“It is not,” Astrid says quietly.
“Love and death intermingling. Power and weakness. The innocent and the killer.” He shakes his head and sighs appreciatively, “Perfectly Rearden.”
“Fuck Rearden,” she spits thinking of the last time she saw him. “He shot Graham in cold blood.”
Albion turns to her. “As I have already said, my apologies for his behavior. Inexcusable. But The Board and my associates have given the good doctor carte blanche in the matter of Loche Newirth. He and he alone knows Loche’s nature. Rearden is our best chance at either silencing the Poet or bringing him to heel.”
“Death or submission. Aren’t those the very things you and yours are fighting against, Mr. Ravistelle?”
“Why, yes, Professor. But more so against the one that created it.”
Two attendants approach. One hands Albion a clipboard. As Albion turns to them and scans the attached document he says, “There can be no success for any endeavor while the power of creation exists in the hands of one. If Loche can create gods he can destroy the world. If he can wink characters to life from his imagination, he can remove them. What he has done thus far, I am uncertain if I would offer my blessing—save that I am still alive—I am still here—and I have found a way to survive the blunder of his failed plot. While he lives, he threatens existence.”
“So you will force him to create what you want him to create, is that it?”
Albion thinks a moment, staring at her. “Yes.” He signs the document on the board and hands it back to the attendant. “Or I will kill him. It is very simple. And, my dear Professor, Loche Newirth is fully aware of my intentions.”
“If that is so, aren’t you concerned that he is already working out how to write—”
“—write me and all of us out of the story?” he interrupts. “Indeed, a potential complication. Though,” he glances back up at the painting, “we have an influential force at work on the problem as we speak.”
“Rearden?” Astrid nearly laughs.
“Rearden,” Albion says.
“You trust that asshole?”
“Professor Finnley—I have been alive for over a thousand years. Whether I trust Rearden or not is beside the point. He will perform his allotted function, and he will answer to me—that is all I require of any person.”
“And if he betrays you?”
Albion waits. He grins. “Time will tell.”
Astrid mirrors the grin and returns it mockingly. “Time will tell indeed, Mr. Ravistelle.”
Words From the East
November 14th, 1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
(evening)
High above in the dome of the tower is an oculus. Its circle of sky is pinpricked with stars.
This time they are not led into the Tiris Avu Auditorium—this time, Loche feels as if they are being ushered. This time they are not given seats in the high balcony, but instead they are marshaled onto the main floor to positions on the perimeter of the crescent moon table and the Queen’s dias.
The Templar are seated. The Queen’s green eyes glitter watching Loche enter into the chamber. The Queen’s son, Iteav, sits upon her lap. Lornensha stands just to the side of the Queen’s riser, elbows bent and fingers interlaced at her waist.
“Dad!” Edwin’s voice laughs, and from out of the shadows the little boy bounds across the Templar circle. Both Loche and Julia kneel down to meet him. Now, in the surrounding torchlight, Loche can see his company of time travelers, William, Corey, Leonaie, Talan and Helen. They do not speak. William moves across to join his son and grandson. He sets a hand upon Loche’s shoulder.
Vincale steps beneath the high oculus and says, “Emissaries from the Godrethion horde have come with terms. You are all summoned to bear witness and to listen.” He bows before the Queen.
“Bring them before the Heron,” Yafarra commands.
Two sentinels pull open the heavy chamber doors and a Godrethion contingent is escorted down the aisle to the dias. There are four. Loche can see the two in front. One wears a hood and cloak, the other wears the orange surcoat over chain mail. As they come into the light, Loche recognizes them both. The hooded figure is the monk, Erinyes, the ghoulish Fate that had drugged Edwin—the monk whose face was an amalgam of both feminine and male traits. Striding alongside the monk is the Godrethion captain under Cynthia the Summoner, Etheldred.
Loche feels Julia’s hand squeeze his wrist. Anger boils up within him suddenly.
