After threading his way through company after company, he stands just meters from the fortification’s first gate. Torches illuminate the pathway into the ward. Two pikemen hold positions on either side. They appear unconcerned with the traffic that passes between them. Several soldiers, a group of priests and a cart of supplies gain unhindered access.
Just as Loche is about to step onto the path and march through, the pikemen stop a single hooded figure under the escort of two stout soldiers. His colorless cloak is caked with dark stains of mud and possibly blood. The man sways and staggers. After a short exchange, the man stumbles backward and falls heavily upon the stones lining the path. One of the escorts lands a vicious kick to the ribs while the other lays hold of the cloak attempting to yank him upward. The two guards stare at the violence a moment and then lean over to assist in standing the prisoner on his feet.
“Ah yes,” one of the guards says, “This will suit. Just what she asked for. He’s had his wine by the look of him.”
“That he has,” another replies.
Their banter prompts Loche forward, hoping that he will pass unnoticed. He hears the cloaked man try to speak, but his words are nonsensical and slurred.
“Yes,” the other pikeman says, “drunk. He’ll be perfect. Send him to the stage.” He gives the drunkard a shove as three soldiers grab his cloak and march him roughly up the road.
Loche moves steadily closer to the gate. After five determined paces, his body freezes. Now approaching the entry are eight soldiers and a group of four hooded monks robed in white. The soldiers’ livery is the same light mail and orange coat as his own. Four appear to be escorts. The other four bear a kind of decorative stretcher upon which lies a small motionless body.
A moment later, Loche is following two steps behind the small parade and the gilded bier—just out of reach of his unconscious son.
My Heart
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
4 pm PST
In one long day’s time, Astrid’s world has reshaped. Beginning with Molmer’s invitation to validate her life’s work, she thought the morning just might become a worthwhile story to tell her assistant Marcel. If anything else, the entertaining of Molmer’s claims would be a distraction from the Grant Board’s humiliating reception of her research. Then, of course, two hours later, as she gaped at the eye-shaped, recently unearthed Wyn Avuqua from the air, how, indeed, could the day get stranger, or better?
Never Mind the impossibility of meeting an adorable archeologist (that speaks a little Elliqui and seems to be enthralled with her every word) just a short time before entering into the ancient citadel of Tiris Avu. Perhaps the old, pithy saying follow your heart has some merit. She’s followed her academic heart, and that led her to not only Wyn Avuqua, but also to Graham Cremo. And further, what of the astonishingly preserved Itonalya scrolls, manuscripts, artifacts, textiles and sculptures lying in wait for her to study? And crossing the threshold into Queen Yafarra’s tomb—seeing the crystal coffin? Career validation—meeting the love of her life… What more could one ask for?
Have I died and gone to Heaven?
And if so, what dreams may come?
Being a realist, it seemed to Astrid upon seeing the crystal tomb, the frequency of surprises must at some point begin to recede. She figured her proverbial Holy Grail moment would be when the ancient scroll within the sarcophagus was spread out on a table before her, and her latex-gloved fingertips traced the Elliqui runes of the long sought after Prophecy—the tale of the Two Brothers to come, the Painter and the Poet—their works that would end the mythic war between the immortals and the gods—that would be the moment—the last surprise. The Prophecy would be the cherry on top of what she would report to Marcel (and likely everyone she knew—and everyone she would ever meet) as the best and most thrilling day of her life.
Then, things shifted, again.
How could she ever explain or fully understand the reality of being witness to a living, breathing immortal woman buried alive for over a thousand years? For her entire career in academia Astrid has held fast to her subject’s tenet of metaphorical immortality. Certainly there are Itonalya scholars with literal interpretations of the culture’s immortal claims, much like creationists thinking the earth is six thousand years old. What mythic denomination doesn’t have its literalists? Even with some of the scientific delving into the plausibility of Itonalya genetic cell regeneration, Astrid had remained immovable in her stance: immortality for the Wyn Avuquains was the society’s reach toward a higher level of thought—a psychological revolution. End of conversation. Next.
