebook. Its binding is a spiraled coil of wire. Printed on the cover is the name of the manufacturing company: MEAD.

  “Aethur,” Yafarra repeats again. “Loche.”

  Rearden smiles. “New earth? Newirth. Excellent.”

  “Loche,” the Queen says. “Loche Newirth. Lit, Aethur. He is in pain…”

  Water Rights

  Date unknown

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Loche Newirth takes another look around him before he leaves the pavilion. He has covered the bodies with the dirty swathe of bed fabric. In the dim light it would be difficult to see the blood stains in the dirt amongst the many other blackened patches of sour earth within this tent. He touches the strap of his unspoiled bag and umbrella, slung beneath the guard’s foul smelling orange surcoat he has draped over his own clothes. With the cumbersome broadsword hanging at his side and leather helm he figures the costume is enough to pass among the throng unnoticed. With one last steadying breath he steps into the gloom.

  But what now? How to find Edwin? Julia? And how long had he been unconscious? He glances at the sky. It is still black and moonless. Icy stars glitter through the woodsmoke rising from innumerable fires down the grid-like roads. Godrethion ranks, low tents, huddled soldiers around low burning flames, and lines of torchlight stand between him and what he believes should be his destination. In what looks to be the center of the Godrethion encampment, a high walled fortification of cut timber juts up above all else. At each corner rise archer towers. From his position Loche can discern guards on the battlements.

  Where in God’s name is Basil?

  Without hesitation, he marches with purpose. His stride is bold, though his lowered eyes are alert to each potential threat. Two approaching soldiers nod to him as they pass by. Loche returns the gesture.

  His head hurts. The cold of the air bites the wounds on his brow and left ear. His abdomen is wrenched and aching.

  A gathered group of orange coated men around a fire call to him. Loche acknowledges with a raising of his hand pointing to the fort, still far ahead. As he does this his right foot tangles into a scrubby tussock sending him faltering forward and down into the mud. This sends laughter into the air. Loche quickly stands, wipes the freezing mud from his chest and face. Without turning to the group, he splashes onward. The laughter fades.

  His hands tremble. He is sweating despite the cold. Dizzy. After a few more paces he finds a shadowed crossing of pathways. A cluster of low, gnarled trees clings to the edge of a gentle slope. The turf has been tramped down by marching feet. A few meters away the land drops into a shallow dell. Some kind of structure has been erected down there, but it is too dim to see it clearly. Loche reaches into his bag and produces an energy bar. He gnaws mechanically, scanning for his next few moves toward the fort. A moment later he is chewing the last bite and rummaging for his water bottle. He forces two long gulps and plugs the bottle with the cap knowing he must eat or pass out.

  Somewhere below him, down the slope, a voice moans, “Water. Water.” Though his mind translates the utterance, the word is clearly not Anglo Saxon, but it is not English either. He takes a reluctant step toward the voice, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker. His eyes adjust to the dark and he discerns a gridded structure of poles and ropes resembling a kind of jungle gym one might see in a park or playground only, given the circumstances, Loche is certain that its purpose is sinister beyond words. Confirmation comes when he perceives the vague outline of a kneeling man with his arms tied high above his head. He is naked. Suddenly, Loche realizes that there are several men and women bound up in the apparatus.

  “Water,” the voice breathes out. Loche wonders at the language. It is not until he is able to see the man’s features that he understands. Before him is a dark skinned, powerfully featured face. The dark eyes are framed with matted black hair. If Loche were to have seen this man in his own time he would have noted him as a Native American. A grisly cut has been dragged across his chest. The right side of his face is swollen as if his cheekbone has been shattered.

  Loche raises his bottle and attempts to pour a little water into his mouth. The man coughs most of it out. The sound is painful.

  None of the other captives stir or make a sound. Helpless, Loche lays his hand upon the man’s brow.

  “I am sorry,” he whispers, his anger rising.

  The man stares. The whites of his eyes send a chill through Loche.

  Anglo Saxon words from his
left: “Trying to keep him breathing longer? More sport, eh? I thought they were all dead. Still stirring, is he?” Lying upon the ground nearby are two guards. One is asleep, the other raised slightly on his elbows and watching Loche. He is wrapped in a blanket. Loche nods. “Amazing. These savages are stout, I’ll give them that—but not as enjoyable as the Foamers, of course.” Loche turns back to the Native American man. The guard continues, laying his head back and stretching his legs out, “Only a matter of time before all these lands are ours—we, the gods, will it. You can finish him if you like. If not, the cold will take him.”

  The Native American’s eyes remain fixed on Loche. Then, a subtle flicker in his pupils, and whatever life was left within the man departs. No struggle left, no cries for mercy, no pleading for the suffering to end. It is as if the man’s final need was simply kindness before his spirit left his body. Loche lowers the bottle without looking away from the man’s widened eyes. William Greenhame’s image of a sculpture’s gaze—that faraway place beyond sight, enters his mind. But this is no sculpture, Loche thinks. This is not art.

  Dropping the bottle into his bag he pushes to his feet and backs away from the macabre scene.

  “There will be more tied here in the morning,” the guard calls as Loche strides again toward the fort.

  His feet are aching cold. Every step jars his injuries, and his worry over Edwin and Julia has his stomach in knots. No alarm has been sounded, yet. It won’t be long before they find the bodies, he thinks. But his powerful stride shows none of his fear.