The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  When Queen Yafarra rises, the Templar stand up from their seats and then bow to a knee. Yanreg of the House of Talons is deliberately slow in this ritual. His face is a smear of smiling resentment. The Queen rests her gaze upon him until it forces Yanreg to lower his eyes to the stone floor.

  The torches breathe. The hearth fire crackles. Loche squeezes his son to his chest.

  “Heron, Templar, you know my will.” Queen Yafarra says. Her green eyes find Edwin and Loche in the balcony. “I am the Old Law. I will not allow our body to turn from our sacred mandate.” Her voice is quiet—haunting. There is a breathy depth behind her melodic, thoughtful timbre. “But with all of my heart, I desire freedom. I am Queen Yafarra, daughter of Althemis Falruthia of Vastiris, the Sovereign Monarch of the Orathom Wis of Wyn Avuqua. I wield the Red Scepter. I am the Heron. But on this day, I kneel before my Maker, and my will is nothing.” There is a collective gasp as Yafarra bends to her knees and bows her head.

  Edwin swivels into Loche’s chest and hides his face.

  Yafarra says, “I shall speak to God. And if it pleases Him, He shall advise me.”

  Black Boat on the Water

  November 15, this year

  Venice, Italy

  3:24 pm CEST

  On the way to the canal they follow a young couple holding hands. Astrid watches how the boy gives the girl’s hand a gentle squeeze every few steps, and how he leans his head toward her when he speaks. After passing a dozen or so buildings, the girl drags him to a small alleyway and throws her arms around him. As Astrid, Marcel and Fausto pass, the two lovers are lost in a deep kiss. Marcel says nothing. Fausto sighs and smiles. Astrid stares. A moment later she shakes her head and tries to understand why she feels like crying, why the knot in her stomach has suddenly tightened, why she wishes Graham’s hand was in hers.

  Marcel says something about Fausto’s delicious lunch. The antipasti of fried sweet peppers with vinegar and olive oil (a deeply yearning olive oil, if olive oil can yearn), smoked prosciutto, and moist mozzarella on crunchy bread. Astrid can still taste the oil and the salty cream of the cheese. Fausto laughs and thanks Marcel for the compliment. His laugh seems forced. He sounds nervous.

  Each of them carries a medium-sized suit case. Within are the masks that Albion had ordered, all save one: the mask Fausto had promised for Albion’s bride, his beloved Helen. “I will tell him that I need a little more time,” Fausto had said to Astrid nervously. “It will be done in time for the ball.” Astrid carries the Journal of Loche Newirth in her shoulder bag. She thinks it feels heavier than it looks. Maybe, she thinks, its heavy because I’m hung over. She quickly feels the bag to make sure she packed another bottle of Fausto’s wine. Her hand feels it. She sighs.

  “It’s Marcus Rearden that terrifies me,” she says suddenly. Neither of the men respond. “What in the hell is he up to?” Again, the men are silent. “My gut tells me to believe Loche’s journaling. There is something there that just feels like the truth. And the truth is: Rearden is a murderer.” She listens to the sound of her footsteps on the pavement. “It is strange to think that all of this—all of this—Loche, prophecy, Wyn Avuqua, Basil Fenn—all of this happened because of the murder of Beth Winship—because Marcus Rearden murdered an innocent person.” She hears a sigh come out of Marcel. A flustered, can’t-get-my-head-around-it sigh. “Rearden is not the type, I think, to forgive and forget. He is not through with Loche Newirth.”

  Astrid stops talking, but her mind chatters on. She turns the problem that is Marcus Rearden over and over.

  When they arrive at the canal, they walk for a minute or two south. Turning the corner around a high weather beaten building, Fausto waves at a gondolier near the water’s edge. The gondolier waves to Fausto.

  “Ah,” Fausto calls to him, “very good. Very good.”

  A few moments later the three are seated in the center of a long black boat. The lanky pilot oars them out.

  “Buon Pomeriggio,” the boatman says as the trio settle themselves.

  “Ciao, Alessandro,” Fausto says. “When did you get back —you’ve been gone a long while.”

  “Si,” Alessandro says. “Gone long, yes. You’ve been well, yes?

