by Amy Cross
“Do they all have these pains?” I ask, sidestepping the question.
“It's stress.”
“There's no -”
“They're scared,” she says firmly, “and they've been uprooted from their homes, they've been brought to a strange place, and despite our best efforts they all sense that something's wrong. It manifests differently in each of them, but it's simply a reminder that we can't protect them from everything.” She pauses. “At some point, if Gothos is attacked, they're going to hear the sound of a battle being waged outside these walls. They'll hear the screams of dying soldiers, maybe even their own parents, and I'll have to sit in here with them, lying and telling them that everything's going to be okay. They won't believe me, but I'll have to do it anyway.” Another pause, before she forces a smile. “Then again, what do I know? The council says Gothos isn't in imminent danger, and they must be right, mustn't they? It's not possible that they could be fooled.”
“There has to be another option,” I reply, turning and watching the children for a moment longer. “Can't we negotiate and ask the spiders to spare the children?”
“Are you serious? They'd never agree. The spiders are monsters, they wouldn't hesitate to kill every child in this room. They probably won't attack Gothos anyway, the council members assure us that such a thing is impossible. In the long-run, however, there's only one way we can save Lilith and the others now.”
“And how's that?”
“Simple. We have to win the war.”
Spotting Lilith staring at me, I suddenly feel as if I can't bear to see her face. I mutter something to Clarissa and turn, hurrying out of the room. These children are so clearly going to be slaughtered when the battle starts, and I'm filled with a sense of panic as I realize that there's nothing I can do to help.
“It's okay,” I hear Clarissa telling them. “There's no need to be scared.”
Absalom
Ten thousand years ago
“Have you heard?” Cerulesis asks, raising the cup to her lips and taking a sip. “There's going to be a war tomorrow.”
“Another one,” I mutter.
“And probably another after that,” she points out.
“Will the fighting ever end?”
“Life without conflict is not life at all,” she continues. “Life without conflict would just be lots of little atoms, sitting around, never troubling one another. Peaceful, yes, but very boring, and nothing would ever get done. Without conflict, there'd never be any heat.” She smiles. “Listen to me, doing the thing I hate most in other people. Extrapolating a lie from a truth, ignoring the context, and trying oh-so-hard to be poetic.”
“I left you alone,” I reply, feeling as if I need to explain my absence. “You asked me to leave you, and I did. I respected that.”
She nods. “I know. And I'm grateful.”
“Are you sure it was the right decision?” I ask. “Are you sure I shouldn't have stayed anyway?”
She pauses, as if she's not sure of the answer. A moment later, I see another twitch on the side of her face. Since we emerged from the strategy room and came to sit in the courtyard beyond the library, I've noticed a definite change in her demeanor; the old Cerulesis is back, at least to some extent, and I'm starting to wonder whether I should have come to her sooner. Perhaps I was too respectful of her wishes, perhaps I should have fought for her more. For us.
“I still have so much work to do,” she tells me. “The spiders are coming, and they intend to overthrow Gothos.”
“We'll stop them.”
“I just need to refine my strategy a little more.”
“I'm sure the strategy is perfect.”
She shakes her head. “Gothos needs me to come up with something better. I feel as if the weight of expectation is resting on my shoulders, crushing me.”
“It's your own fault,” I reply with a faint smile. “For being brilliant.”
“If I was brilliant, the war would have ended sooner.”
“Without you, it would have ended years ago,” I point out. “All the vampires would be dead.”
“I've been considering some extreme ideas,” she replies. “At one point I even suggested unfreezing the Valkyries and bringing them in to fight on our side. I was told the idea couldn't possibly be considered, not unless I first explained how we'd control them, and of course I couldn't come up with anything. The Valkyries might just as easily have sided with the spiders, anyway, out of spite.”
“Is the situation really that desperate?” I ask.
She nods, but after a moment a faint smile crosses her lips.
“Look at you,” she says finally. “Sitting here in your armor, with your sword at your side, drinking a cup of tea. I swear, whenever I think of you, Absalom, this is what I see in my mind's eye. It's as if tea truly calms your soul.”
“It does.”
“Even on a night such as this?”