The other two figures are not familiar. Loche’s notices their clothing is modern military, black tactical attire. The uniforms are similar to those of Albion’s Endale Gen soldiers he and Julia encountered on the Montanha Do Pico omvide at the Azores. He searches their faces but he cannot remember meeting, or seeing them before. Yet, there is something familiar in the face of one of the men. He looks to William and Corey to learn if they show any signs of recognition. But both of their immortal manners are solemn, stoic and calm, but there is a gleam in their eyes—a slight narrowing of sightline—a hidden glare. When he sees Leonaie Echelle’s expression he is certain she shares a past connection with the soldiers. Her face is pale. A tear wells. Her hands cluster into stones at her sides.
William leans to Loche and whispers, “Behold, Albion’s assassins. One I do not know. The other is the son of Felix Wishfeill. His name is Emil. He killed Samuel Lifeson.” At the man’s naming, William’s whisper transforms to a vicious hiss. “Leonaie will want words, I expect. As will I…”
Loche stares at Emil. The man is fully aware of his enemies surrounding him, but his glare is set upon Loche and Edwin. A subtle smile flickers on his lips.
Vincale’s proud baritone interrupts Loche’s thought, “You are come to the Heron Templar and to our Sovereign Queen Yafarra daughter of Althemis. Gal Ashto, you will kneel in greeting.”
Etheldred smiles. “We do not bow to faithless murderers.”
A breathy hiss from one of the Templar slices the air.
Yafarra’s expression is unaffected. Vincale’s sword rings out, flashing in the firelight, and he lunges toward Etheldred. The blade swings in an elegant circle, aimed for the man’s throat. A fraction of an instant before the blade is to cut the head from the body, Yafarra’s hand rises and she says, “Ag, Vincale.” The blade halts as if striking a wall, the razor sharp steel resting against the exposed skin just above Etheldred’s gorget. A gentle line of red appears. Tiny beads of blood form. Vincale holds the blade there, frozen. Loche thinks he can see the Wyn Avuquain captain struggling with his Queen’s order—the blade pressed against the skin—sliding a millimeter or two—just to nick—just to cut. Reluctantly, he pulls the sword back and down.
Yafarra says, “We have murdered, it is true. And there are some here that are faithless, it is true. But you are not our judge, Etheldred.”
“Am I not, Yafarra?” Etheldred says. “Am I not? We have not crossed the deadly seas to break bread with you, Itonalya Queen. Thi has brought us here,” He raises his long chain mail wrapped arm and points at Edwin in Loche’s embrace. “There is your judge, O mighty Queen.”
Edwin’s face buries between Loche’s neck and shoulder. Tears wet his skin.
Vincale says, seething, “Why have you come? State your terms.”
Etheldred waits. He casts a long appraising study of each of his audience. His gaze rests upon Loche and Edwin the longest. Finally, he faces the Queen. “Yafarra, we propose a peace. A peace that will save your city,” he gestures to the Templar Yanreg of the House of Talons, “and an opportunity for our warring tribes to be delivered from bondage.”
Templar Yanreg rises, bolstered by these words. “As I have said. Peace can be made…we can rule Endale.”
Now the monk Erinyes steps forward, throwing back the deep hood. Black hair falls framing massive black pupils, like twin pools of ink. “Yes,” the androgynous monk says to Yanreg. “Yes, together we will rule this world, and peace can be found, and none of us will live beneath
the yoke of slavery, and your jewel of a city—this tear from Heaven, Wyn Avuqua, will be spared. The answer is simple. The ending is easy to see, is it not? There is but one task to perform before our lives will be our own to govern, and the world is ours to rule…”
“Why have you asked for parlay?” Subtle threads of Yafarra’s patience fray, but do not break. Her voice rises slightly, “What are your terms?”
Erinyes’ slender wrist protrudes from his draping sleeve and he points at six-year-old Edwin Newirth. The boy’s arms grip as his face tucks deeper into the nape of his father’s neck.
“The godchild must die,” Erinyes hisses.
The surrounding faces of the assembly snap to Loche. He tastes stomach acid. Every muscle tenses. His feet involuntarily take two steps back.
Erinyes continues, “Thi has broken the Old Law. His Law. If we vanquish Him here, Thi will be no more. And we shall be free.”
At this statement, chaos erupts.