  Fausto’s focus drops to Astrid’s shoulder bag as if he can see the leather cover of the book inside. “Yes,” Fausto says.

  “Who are your friends?” Alessandro asks. A weird smile expands across his face.

  The Mask Maker introduces them. “Astrid Finnley and Marcel Hruska, meet my friend Alessandro,” he says without hesitation. “Alessandro has been a gondolier for many years here in Venice.” He smiles up at the orange haired man, “You’ve been taking some time away for yourself. That is good.”

  “Yes,” Alessandro says.

  Astrid and Alessandro nod to one another. She turns to the afternoon sky and the short crossing to Albion’s house.

  Alessandro says, “You make masks for Ravistelle’s ball?”

  Fausto’s face pales slightly. “Yes. You know about the ball?”

  That weird grin stretches out again.

  “Well, it is supposed to be a private affair,” Fausto replies. “But I expect you know everything that’s going on, as usual.”

  Alessandro’s eyes smile, “Boat drivers always hear—always know. Crazy.”

  “Of course,” Fausto says. He then leans delicately toward Alessandro and his voice falls to a near whisper—almost as if he and Alessandro have had secret dealings. “It is to be a very important gathering. A lot of important people. Tomorrow night.” His eyes dart to Astrid and then back to Alessandro, “I believe they will be showing—paintings…”

  The gondolier is silent. After three or four pulls on the oar he tells Fausto, “Careful with that Albion, my friend. Careful what you do there.” He lifts the oar out of the water and crouches down on the back of the boat. “Fausto, Astrid and Marcel—do be careful. Remember, too, that I am a friend. I am your friend.” He then stands, dips the oar back into the canal and pulls against the water. Astrid watches his elongated shape sway with the current.

  “Albion,” he mutters to himself, “stupid crazy man.”

  Alessandro delivers the trio to the pier outside of Albion’s house. They step onto the dock and the boat quickly makes its way back out into the canal. “See you soon, Fausto, my friend,” the boat driver calls.

  The Mask Maker waves.

  Into the Avu

  1010 A.D.

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Down into the center of Tiris Avu.

  Somehow, Loche knows the way.

  Down, into the earth. Down spiral staircases into a round room. Massive. An open crystal tomb in the center. Its lid is laid aside. Into a labyrinth of bookshelves. Warm light bathes the spines of leather tomes, scrolls and sculptures. Huddled over desks are scholars, and scribes and the occasional child, reading or writing. The vaulted ceiling is ribbed in gold. The floor tiles depict talons and hearts and wings.

  When they arrive at what Vincale calls, The Avu, he lays a hand along the cheekbone of a sculptured sentinel. Loche watches him and knows that a hidden mechanism will clatter below. It does, and the hemispheric dome rolls gently, silently back. Beneath is a staircase into an amber light. The captain leads them down. They enter a wide chamber. Loche has seen this place in his mind’s eye. Troughs of fire line each wall. There is a beautiful bed with high carved posts, story-filled tapestries, finely made furniture, an oak desk with quill, ink, scrolls and what looks to be a globe of the earth—its formations are astonishingly accurate. The figure of a warrior looms in a corner of the room. A tall armature clad in the Queen’s armor stands like a solemn guardian.

  Vincale asks them to sit. They obey. A moment later attendants enter with trays of breads, cheeses, fruits, and goblets filled with a drink named Anqua. William, Corey and Helen take the cups gladly, almost greedily. William drinks deeply. He notices the younger immortals, Julia and Leonaie watching him. “Oh my dears,” he says motioning for them to
take a goblet for themselves. “The Wyn Avuquains call it Anqua: god water. But it will not have the name we know it by for some years. We time-hoppers call it Scotch. It will ease the Rathinalya my grandson has been cutting you with… drink and take comfort. Anqua is the best medicine when you’re in need of squelching the gods among us.” He taps his high boot, “That is why I brought my own bottle.” He laughs. The cork of The Macallan is visible in the cuff.

  The eager hands of Julia and Leonaie almost collide as they reach to the tray. They tilt the cups into their mouths and drink.

