“Cymachkena. Cymachkena,” Yafarra whispers through her teeth at Cythe.
Evil dragon, Astrid translates. She feels her eyes widen and the pace of her heart arrest—Devil, Yafarra calls him. Devil. Evil dragon. Could it be? Could such an entity truly exist?
“We have brought the two of you together to insure the words are read and Loche’s meaning is shared. What is written there, I will know of it. Astrid? Read.”
Yafarra tries to sit up, but she cannot. Restraints are belted one her ankles and across her chest and abdomen. “Ag, Astrid!”
Rearden’s hand slashes through the air and cracks against Astrid’s masked face. “Read.” He slaps her again, hard. And again. Blood dribbles from her lower lip. The mask drops down around her neck. The sting is maddening.
Yafarra cries out. Nicholas’ blade stabs into the woman’s right arm. Blood shoots onto the white sheets. “Ag!” she shouts. She spits at him again, “Cymachkena!” Nicholas then stands and begins bashing his fist against the side of her head and into her chest with his full weight. There is a grisly snap of rib bones. Yafarra coughs blood.
“Stop!” Astrid screams. “Stop,” she pleads. Her hands find the wire spirals and she lifts the notebook.
“Ag, Astrid!” Yafarra tries through pained breath—through saliva—through already foaming pink blood. “Do not! Do not.” Her body stills. Her muscles let go.
Nicholas observes her for a few seconds, then stabs the blade into her right thigh and lets it stay there. He then calmly turns to his chair and seats himself.
Astrid opens the cover. Rearden averts his eyes slightly. “What is written there?”
The Move on the Board
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:21 pm CEST
Loche Newirth is relieved when he hears his father’s familiar voice, “Ithic veli agtig.” He is also amused when William Greenhame draws a sword, stretches himself into his wonted, painfully unusual ballet pose and adds, “I’m not dead yet.”
Silence. Albion Ravistelle tears his mask from his face as if to remove any possible hinderance to his vision. He squints into the sheer light. He stands mute, but his expression demands, Is it really you?
William savors the quiescence—the wonderstruck shock —the image of wheels turning in his old friend’s mind. William waits. And waits a little longer. Finally William says, “Mark me. I am thy former friend’s spirit.”
The audience chortles at the line and their heads twist to Albion for a rebuttal. He blinks. “William? You were—you were gone—”
William bows lower. “How I love my wife. It was she that drew me home from the sea.”
Marvel and confusion battle for control over Albion’s face. His mouth curves into a smile and his eyes glitter with seeming gratitude and suspicion both. After a deep breath, presumably signifying the acceptance of Fate’s toying hands, Albion asks, “So you’ve come again to prevent our inevitable evolution? You’ve come to stop us from entering a New Earth?”
William says, “I’ve come to tell you a number of things, but for now, I’ll limit myself to two items.”
Albion waits. William waits.
Albion asks, “And the items are?”
“The first item is to tell you that you are a nutter. Completely mad. A lunatic. Gifted, yes. Brilliant, pretty good speaker, but for the most part, a looney.” William gestures with his eyes to the wide, dark periphery of the chamber. Albion looks around. Just outside the circle of Basil’s paintings—just beyond the reach of the spotlights, a large group of men armed with both handguns and lightweight swords have surrounded the revelers. Loche feels for the handle of his rapier. He notes the men are masked and wear the same tactical attire as Emil Wishfeill.
Greenhame says, “Second, know that I am not here to stop you. Instead, I am here to help you.”
Albion casts a slightly confused glare at each corner of the room. “Help me? And just how will you do that?”
“Albion. Albion Ravistelle. They will not allow you to continue. You are not their leader. A single mind cannot rule the human collective. They will not allow your intervention, nor our intervention any longer—we Itonalya. The age-old Godrethion have hunted us, they have slain our ancestors—they have killed —killed,” Greenhame’s voice breaks. His next words are a struggle to bury sorrow, “Killed—my grandson. Killed my Edwin.” He halts. A slight shake of his head and he resets his tone, “And now our beloved Alyaeth.” He opens his embrace to the surrounding faces, “These mortals we have spent lifetimes protecting—now they have no need of us. The New Earth Albion, will not be of our making—it will be theirs. It was always theirs.”
