The Shape of Rain

by Michael B. Koep

  “I’ve got you,” she keeps saying.

  Loche pushes them back and begins to frantically search the parapet again. His eyes downward, scanning through the gloaming for something he has lost. He knows why he is searching. He has read about it many times. He has even watched a grieving parent in his office during therapy exhibit the behavior. The poor man could not stop pacing, looking out the door, beside the desk, out the window. Some psychologists call it search mode.

  “He was just right here?” Loche hears himself say. “Did you see him?”

  The two observe Loche, tears shaping below their eyes.

  Loche knows his behavior. He knows why he is frantic. He looks down onto the field. Did he miss something?

  Now the stage where Edwin was killed is overrun. The snow has deepened. The base of the mountains has vomited the Godrethion horde onto the white plain. They have begun to lay siege to the city. He thinks he can hear the light tick of snow touching down.

  “Edwin. Edwin was right here,” he repeats. When he whirls around to the couple now climbing to their feet, a line from one of his text books rolls into his memory: The most frequent immediate response following death, regardless of whether or not the loss was anticipated, is shock, numbness, and a sense of disbelief.

  Loche laughs at the maddening accuracy of the sentence. “Did he go out the open door?” He begs.

  “Son…” Loche hears the word—an aching word—the wrong word for this moment—“Son,” the man says. “You must come with us. We must leave this high place.”

  “Not without my son,” Loche says. There’s that word again, he thinks.

  The woman seizes Loche’s upper arms and presses her face into his, “Loche! It’s Julia. Don’t you know me? Loche!”

  Three arrows whistle and snick against the stones to their right. Julia pulls Loche nearer to the door. “Loche, we have to go now. You have to come with us.”

  The man bends to Loche’s chained ankle and inserts a release pin. The casing splits. He casts the chain aside. The ring of the metal spins Loche’s thought toward the outer edge of the parapet so that he might check to see if Edwin is hiding there. Two strong hands grab hold of his shoulders and rotate him around.

  “Boy!” An open hand slaps a wincing sting across his face. “Loche!”

  Loche sees William Greenhame. His eyes are swollen from rage and tears. Beside him is Julia Iris.

  Before he can exhibit cognition, William shoves him through the door to the landing of the spiral stair. Like he was ushered up, he is now ushered down. He stumbles and falls twice. Each time he is hauled roughly back to his feet by both William and Julia. At the base of the stairs wait Adam Talansman, Corey Thomas and Leonaie Eschelle. They face the lower tunnel in defense positions.

  Corey embraces Loche and says slowly, “Liva hoy gosht. Thi thia, Aethur. A thia gos ning.” Releasing him, he pulls from under his cloak Loche’s umbrella and shoulder bag. “Take these again, my friend. But I am afraid the Red Notebook is no longer ours.”

  Loche stares at the items. Leonaie rushes up and assists in fitting the bag over his shoulder and then clips the umbrella onto its buckle. “Dr. Newirth,” she says. But when Loche meets her eyes her voice falters. He can see her struggling for words. She shakes her head mournfully. Then both she and Julia bookend him and slide their arms around his middle.

  “Any sign of Vincale?” William says joining Talan beside the opposite passageway.

  “Not yet,” Talan answers.

  “When he released you, did he tell you where Helen was?”

  “He did not,” Talan replies. “The second time I have failed in minding Helen Newirth.”

  Corey says, “We can’t stay here, William. Godrethion have taken the Eastern Gate.”

  At that moment a clatter of boots echoes down the passage. Orange torchlight illuminates the corners and the shadowed hall. A moment later a voice calls, “William!”

  “Vincale!” William shouts back.

  The Captain of Wyn Avuqua rushes into the small lobby with four sentinels of the city. He stops before Loche and bows his head. “If the Queen had words for this moment, she did not share them with me, Aethur. My heart breaks for you…”

  Slumping forward lazily, Loche says, “Edwin. Where is my son Edwin? I just saw him a moment ago,” he turns and points up the stairs, “just there.”

  Vincale waits. He surmises Loche’s lolling expression—his fractured awareness. As he lingers there he realizes Loche’s breaking point has been reached.