Well, almost correct.
Having watched a mortal wound heal beneath a halo of white foam has forced Astrid to widen her perspective. Perhaps now, the missing puzzle pieces to her research will be easier to assemble. Perhaps. Unbelievable echoed in her head as she threaded her way through the shadowed library labyrinth. The true weight of awesome, too, seemed to resonate. Her inner thesaurus couldn’t seem to land on just the right way to describe pursuing a nude immortal, freshly risen from a thousand year slumber. Phantasmagorical? Inconceivable (like Vizzini from The Princess Bride)? Fucking nuts?
Fucking nuts.
But what to make of this recent turn has Astrid blinking repeatedly and staring without a single syllable. Yafarra is clutching what looks like a middle schooler’s faded red spiral notebook to her chest. A notebook that does not fit into the category of ancient artifact—does not align itself with any rational notion of right place, right time. The book simply doesn’t belong.
Fucking nuts.
“It must have been planted there? Placed into the tomb recently, yes?” Astrid says to herself. After a beat she says, “But, Newirth. Loche Newirth… How could she know who Loche Newirth is?”
Yafarra watches her speak.
“Couldn’t have been placed there. No way.” Graham says. “The lower halls were only found by sheer accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen for yourself the incredible condition of the halls—the treasures. We can only assume that when the city was sacked, these lower levels were never discovered. Otherwise, they would have been plundered and destroyed just as everything above. We found a tiny fissure in the tomb wall and pinged the radar across the lower foundation. Needless to say, we were astonished with the results. When we pried our way in—which took considerable force.” He takes a look around. Yafarra stares at him intensely. “And there’s more—so much more to discover. We’re the first to visit the lower halls in over a thousand years.”
The two look at each other and share a brief expression of wonder and gratitude—to be together here at the rainbow’s end. Or the beginning.
Then simultaneously, they puzzle further. Astrid nods, grasping for another plausible explanation for the notebook. She turns to Marcus. “Rearden, you told me that Newirth would play a role eventually? That he was an authority on the subject of Wyn Avuqua?” She glances at the notebook. Yafarra is wide-eyed, listening and watching her. Astrid demands, “Time for some answers, Dr. Rearden. You are obviously interested in that notebook. Why don’t you enlighten us. Why are you here?”
Rearden doesn’t seem to hear her. Instead, his eyes remain fixed on the document held to Yafarra’s breast.
“Hello?” Astrid mocks. “Anybody there?”
Slowly, he says, “Oh, I’m here. And so was he.”
“Well?”
“What a question. Why am I here? Indeed, my dear, what a question…”
How a black revolver appeared in his hand, Astrid does not know. Another sudden item in the stone chamber that did not belong. What other turns of fate are to come? Will the waves of shock eventually slow? The firelight sparkles in Rearden’s eyes and gleams on the barrel of the gun.
Astrid blinks. Images flash in her mind of Gonzaga’s hallways with its thousands of black and white photographs. Alumni displayed within glass cases lining the cold
corridors. Then the memory of a view from her Venice hotel room: a sable gondola crossing a Venetian canal—her husband on the phone—he says he is leaving. Then, her ex husband’s note, waving like a hand from the refrigerator door: If I could change what happened, I would. Beginning again is all I can do—make a new story. I wish it was with you. Then, her disheveled desk covered with notes, research books on myth, several coffee cups—most of them half empty. It has always been this way. She has always been lonely. Suddenly, the shock of loneliness is a physical pain. She blinks again and sees Graham Cremo’s smiling face at the helicopter pad just hours ago. He had extended his long arm and squeezed her hand. He greeted her with Elliqui: “Lain.” His light had pierced through every shadow she hid within. His light had threaded through her soul.
When the firearm discharges, a bullet rips through Graham Cremo. He teeters for a moment, his eyes wide with confusion. One hand rises to the wound and his fingers search, as if for a pen inside his coat. Then his gaze pleads with Astrid. He says, “Astrid, my heart. Oh my heart.”