Maghren of the House of Mind roars angrily into the tumult, “You know not what you speak! Thi is beyond His own will and does not know death—”
Yanreg of the House of Talons shouts simultaneously, “My brothers and sisters, freedom awaits us!”
William Greenhame bellows in his raised stage voice, “The only deaths today shall be you and your kind! One by one, we shall remove you from the consciousness of this world! We are the Itonalya! And Emil Wishfeill, assassin, soon—your end shall be soon.”
Etheldred sneers, “It is the only way you will save your people. We shall float the heads of your women and children on the waters of the lake! We shall make a bridge to Hell.”
Helen, in tears, steps in front of her son, “No!”
Loche loses track of the opposing voices—the heat and fury of fear rising. All he can feel now is his son’s clinging arms. He scans for the nearest exit. When he takes a step backward in an attempt to disappear while the outburst is at its height, a large sentinel blocks the way. A firm hand grips Loche’s shoulder and shoves him into the light of the high oculus before the Queen.
Yafarra watches the outburst of the assembly without emotion. She does not seem to hear any single expressed opinion or plea. Instead, her lancing, emerald eyes remain steadily aimed at Loche. She raises her hand. Seeing the gesture, Vincale shouts, “Silence, all!”
Julia is at Loche’s side. He can hear her whisper to him, “Where is Basil? Where the hell is Basil?”
Erinyes seizes on the quiet. “The only choice before you is this: either the godchild is given to Cynthia, Summoner of the gods on Earth—she shall take His life.” The black pupils of his eyes seem to pool wider. “Or, before the gates of Wyn Avuqua, before the eyes of the Godrethion army, the hand of the mighty Queen Yafarra shall cut the boy’s head from the body, the boy’s legs from the body, the boy’s arms from the body. And when we see that Thi is dead, we shall withdraw. When Thi is dead, we shall have our peace. When Thi is dead, we shall all be free. If you refuse, you will all die. And so shall Thi. Choose.”
Again, fury and pandemonium. Edwin’s arms coil tighter at the explosion of sudden anger. Loche scans a for route out but sees only defeat. Too many sentinels, too far to run, and too many eyes upon him and his son. Most notably, the eyes of Queen Yafarra. But there is nothing troubled in her countenance. The gentle slope of her cheek tilts slightly at Loche. She is riveted to him.
This time, Yafarra speaks the word, “Silence.” It is not a shout, but its weight of command and power brings the cacophony of debate to heel.
Erinyes’ dilated pupils dart from one enraged face to the other. Obviously, the monk’s presented choice has hit its mark. Erinyes smiles then bows before the Queen—the gesture now contemptuous.
But Yafarra does not take notice or offense. She continues looking at Dr. Loche Newirth and the boy cradled in his arms.
Yanreg of the House of Talons says, “Gracious Queen, you must see the wisdom in this. Our survival, our freedom, our hope for the future of our kind—”
“No more words,” Yafarra cuts in. “No more words.” She lifts her own little boy, Iteav, from her lap and places him on his feet. She kisses his forehead. She rises. Her white and silver dress presses the darkness back. “Edwin Newirth,” she says gently. “Edwin Newirth. Lord and Maker, Thi. Will you come to me?”
Loche feeling Edwin’s arms loosen, lowers his son to the floor. His mind wrestling with the action. Every fiber in his being struggling to resist, but he releases the boy anyway. His vision floods with stinging tears. He hears himself say, “Edwin, no. Edwin—”
Edwin’s feet touch the tiled floor and he runs to the Queen’s dias and clambers up with a lifting pull from Iteav. The Queen holds their hands. She still stares at Loche.
Glitter swirls in Edwin’s irises.
“Guards of the Avu,” she says. The sound of twenty spears rap once upon the stone floor. Loche flinches. Her voice almost a whisper, “Our visitors from another time, remove them.” From behind, William, Corey, Leonaie, Helen and Talan are restrained by the Queen’s sentinels. William manages to wrestle free and land a cracking punch. Corey, too, presses against his assailant, but the resistance is short-lived. More sentinels close in and bend their limbs to nearly impossible angles strangling movement.