  Edwin notices an open trunk a few feet from his father’s chair and points. Lying in and around it are what looks to be a collection of a child’s toys. Small carved soldiers, a pair of wooden swords and a stuffed leather dragon. Loche nods and Edwin darts across the floor and sits. Lornensha rises from her chair and joins the boy. The two inspect the beautifully made figures. From the trunk she lifts out a leather pouch. Pulling apart the drawstring she produces four wooden horses, one green, one black, one grey and one blue. When William sees the horses, he coughs a mouthful of scotch back into his goblet. “Oh my sweet word,” he cries, and looks at Loche.

  “What is it?” Loche asks.

  William does not answer. Instead, with a bewildered grin he shakes his head and stares intently at Edwin. Edwin makes clip-clop, clip-clop sounds as he trots the blue horse along the floor. Lornensha studies the leather pouch.

  “Circles,” William whispers.

  Queen Yafarra enters the chamber holding the hand of a boy who looks of an age with Edwin. In their wake follow four women dressed in long light green gowns with dark purple mantles. Two of them light candles, the others set a small table with plates and fill two goblets with water.

  Yafarra pauses just inside the entrance. She is clothed in a long coat of soft woven fabric of spring green. It hugs her shapely, long torso. She rests a long gaze upon each of her visitors in turn.

  Vincale, William and Corey stand as she enters and they lower their eyes reverentially. The others rise and mirror the gesture.

  The young boy lets go of Yafarra’s hand and walks over to Edwin and Lornensha. The two boys size each other up for a moment. Edwin raises the green horse and hands it to the boy. In return, the boy smiles.

  “Welcome, Loche Newirth. Poet.” Yafarra says. “It has been foretold that you would come.” She looks at Edwin. “And you bring with you, your son. Your son, God. Thi.” Her head tilts at the sight of the boys. “Behold, Thi and my son now play with toys upon my bedchamber floor.” Wonder lights in her face.

  “Welcome, William Greenhame of the Orathom Wis. Father of Thi’s Poet. Your courage to bring your family out of the grip of the Godrethion horde shall be sung for centuries to come.

  “Welcome, Corey Thomas and Talan Adamsman. Welcome to our younger Itonalya sisters, Julia Iris and Leonaie Eschelle. May you find here at Wyn Avuqua the beauty and light that hides within the burden of life perpetual. May your time here bring wisdom.

  “Welcome Helen Newirth.” A barely perceptible glint of light shimmers in Yafarra’s eyes. “Wife of the Poet. Mother of God. What trials you have borne, I do not know. What allegiance you hold, I do not know. No one in your company trusts you—save, of course, your son—our God. Therefore, let his trust be mine. If you betray me, you betray your son.”

  “Lornensha,” the Queen smiles. “Welcome.”

  “Your Majesty,” Lornensha replies. She is still kneeling upon the floor with the children.

  Yafarra says to her visitors, “Lornensha I have known for many, many years. As you have already learned, she is a god among us. Her gentle spirit we have allowed to live upon Endale for she brings light and healing to humankind. She has taught us much about the cultivation of herbs and roots—of love and care —of gentleness.”

  Yafarra moves to a chair. After she lowers herself onto the cushion, Loche and the others take their seats. “Edwin Newirth,” she says. Edwin does not hear her. He and the young boy continue to gallop horses through toy soldier troop formations. “Edwin?” she says again. Edwin turns to her. “May I see you?” The boy looks to his father, to Helen then back to the Queen. Yafarra holds a hand out, “Come, Edwin.” Her smile is motherly and warm. “And you, too, Iteav. Let me see you both.”

  The boys rise, each still holding a wooden horse. They walk to the Queen. As they stand before her, she brushes the long hair away from young Iteav’s eyes. His hair is the color of rust and orange. She focuses on Edwin.