The encircling group slowly encroaches.
Albion turns to his nearest assistants. Loche locates them retreating behind the advancing men. Their eyes still on their former master.
William says, “You have been replaced, Albion. The Board is making its move.”
Albion takes a nervous step back from the podium. For the first time, Loche sees fear tugging at his seemingly unshakable demeanor. But it is but a passing shadow.
“Well then,” he grins at William Greenhame. “Treachery! Seek it out!” His cloak waves up and over his shoulder and a bright blade sings into the air.
Sigourney’s Line
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:37 pm CEST
The Devil watches.
Marcus Rearden watches.
Astrid cannot remove her eyes from the page. She attempts to command the muscles of her face to refrain from wrenching into horror—into joy—into haste. Every impulse yearns toward tears. She checks her breathing. She concentrates on staying calm—without expression. Marcus Rearden’s keen ability to read faces is unparalleled. One wrong move and its over.
Cythe slowly rises and reaches for the knife embedded in Yafarra’s thigh. He yanks it out. Yafarra groans.
“What does it say?” Rearden hisses.
Composure. Her heart pounds rapid, ghostly pink blemishes into her vision. She reads the page again.
Rearden’s palm cracks across her face. “Tell me!” he demands.
Her eyes meet Yafarra’s. She could not help it. The two connect. Seeing the exchange, Rearden shouts, “Last time I will ask!” The sting of his hand sends a flash of white through her head.
Then there is a sickening thud with a simultaneous low ringing tone. Nicholas Cythe falls forward. His forehead bashes into the patient monitor. An instant later he is on the floor unconscious. Blood squirts. A gruesome divot is gouged into the back of his skull.
Astrid swivels to see Graham Cremo holding aloft a large red fire extinguisher. Rearden turns just as Graham growls, “Get away from her, you bitch!” The impact ratchets Rearden’s chin down. There is a muffled crack as the spine fractures. His body collapses into a heap beside Nicholas Cythe.
Graham wobbles as he lowers the heavy canister to the floor. He is shaking. He is wearing a light sweat suit. “It was a toss up…” he breathes heavily, looking down at his handiwork, “tough choice between Sigourney’s line or ‘No one puts baby in a corner.’”
Astrid rises and throws her arms around him. “I thought they had taken you—I thought you were—” She holds him tight.
“I’m okay—a little unbalanced, but okay.” He lets her go and moves to see her face, “Are you okay?”
She stares at him as if trying to connect silky lines of Elliqui. When he smiles, she smiles.
From the floor, Cythe’s hand twitches. White bubbles have formed within the cleft of the wound. Rearden issues a moan.
She shoves the Red Notebook into her bag. “We need to get out of here.”
The Move on the Board #2
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:40 pm CEST
Loche stands still. There is no sign of Marcus Rearden. He watches three figures repel down to the floor from the light tresses on the ceiling. Their feet hit the
floor and they draw swords. Fifteen or twenty revelers break from the crowd and move to the center of the hall. They, too, draw blades from out of their cloaks.
“Any that still hold with me, come,” Albion cries to the gathering, his back to William Greenhame. “Any that still hold true to the Old Law, and any that can imagine the New Earth. We have been betrayed.”
Half of the audience is smiling, their disbelief still suspended by the champagne, the glamour and the magic of a Venetian masquerade. The other half appears to sense that something has shifted. The masked, modern security force with their naked, machete-like weapons and military formation is blatantly out of character for the event’s aesthetic. A few revelers begin to back their way out toward the exits. Some cower together in clusters.
Loche Newirth watches with calm ambivalence. His eyes scan the room for a sign of Marcus Rearden. His forefinger and thumb gently pluck at the pommel of his sheathed sword.
A woman’s voice over the PA system, “Mr. Albion Ravistelle? May I have your attention, Mr. Ravistelle?”