  “You must escape the city, Aethur. You and your companions must escape. If you remain there will be no dawn for our kind—you have meddled too long in the affairs of fate and time.”

  “Captain,” William says, “Where is the Prophecy? The Red Notebook.”

  “Tiris Avu is now under siege,” Vincale says. “They are inside the walls. Two towers have fallen.”

  “The Prophecy, Vincale! We cannot leave the Prophecy behind!” William shouts.

  “That is not all!” Vincale says, his voice raising. “The Templar under Yanreg, have rebelled—all save Maghren, Minister of Keptiris. He is faithful, still. The treachery of Yanreg is deep. When I left the Queen, she and Maghren were defended within the Avu—but now I cannot say. They were besieged by not only Godrethion, but the Templar and their loyal sentinels. It grieved me to part with her,” he turns to Loche, “but she bade me to bring you out of the city and out of this time.”

  “And that was all?” William asked.

  “That was all there was time for, William.”

  “The Prophecy! What of the Prophecy?”

  “It is in the hands of fate, or it is in the hands of the Queen.”

  “Is she mad?” William shouts again. “She has killed my grandson, and now she is to toy with the existence of the Itonalya on Earth? What madness is this?”

  “I cannot speak for her choices in this dark time, for I was taken aback when her axe fell. But do not judge the wisdom of Queen Yafarra until—”

  William’s eyes glitter. Fury lights within him. “I watched her murder my—”

  Corey reaches to his friend, “Not now, William. We must move.”

  William demands of Vincale, “Where is Lornensha? Where is my—my mother?”

  Vincale does not answer immediately. He then replies, “She tends to the fallen.”

  The company rushes out of the wall-lined passages and into the late afternoon gloom. A host of Itonalya still fight just inside the East Gate and are managing to plug the flow of Godrethion entry. Enemy soldiers can still pass in and around the defense. Buildings are aflame. Above, on the battlements, Wyn Avuquain sentinels are overwhelmed with too many high ladders. Godrethion rise up against the walls like a crashing wave.

  “There!” Vincale points. “We must get to the dike at Keptiris. Along the northern wall are the Book Houses. The North Gate is just beyond.” He points. Ahead, perhaps a mile, Loche sees a snowcapped, single grey wall and beyond that a line of high peaked, three story houses. At the apex of each is a proud, sculpted Heron. He feels his body spin to search again for Edwin.

  Corey shouts, “Is the North not besieged?”

  Vincale yells over his shoulder as he starts toward the dike, “Every wall is besieged. We are surrounded.”

  “We do not have the numbers to fight our way out, Vincale!” Corey says.

  “We shall go beneath them.”

  “Beneath? What do you mean?” William asks.

  “In the lower basement of the Book Houses is a tunnel that will lead us directly to Dellithion Omvide.”

  William groans. He looks at Loche. “Another tunnel.”

  The Maze Of You and Me

  November 15, this year

  Venice, Italy

  10:45 pm CEST

  The great Daedalus of Greek myth was said to have built a labyrinth to imprison a monster. Daedalus’ crafted maze was so meticulous and clever that he himself narrowly escaped his own art with his life.

&nbs
p; Astrid studies the map as she descends a third staircase. Though she has a well plotted course to Dr. Catena’s laboratories, she cannot help but be turned around and befuddled by the turns and elegant twists veining through Albion’s house. She waits at corners and listens. She hurries down long wood paneled corridors. She scans ballrooms and lobbies for watching eyes. So far she has encountered no one, but every so often she glances up to corners in the ceiling where small hemispheres of smoked glass monitor her quick pace through the maze. It occurs to her when she arrives at yet another staircase that perhaps the monster’s eyes follow her. The monster may just be waiting for her below.

  Another corner. Another hallway. Another rush to the next turn. Two men appear from out of a door just feet away. Astrid slows her pace, smiles and says, “Good evening.” She is astonished when the greeting is returned in kind. The two men, both elegantly dressed in suit and tie, continue their quiet conversation and walk toward the elevators.