“And Loche Newirth,” she says. “Take him to the high tower overlooking the East gate. There he shall remain.” Hands seize upon Loche. His body presses away but is immediately met with a heavy fist to his midsection. The blow sucks the air out of his body.
“Tell your Summoner, Cynthia, Master of the gods on Earth that I, Queen Yafarra will free us all. I will deliver us from our ancient chains of bondage. Midday, on the morrow, before the eyes of gods, men and immortals, I will kill the child.”
Loche looks to William. To Helen. To Lornensha standing close beside the Queen’s throne. Then, electrical signals fire in his brain. These bursts of neuro-sparks ignite every reflex in his body, and he convulses. For an instant he breaks free and is able to take two steps toward Edwin. An instant later, another bright electric shock flashes through his brain as some hard object knocks against his skull. White light blinks. As his cheek smashes against the floor tile, and what he guesses is a knee crushes downward between his shoulder blades, he feels his umbrella being pulled away from beneath his cloak, his bag torn from his side. He sees Yafarra turn and descend from her dias. She holds the hands of the children, leading them away into the torchlight.
The Artwork of Basil Fenn
November 14, this year
Venice, Italy
6:40 pm CEST
Silence.
Flash.
Gone.
The three word refrain of Loche’s writing echoes like a maddening song that she cannot stop. Loche described what Basil’s work could do. He warned of its horror—its permanence —its stranglehold. The Silk.
Albion and the others have already turned away and are walking to the elevator. Albion’s offer to look was denied by all. Astrid included.
But she lingers in front of one curtain. She stands upon the embossed Roman numeral X in the marble. She stares at the closed curtain.
Silence.
Flash.
Gone.
The chance to look upon the celestial realm of the gods—the abodes only imagined and described in the mythological tomes of men—the chance is before her.
“Wait,” she says. Her eyes trained on curtain X. “I will look.”
A moment later Albion is beside her. Marcel, too, joins and touches her upper arm with a supportive squeeze. She glances toward the exit and sees Fausto cowering back facing away.
“X marks the spot, my dear?” Albion says quietly.
“The number ten has never let me down,” Astrid replies.
“I am delighted that you have changed your mind.”
“I’m not so sure I am,” she tells him. She is finding it hard to swallow. “Marcel,” she says, “maybe I should be the only one to look this time. I trust you’ll t
ake care of me—you’ll take care of how I come out of this thing?”
His hand again grips her arm in affirmation. “I’ll watch you.”
“You need not be afraid,” Albion consoles. “As I have said, we have found a way to see through without harm—that is, unless you regard illumination as harm.”
Astrid nods. She wrestles with her intellectual protocol—her habitual disbelief of the fantastical. And yet, just beyond the curtain is the seeing that will demand believing.
“Let’s do this,” she says.
Albion’s hand raises in her periphery. An attendant says, “Apri dieci.”
The crimson curtain splits and widens. An easel cradles a large canvas—maybe six feet by eight feet. Its background is smeared in eggplant purples, deep reds and lit with streaks of yellow ochre. The face of a woman is offset to the right in the frame and she is staring up as if into the sky. Her hair is deep walnut with two swathes of blond coiling down beside each of her cheeks. Her eyes are attractive and amber like summer iced tea.
Astrid feels her eyes flit from point to point, feature to feature searching for the Center as Loche had described. A few seconds pass. The portrait is beautiful, nearly ineffable. The woman’s expression is yearning, sad and reaching. The emotion of the face brings to mind a beloved Welsh word that she remembers reading about years ago: hiraeth. Its multilayered meaning gathers homesickness, longing, and nostalgia, a yearning for a home that you cannot return to, no longer exists, or maybe never was. In the woman’s eyes is a quiet hiraeth, Astrid thinks.
She blinks.
She considers that the feeling is perfectly aligned with her own need and yearning. Perhaps the face upon the canvas is a mirror to her own pain.
She blinks again.
She searches.
“It is beautiful,” She says finally. “Basil is truly gifted. But is there more than this?”
Turning to Albion, she sees him scrutinizing the piece closely. A faint crease of frustration in his forehead. A subtle doubt in his composure.
The Shape of Rain Page 34