“Especially on a night such as this.” I pause for a moment, watching her tired eyes. The strain of this conflict is showing on her face, but she's still as beautiful as ever. “Do you remember the last time we drank tea together?” I ask. “It was just before the spiders ambushed our units near the Correlanian Drift. The damn beasts had been quiet for a while and everyone else thought they'd strayed to other worlds. You were the only one who was convinced that they were still around, still lurking, still waiting to attack.”
“That was the last time my advice was ignored,” she replies, as the twitch crosses her face again. “After that night, everyone listened to me without question. Such a pity that so many people had to die before I was given the attention I deserved, but it all worked out for the best. That was also the moment when I realized I had to dedicate myself exclusively to the cause. That's why I -” She pauses, eying me with a hint of pain in her expression. “Well, I'm sure you understand. I couldn't afford any distractions.”
“Neither could I,” I tell her. “It was so hard to keep away, but I joined a unit that traveled through the Great Library. We discovered whole legions of the spiders' cousins there, those goddamn giant ticks... I found solace in throwing myself into the battle, but I heard stories about you. That you'd -”
I catch myself just in time.
“Go on,” she says sadly.
I shake my head.
“Please,” she continues. “Tell me what was said.”
“Just that you were losing your mind. That you worked day and night, that you never left the maps, that you toiled ceaselessly and that you were responsible for all our advances.”
“I didn't lose my mind,” she replies firmly. “Quite the opposite. I gained greater control over it, I compressed it so there was nothing wasted. Honestly, Absalom, this conversation with you is the first time in years that I've allowed myself so much as an unimportant thought.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I think.”
“You know what I mean,” she continues. “I suppose, by disciplining my mind to such an extreme extent, I abandoned any activity that didn't feel essential. Personal grooming, the ability to converse with others...” Another faint smile crosses her lips. “This is the first time in many years that I've actually talked to someone.”
“I'm glad I was able to get through to you.”
“Perhaps a short break will help my mind,” she continues. “Still, I must go back to the maps soon, and then the mask of madness will slip across me again. I think maybe it won't come off anymore, not after this. I know I can find a way to defeat the spiders, I have absolutely no doubt about that, but the cost...” She pauses again, before leaning across the small metal table and holding her hand toward me; I take it in mine, and I feel her squeezing tight. “You understand that this might be goodbye,” she asks, “do you not?”
I hesitate for a moment, before nodding.
“But you will live,” she adds. “I'm sure of that.”
“Living is not the most important thing right now,” I tell her. “The most important thing is that w
e defeat the spiders.”
“That we will,” she says firmly, “I promise you. And when you're out there on the battlefield, and you receive orders that make no sense, that sound insane, you must promise in return that you will follow them. That you will trust me.”
I nod. “Without any doubt in the world.”
She fixes me with a firm stare, before letting go of my hand and leaning back. For a moment, she seems poised to say something else, but finally she sips at her tea again.
“Cerulesis -”
“Are you scared?” she asks suddenly.
“No,” I reply, perhaps a little too quickly, “I'm... excited.”
“For war?”
“For the chance to win.”
“You shouldn't be excited,” she continues. “Only a fool would have no fear at this moment, and you're no fool. If you were a fool, I wouldn't love -” She catches herself just in time. “You know what I mean. You're so young, Absalom. Sometimes I forget that I'm older than you.”
I can't help but smile at this. “After the war -”
“Let's not talk about after the war.”
“But -”
“Let's not,” she says again, and I can see that she's holding back tears. “It all feels so far away right now.” Glancing over at the nearby wall for a moment, she seems lost in thought. “The shadows have moved a few inches while we've been sitting here. I should get back.”
“To your state of madness?”
“I think better that way,” she adds, finishing her tea and getting to her feet.
“There's more in the pot,” I tell her.
“Isn't there always?” She smiles. “I always knew that we'd have one last drink together. I looked forward to it, and now it's gone. It's already a memory.”
“Maybe another -”
She shakes her head, before taking a step back and then turning to walk away.
“I'll make it back tomorrow, you know!” I call after her. “We'll both survive, and one day the war will be over!”
“This one, perhaps. But I already sense another coming. A civil war. And after that...” She pauses. “I had a dream recently about the final, final battle. I saw a girl with flames all around her, clutching her belly. A dead spider was near her feet, but she felt great sorrow for that spider. There was a voice, whispering about a thirteenth demon. What could that mean?” She frowns. “See? I told you I'd gone quite mad. Demons, indeed...”