A shadow covers Astrid’s sight.
Moirai
Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
Within the inner ward are several small, stout buildings surrounding a great hall made of timber and canvas. The contingent strode directly through the gate toward a peaked pavilion connected to the east entrance of the great hall. Edwin’s bier rested on a stand of crossed logs.
Now the four white-robed priests have formed a semicircle around the boy. They are kneeling, their heads are bowed. Loche watches their lips move. If it were quiet, he would hear the hiss of their whispering prayers. Instead, the enclosure is filled with the sound of a raucous celebration just through the entrance to the larger structure.
Loche stands beside his son and chances a long look. The boy is covered in white fur—a blanket made of rabbit pelts. His face is pale and his breathing is low. Without thinking, Loche reaches his hand out and touches his boy’s forehead. There is no fever.
“I pray thee,” one of the hooded priests says, “remove thy hand.”
Loche pulls away, reluctantly.
“So we are all celestial,” The monk says (Loche wonders if the man’s language is a form of Greek—he is still astonished he can understand the words—and astonished his words can be understood). Rising and standing beside him the monk says, “but It, the One—most ancient, most radiant—how could we not desire the touch of Its presence here—here within Its greatest of creations? And here before us is Thi—Thi as a young master. A young boy. What perfection. What beauty.” He offers Loche a kindly smile, “You are forgiven. I am Erinyes.” There is a feminine quality in the voice. “Ah,” he says with an empathetic sigh while appraising Loche’s face, “what fear you have! And that is beautiful, too.” The priest looks back down at the sleeping boy. “Do not be afraid. Thi sleeps. Only sleeps. Herbs the Fates hath given will keep him sleeping until middle night.” The robed figure gestures to the three priests still deep in prayer.
“What herbs?” Loche asks.
“Roots and leaves from the Lakewoman,” Erinyes says with an airy, circular hand-wave westward. “She hath given them to us to place our Lord Thi to sleep. To sleep while our people prepare to do Thi’s bidding.”
The monk’s shadowed eyes drift from Edwin back to Loche. “Do not be afraid. Do you not see the thread that connects him to all things?” Erinyes points a finger and waves it over Edwin’s chest as one might through a candle flame. “These strings of silk shining in the light of mighty Thi Itself. And the Fates,” Erinyes’s finger now points to the three kneeling monks, “they decide which threads to let dangle, and those to cut. Even the mighty Thi is subject to their will. But you know this already, do you not?”
The monk looks up at Loche. For the first time, Loche discerns features in the deep of the hood, but he is still unclear if he is conversing with a man or a woman.
“This day,” Erinyes says, “I am but a mouthpiece to the three whose scales weigh the destiny of All.”
Loche stares at his son. He flinches when the reveling company next-door lets out a collective cheer.
“Ah,” the monk says. “She comes.”
Loche raises his face to the hall. He sees a reddish glow of torchlight and moving shadows. The smell of roasted meat, lamp oil and sweat wafts from the opening.
“Come, shall we listen to our Summoner? She that has rallied stars to this forsaken wasteland?” says the monk to Loche and the other escorts. He slaps Loche’s shoulder, “So far from our homes? So far…”
The monk takes Loche by the elbow and gently leads him a few steps away from Edwin into the great hall. Loche positions himself so he can still see his son. Turning his attention inside, the great hall is filled with armed soldiers, priests, and others that Loche cannot classify. In the reddish glow it is difficult to see faces, but after a few moments he can distinguish that the overall mood of the room is celebratory. The heady fume of wine fills the air. Mouths full of meat, wine and bread are laughing and spitting out stories of war and conquest—drums and lutes and pipes accompany the chatter and shouting of voices. Large dogs gnaw bones beneath low tables. A quarrel breaks out between three men in a far corner. One is stabbed and cries out. Just a few feet from the dying man, several shapes writhe together in silhouetted copulation. Near the west doors, a group has begun to dance in whirling circles. In the center of the hall, two high peaked fires illuminate a raised staging area. It is enclosed with waist-high timber railings.