  Loche cannot see his son’s face, but he can easily tell what appears there by Yafarra’s struggle for composure. The glittery swirl of blue in Edwin’s irises, descending into a pool of impossible black, unfathomable depth, the craze and fortitude of the godhead. Yafarra’s hands clamp upon her knees. Loche thinks of how George responded when he looked into his son’s eyes and saw the infinite power lurking there. George had groped for his dagger, the muscles along his jaw taut and bulging—but he then mastered the overwhelming Rathinalya. Yafarra does not reach for a weapon. But her gaping expression is strangely similar to George’s. Loche wonders what his own face must have looked like when he fell from the cliff into the Eye. Julia takes a long, shaky pull from her goblet. William and the other immortals follow suit. The sound of a wave curling high and towering roars in his ears. But before he takes a step to intervene, the Queen flinches, and pushes her eyes up and out of the void before her. She lays her hands along either side of Edwin’s face and kisses his forehead. Iteav watches his mother and Edwin with a face brimming with fear.

  “I know now,” the Queen says finally. “You are the One. The All. It is true. You are the flood.”

  She touches her son’s cheek, “Iteav, bring Edwin Newirth to see your other things.” She points to an adjacent room. Iteav takes hold of Edwin’s hand and pulls him along. The two boys exit the chamber and rush to another open trunk along a far, opposite wall.

  Yafarra looks at her hands, folded in her lap. Her posture is straight and elegant.

  “So Loche Newirth, Poet, you have brought your son and God into a city filled with godkillers—into the eye of a storm. As you have witnessed in the Great Hall, a pestilence has poisoned Wyn Avuqua—the rebellion against the Old Law and Thi has finally overwhelmed even the Templar. And outside there waits the Hand of Thi ready with His ten thousand spears to discipline his disloyal immortal flock by blood. There is little a Monarch may do when faced with such calamities. There is no sunlight in these dark days.

  “I do not yet know your power, Poet. Nor do I understand fully the power of the Painter. It has been prophesied that with your coming, the Itonalya will finally be freed from our duty to Thi. Am I to believe the time has finally come?” She pauses. Her eyebrows angle inward as she says, “But my heart tells me that you have come on another errand.” Yafarra waits. Loche feels the urge to reply, but he refrains. He is certain Yafarra will ask for him to speak when she is ready.

  “You and yours are not the only travelers from centuries afar to have visited my court. And I can see in you a desire to portend some news of great import. I have been alive and have served Thi for nearly two thousand years. And though I am trapped in a body of flesh and blood, my mind, like those of my kind, has achieved a kind of time-travel itself. I can in some capacity see eventualities ahead by looking back from whence I came. But so, too, I have learned that knowing what is to come is much like changing how I remember the past, neither will bring an unchallenged truth to the present.

  “And so, now, Poet Loche Newirth, why are you here? What do you seek? I shall now listen to your full tale. But you must take care in what knowledge you share, for as the wise have whispered: When meddling in the affairs of time, the Fates always have their say in the end, even if stories have a way of writing themselves.”

  Each face in Yafarra’s chamber turns to Loche. He feels compelled to stand. Into what might be a nightmare or a far off memory, Loche reaches for the right words to begin telling the story he is living—the sto
ry in which he has become a character. Through the far door he can see his son. As if in answer, the boy turns to him—but it is not Edwin. A widening pupil-black circle swallows the flickering firelight in the chamber around the boy…

  “A man named Marcus Rearden murdered an innocent woman.” He stops. He breathes. “And to capture him, I have risked everything. Everything…and everyone.”

  Can the Past Change?

  November 14, this year

  Venice, Italy

  5:07 pm CEST

  “I want to see Graham Cremo,” are Astrid’s first words to Albion Ravistelle as they enter into the wide lobby of his house. She then rattles off several weighty questions. Albion politely listens. “But let’s start with Graham. I want to see him.”

  “In due time,” Albion Ravistelle says. “I will gladly answer all of your questions, Professor Finnley. To address your most pressing need, Graham Cremo has undergone surgery. Though he is in critical condition, the arts of good Dr. Catena will rekindle his health.”

  “Critical?” Astrid’s worry eclipses all else.

  Albion nods. “We are very hopeful and confident, Professor.” She searches for truth between his words. Albion then shuffles to answering her other questions as a way of changing the subject. “Queen Yafarra, daughter of Althemis has been rather difficult to communicate with. She is unwilling to cooperate. She is reticent to answer our questions and inexorable beyond any immortal I have known or heard tell of. We are holding her—comfortably, I should add, in quarters above.