  Another stair, another hall, another lobby—then, she arrives—or at least she guesses. There is no sign or placard, but instead, she peers through an automatic sliding glass door. Within are laboratory furnishings and implements. As if it were a hospital ward, several doors encircle a reception-like desk. Against the walls are carts. Astrid sees hanging tubes, stacked boxes of latex gloves, glass cylinders full of cotton swabs, locked drawers, metal trays with sharp stainless instruments—a big plastic bottle with white letters: ALCOHOL. She wishes for wine. On rolling stands are a couple of monitors. They flash lines and numbers. In the dim light there is no color save the baby blue of bed sheets and taupe hued walls.

  To the right of the door a hallway slants downward. At the bottom, maybe twenty feet or so, is another glass door. The room behind it emits an inviting green light. An armed guard stands at the entrance. Seeing the guard, Astrid’s face ducks to the map. She sees Catena’s Laboratory clearly marked in Howard’s scribbly handwriting, but the lower hall is not depicted. She cannot help but think of Catena’s Tree of Life lab experiments. The Melgia Gene.

  “Posso essere di aiuto, Signorina?” the guard says, not-so-friendly.

  “No assistance, thank you,” Astrid replies in Italian. “I am visiting a friend here.” She walks through the sliding glass door telling herself not to run.

  Two women rise up from their computers from behind a reception desk. Astrid braces for resistance—for expulsion—for an ear breaking alarm. Instead, the taller of the two nurses smiles and says, “Hello, Professor Finnley. I expect you are here to see Graham Cremo?”

  Astrid feels her hands rolling the map back into a scroll. “I am,” she says. She braces her feet, thinking that at any moment white-coated, Italian orderlies will appear at her sides and wrestle her to the linoleum.

  The woman makes a quick notation on a clipboard and points to the right. “He is asleep right now, Professor. But you may visit. We would prefer that you allow him to wake on his own. As you can imagine, he needs all the rest he can get.”

  “Of course,” Astrid says. Her breathing slows slightly. “How is he?”

  The nurses exchange a glance.

  “He is still in critical condition. The gunshot wound has shattered his clavicle and he has suffered blood loss—but don’t worry, he is in the care of Dr. Catena,” her lips stretch into a wider grin, “Dr. Catena is his best hope.” She points to the left. “Just four doors down. Room 10.”

  Astrid moves. She rushes. Inside her chest a heavy pendulum swings and batters against the cage of her ribs. Above the door she notes another security camera. She raises her middle finger at it. She is not sure why. Maybe because of Albion’s all-too-composed demeanor. Or his command of Basil’s existence-altering art that he seems not quite qualified to command. Or maybe because the watching eyes remind her of the rankling all-seeing deities of her chosen field of study—and right now, they should not get to witness her face when she sees Graham. They are none of the monster’s business—these matters of the heart.

  She turns the handle, enters and presses her back against the door to close it. The room is dark save the neon glow of a patient monitor and a small, candle-like lamp. On the bed lies Graham Cremo. He is sleeping. His tall body is longer than the bed. Astrid feels a smile arc as she notices his big feet jutting out from the blankets.

  Slowly she moves to him. She attempts to read the blinking monitor and make sense of his condition. Her fingers touch his arm and her focus drops to his face. Beautiful, she thinks.

  When she begins to whisper, she is both hopeful he might, or might not hear her.

  “If I could change what happened, I would. Beginning again is all I can do—make a new story. I want my new story to be with you.”

  To Dellithion Omvide

  1010 A.D.

  The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

  Far to the South, smoke rises from Shartiris, adding a darker bruise to an already wounded sky. The nearer Tiris Avu burns like fallen torches in the grass. Loche stares at the higher center tower that still stands and wonders if Queen Yafarra and her son Iteav are hidden somewhere within listening to the boom of beaten doors, marching boots in the halls and the screams of fallen immortals funneling up through the cylinder tower. He wonders if Edwin is with them.

  They have come the mile to the dike. He sits with his back against the rock wall. Julia and Leonaie are still at his sides. They are breathing heavy from the last sprint. One of Vincale’s sentinels fell just minutes ago as a sortie of some ten Godrethion spied the company crossing a road. William, Corey and the sentinel turned and gave battle as the rest continued north. Only William and Corey returned.