Behind the podium now stands a tall, short-haired woman. One eye is visible. The other is hidden behind a curtain of light grey bangs.
“I hear you, Lynn Eastman,” Albion says without looking at her. “What may I do for you?”
“For me, you may avoid bloodshed. Drop your weapon. There is no reason for violence. By order of The New Earth Board, I am tasked with removing you from your Chair and your responsibilities.”
Albion laughs, “I’m afraid I will not comply. My design will not be compromised.”
Eastman remains without emotion. “Mr. Ravistelle, your design has nothing to do with you any longer. The Board has elected a new leader, and he has ordered your arrest.”
“Let me guess…” Albion growls.
Marcus Rearden, Loche’s mind screams.
“Dr. Marcus Rearden has developed a future path that will insure the survival of the human element in this evolutionary pursuit.” Her single blue eye scans the audience. “After all, Mr. Ravistelle. You are, and always have been, outnumbered.”
A warm hand reaches into Loche’s cloak and covers over his hand. At the touch of her skin, Loche knows her. “Julia…” he says.
Her dress is purple velvet. A thin strap lies over one naked shoulder. A silk cape cascades over the other. Her mask is obviously made by Fausto. An elegant plume of violet and green feathers rises gently above her head like wisps of summer cloud.
Loche throws open his cloak and draws her inside. She smells of lavender and lilac. He pulls her close. Her arm wraps around behind him and squeezes.”
“I am with you.” She whispers. “Where is he? Where is Rearden?”
The Stairs
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:49 pm CEST
Bruises throb beneath Astrid’s mask as she moves. Rearden’s long cloak is tied around Yafarra’s throat and it drapes over her hospital gown. She wears his white mask. Graham is covered in Cythe’s masquerade garb. They leave both Marcus Rearden and Nicholas Cythe on the floor and start back toward the glass doors to exit the ward. Graham stumbles. Both Yafarra and Astrid clasp an arm around him and walk as quickly as his legs will allow.
“You read it? You read the Notebook?” Graham asks.
She hesitates. “We shouldn’t talk of it. Not here. Not now.”
Graham agrees, “Understood.” They limp a few steps. “What now? I’m not up to my usual combat potential, you know, so I may have to sit the next round out.”
“I wish I knew. If we get back to the ball we might be able to blend in and think a moment.”
“A party,” Graham says, “I could use a drink.”
“Me, too.”
As they arrive at the glass door, Astrid stops. “There are guards down the hall to the left. We’ll be seen.”
Graham peers through the glass to the narrow staircase leading up. “If you can make it to the stairs, I’ll sit my ass down.”
“You’ll sit your ass down?”
“That’s right. They are not after me, Astrid. They want you, the Red Notebook and Loche Newirth. Those stairs are not wide enough for two to climb side by side. You and Yafarra go and I’ll block. They won’t hurt me. They’ve kept me alive this long—”
“I’m not leaving you. It’s you and me, together.”
He grins at her. She expects a line from a movie. He shakes his head. “Yes. You and me. But not yet. We each have our own part to play in this story. Mine is to block. I can’t run. Not yet. If we stay together now, you’ll be caught—the Notebook —Loche—”
“Professor Finnley!” The voice of Rearden rounding the ward corner forces the decision. Graham says, “Go.”
The panel of glass slides to the side and the three rush across the hall. Just past the corner a guard shouts, “Stop!” Graham buckles and drags his left foot. Both Yafarra and Astrid lend their strength and haul him forward. At the base of the stair, Astrid vaults up. Yafarra follows, with Graham managing to stay just behind her for the first ten steps.
Astrid looks back to see the guards starting upward with Cythe following close. At the mid point, Graham stops, turns and waits. Cythe slows his pace and begins to climb slowly.
At the base of the stairs, Rearden pauses and watches. He shakes his head as if pitying their feeble attempt to escape. Two more guards appear. One leans toward the psychologist and speaks.
From below comes the hated voice of Rearden, “Nicholas, tell me that you have this all in hand.”