Despite the chaos, and the thudding pain at his ear, a steadying calm settles over Loche. He turns and takes another look at his sleeping son. The praying monks still hold vigil. The exit to the adjacent pavilion is a mere fifteen steps. Ten at a dead run. He scans for any sign of Julia.
A high-pitched whine pulls Loche’s attention back to the stage where a man carries what looks to be a kind of bagpipe. The riotous clamor lessens and slowly quiets. The piper then blasts a melody bringing voices to a halt. Its intensity rivets every eye to the stage. Loche wonders if the song is an anthem of sorts. He, himself, feels the haunting pull of it.
When the last notes die only the breathing torches fluttering in the gloom and the crackling fires are heard. The piper turns and steps down. Several soldiers, all wearing varied regal attire, surround the stage and face outward. Etheldred is among them, still garbed in his orange coat and glinting mail, but now wearing a high helm with plumes of white feathers. Slumped down beside Etheldred, Loche recognizes the drunk and muddied priest from the gate. He recalls the pikemen saying the cloaked man was perfect. Perfect for what? he wonders. The man is hunched down leaning against the timber stage supports at Etheldred’s boots. His face still shadowed within his hood.
Then from the darkness between the two bright fires, a woman appears. Her gold and silver robe is like a stab of sunlight. She is slender, tall and moves with a commanding confidence. Her leg breaches the gown as she strides to the center of the stage. There Loche can see that she is wearing plate armor greaves. A long sword, swathed in a scabbard of leather and white fur, rests on her thigh.
“All hail!” a foreboding command resounds. “Our Summoner, Cynthia, goddess and deliverer of the Lord God, Almighty Thi.”
The silence explodes into a fury of battle cries.
Loche sees the woman’s eyes swirl like green glitter in a jar. A familiar chill scrapes along his spine. Erinyes, beside him, says, “Serpent.”
Loche sees the Devil.
The Exchange
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
4:15 pm PST
Somewhere above and behind, a resounding boom thunders through the chamber.
The thought suddenly occurs to Astrid that she has spent her life studying the dead—dead cultures, dead languages, dead stories, the dead past. A student of history, she has delved into the effects of war, famine and plague. Ancient tombs and mass graves in some strange way have, over the y
ears, become home. But she has never imagined that death could look like this.
Another rumble reverberates through stone.
Astrid cradles Graham’s head. Her sight has telescoped to a single, narrow circle. In its center is the lifeless face of Graham Cremo. She searches frantically for the connecting line of light they shared. Instead she feels tears on her face.
Words do not form when she tries to speak. Only a breathy, moaning cry. She does not immediately feel the cold of the firearm’s barrel against her temple. She does not immediately register Rearden’s voice demanding, “The Prophecy, Professor. Yafarra will hand the Prophecy to me.” She does not immediately realize that her sobbing is mixed with the word “No,” over and over again, or that her emotional surrender is an outpouring of bottled up loneliness. She holds Graham’s head as if she had known him for a lifetime—as if she has done this before.
The bitter irony hammers through her. She found a candle burning in the dark of her heart, in this lonely life, and it has been snuffed out. She has discovered that the past she’s pursued is not dead, but more alive than she could have dreamed. The flash of a loss in her past takes her breath, but she cannot fully see the incident. Everything blurs as if she were submerged in water. She crimps her eyes shut and wrestles with the thought. Finally words come.
“What have you done?” She hears herself scream at Rearden. She’s shocked at her ferocity and sharp articulation.
“What I am about to do to you if you do not relay to Her Majesty that the Prophecy…that Red Notebook should be handed to me.” Rearden’s manner and tone is eerily calm and steady.
“You’ve killed—you’ve murdered—”
“I know what I’ve done, Professor. It cannot be undone.” After a pause he shifts his tone, as if he were speaking to himself, “At least, not as long as the Poet lives—and the Prophecy remains unread…”
Astrid seeks out Yafarra. The Queen’s expression is a storm of anger and sadness.
The Shape of Rain Page 19