  “Come,” Vincale says, lowering himself down from the wall. “We will enter into Keptiris through the arch. I can see the Book Houses from here. We’ve enemies to pass, but their main strength is still outside and pressing the wall. I think they are finding that we are not easy to kill. Come.”

  The captain moves through a low fissure in the stone.

  They pass the Keptiris fountains that just a day before were filled with light and the music of water. Now, haunting every fountain are at least two or three severed heads. The spray of the water is a ghostly pink in the dim afternoon. The mist smells of tin.

  Loche is dizzy with every step. Soon the wall behind them is just a black line drawn across the horizon. Beads of ice sift down between the raindrops and crackle on his hood. There is no sign of Edwin. They cross into another huddle of low houses, and Loche is struck with the feeling that he has been here before. Rounding a hedge, he understands the feeling. A muffled cry from Julia confirms his fear. The highest of the log houses is on fire. The very house where he and Julia had visited the day before —where they had gathered beside a warm hearth, where they dined and sipped wine. Laughed. It is the house of Teunwa’s friends. The couple’s bodies are heaped upon the long porch. Both are headless. Blood is spattered across the snow. Julia squeezes her arm tighter around Loche as they trudge forward. He watches the white vapor of his breath gust in rhythm with Julia and Leonaie.

  Itonalya resistance is all around them. Groups of Shartiris press an enemy host back through a dike arch just yards away. To their left, houses are being routed by a large force of Godrethion. The god-soldiers mutilate unarmed women and children. A sudden volley of arrows sings from out of the dark sky. The expertly aimed bolts fell nearly twenty enemy soldiers. The surviving raiders run for cover.

  Thus far, Loche has not needed to draw his sword, for the artistry of Vincale and his sentinels, along with Corey, Talan and William, have effectively carved out their path with little effort. But at any moment, it seems, a larger Godrethion host could take notice of their flight and smother their escape. Vincale is careful to keep the company in alleyways and beneath the boughs of trees.

  Loche scans the roadside and the path ahead. He cranes around to see if Edwin is running up behind them. Blood sloshes in his brain like oil in a bottle. He feels he is peering into pages and pages of text—line upon line of inky words
imprinted upon the sky, upon the vapor of his breath, upon the stonework road beneath his feet—like a swarm of insects. His hands come up and he tries to bat them aside.

  “Not long now,” Vincale says between heaves. He gestures ahead. “They have not yet gained the center Book House. Hurry!”

  Loche feels Leonaie and Julia yank him forward. He tries to read the words drifting in the rising smoke over Vifaetiris, but either the words or his eyes cannot stay still long enough. They descend into a narrow lane between high poplars and drop into a round courtyard. Five massive cedar trees reach overhead and shelter them from the falling sleet and snow. They stop. They wait. Vincale scans the entries and exits to the courtyard. From somewhere to the West comes the concussive pounding of heavy stones against the walls. Following after each chalky crack is a roar of frenzied soldiers.

  Far to the North comes the unmistakable cracking of an automatic weapon. Four bursts. William looks at Corey. Corey says, “Neil? Alexia?”

  William looks at Leonaie, “My guess is Emil Wishfeill has not yet departed…”

  Leonaie’s arm flexes slightly behind Loche’s back.

  “Now,” Vincale whispers, “follow,” and he rushes to the opposite side of the wide clearing. The company stays with him in a tight cluster. He leads them up through another lane of high trees to the face of a dark house with three steep gables. The captain does not linger but rushes straight to the heavy doors and enters.

  Inside, Loche can see nothing but fading-to-black stairs down, and passages to his right and left. “Torches,” comes Vincale’s voice from the dense dark. The two sentinels reach to the sconces and pull down the unlit torches. Vincale produces flint. Before he can strike the steel across the stone, Loche hears a familiar click and ring behind him and he turns. William’s face strobes twice in spark-light, and then illuminates by the flame of a Zippo lighter. “Basil’s lighter…” he says with a grim smile. “I did not like him smoking cigarettes.”