Cythe does not answer.
Rearden looks up, “It has begun. The Ballroom requires my presence,” he says to Cythe, “You may have Yafarra, if you must. But I would prefer Professor Finnley and Graham Cremo be left alive to assist me in the days to come.”
“As you wish,” Cythe hisses.
“The Red Notebook will be delivered to me immediately.”
“As you wish,” Cythe says again.
Rearden disappears down a hall to the left toward the elevators.
“Go!” Graham shouts at Astrid as she pauses looking back. Graham puffs up. The first advancing guard missteps, and Graham kicks at the man’s knees. The guard loses his balance, and with a single push he falls over the railing onto a marble floor. Close behind is the next guard. With a baton he lands two vicious blows to Graham’s upper arm. Graham does not budge. The next swing of the baton is blocked by Yafarra now descending to assist Graham. The third swing smashes into Graham’s head. The full weight of his unconscious body drops onto the security guard, pinning him down.
Astrid halts. She reaches into her bag and grabs the only thing she can find that is sharp: a pen. She leaps down the ten or more steps to assist. She freezes when she sees Cythe leap up and over the barrier Graham had made, and claw into Yafarra’s hair. He winds her to him until his fist controls her head. He bashes her face into the railing. “Yafarra!” He hisses. “Queen of Immortals. Queen of nothing. I told you I would find you!” His knife flashes into the light. Three thrusts of the blade pound into her abdomen. Yafarra smashes her left fist into Cythe’s right eye. He reels for an instant only. “Your city I have razed and ground to dust, your people I have slaughtered one by one—and now, you are the last of that House—the crowning piece to the realm of old.”
The blow to Yafarra’s face hurls her up onto Astrid. Astrid’s arms embrace her as their bodies tumble back onto the stairs behind. Cythe reaches to his side and pulls a sword from a sheath. “Now, I’ll have your head, your arms, your legs—I’ll dress you as you dressed Thi—and you can join him in oblivion!”
Astrid and Yafarra look into each other.
Quantum entanglement moves faster than light.
The speed of thought.
Astrid remembers these lines. Perhaps it was from a former Prof of hers that had said those words, or maybe it was she herself that scribbled the idea when trying to come to some scientific explanation to support her Elliqui research. The speed of a single
thought can come and go as quickly like the throwing of a switch.
Yafarra’s head lies upon her shoulder. Astrid turns to her. They have connected before. Astrid has seen The Silk. She sees it now.
Astrid is witness to a memory.
Quantum entanglement moves faster than light.
Astrid is standing in a round stone chamber. She recognizes it to be the very chamber below Tiris Avu at Wyn Avuqua—yet the torch flames are bright, the floor shines, the tapestries shine in bold yellows and golds.
Yafarra is there. Blood stains her steel breastplate and her cloak. Kneeling before her are four armored figures. Astrid recognizes their individual heraldry as the Wyn Avuquain Templar. The Heron.
Dust sifts down into the torchlit enclosure. The sounds of distant screams, the thunder of beating doors and marching feet echo against the stone walls.
The Fall of Wyn Avuqua.
Yafarra closes something into a box—into a tenesh. Something rectangular. Something red. Turning, she lowers the tenesh into a single crystal tomb behind her.
One of her Templar, House of Heart, says, “This cannot be.”
The House of Talon’s says, “They will not find this place. They will come to the door and find only a wall of stone in the dark. They will find nothing…”
“Where is Iteav?” The Queen asks.
House of Mind says, “The Lakewoman has taken him away.”
Yafarra’s face is a storm of fury and tears. “And Aethur? Is he away.”
“He is, Lady,” bows House of Wings.
“Then it is time to defend the House, my friends. Within the tomb the Prophecy shall be placed.” She stares at the yawning sarcophagus and adds, “And so, too, shall I be placed.”
The Templar cry out in opposition.
House of Mind protests, “My Queen, if we fail at the doors and the Library is not discovered, you will be trapped for eternity. There is no worse outcome—”
The Shape of Rain Page 42