With that, she leaves the courtyard, and I know there's no point going after her and trying to get her to elaborate. She'll be halfway back to the strategy room by now, and soon she'll be lost once again in her madness. In the distance, I can hear Makho and the others getting more and more drunk, and while I'd usually be troubled by such a bawdy display, this time I'm actually glad of the noise.
I worry that if the night were too quiet, we might all hear the legs of thousands of spiders as they scratch their way across the mountains, heading straight for us.
Abby Hart
Today
“The council wouldn't listen to me at all,” Absalom says darkly, sipping from his cup of tea. “They just keep going on about how the spiders can't possibly attack Gothos. They've got their heads stuck in the goddamn sand.”
“What if I talked to them?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “They've got defenses in place, but that's just habit. They still think they have plenty of time to sit around talking. I swear, they'll still be drawing up an agenda for their first discussion when the spiders breach the main wall.” He pauses, before glancing at me. “This isn't the first time I've sat at Gothos and waited for a war to start. It's the third.”
“First the spiders during the original conflict,” I reply, “then the vampire civil war, and now tonight?”
He nods.
“I do wish someone would make some noise, though,” he continues. “All this silence is rather getting to me.”
I wait for him to continue, but he seems lost in thought, staring down at his cup.
“Who was she?” I ask finally.
As soon as he turns to me, I can see from the look in his eyes that I'm right.
“You lost someone,” I continue. “I can tell.”
“The last time I saw her was in this very courtyard,” he replies, his voice sounding more tense than usual. “We talked about the past and we drank bergamot tea.”
“The same tea we're drinking now,” I point out.
“The same tea I always drink these days.” He pauses again. “Then we went our separate ways to play our parts in the battle, and when I returned...”
His voice trails off.
“Did she die?” I ask.
“Worse. Her mind was in tatters. She spent the rest of her life in an asylum, although she was wheeled out again when the civil war broke out. I didn't see her that time. From what I heard, it would have been no good for either of us. A friend caught sight of her and said the madness had literally eaten her face and -”
He takes a deep breath, and I can tell the thought troubles him.
“What was her name?” I ask finally.
“Cerulesis.”
“That's pretty,” I reply. “I think I've heard of her before. She's mentioned in the Book of Gothos, isn't she?”
He nods again. “Briefly. The book doesn't go into much detail about her, most likely because no-one really wanted to dwell on her fate. Eventually she died, and by then the whole vampire species was in chaos anyway. Your father had made his journey to the catacombs of New York, and the prophecy had been sealed. Those of us who didn't die were forced to travel far away, to the other worlds, and there we waited and hoped that one day...” He sighs. “And now here I am, on the brink of yet another war, except this time I'm not young anymore. Three wars feels like more than enough for anyone. I can't imagine getting to a fourth.”
“There'll be no need,” I tell him. “After this battle, there'll be no more.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
Reaching into my pocket, I take out the box containing the Creolian petal. I pause for a moment, before holding it out to him.
“No,” he says firmly.
“You don't know what I was going to -”
“Yes I do. You were going to give it back to me and tell me I should use it to speak to Cerulesis again. I refuse.”
“But if you loved her -”
“Leave it alone, Abby,” he says firmly, with anger in his voice. “Not all of us gain succor by going back into the past.” He pauses. “I carried that box with me for many years, telling myself that one day I could open it and speak to her again. Eventually I decided that I'd rather look to the future, and I don't plan on revisiting that decision. I'd rather destroy the box and the petal. I'll see Cerulesis again when I die, and not a moment sooner.”
Figuring that there's no point arguing with him, I slip the box back into my pocket.
“Are you scared?” he asks.
I turn to him. “No.”
“That's the answer I once gave to the same question,” he replies. “It was the wrong answer.”
“Of course I'm scared,” I tell him, “but admitting it won't help. I'm scared that when we face the spiders, they'll overwhelm us. I'm scared that I'll make more mistakes.”
“You probably will.”
“Don't you have any faith in me?” I ask, shocked by his words.
He pauses. “Of course I do,” he says finally, but I can tell he's lying. “You've already killed, what, two spiders? That's halfway to a record.”
“I'll get more before I'm done,” I tell him.
He smiles. “I'm sure you will.”
“I will! I'll prove -” I catch myself just in time, as I realize I'm in danger of making a mistake like the one that got Ash killed. “You'll see,” I tell him finally. “I'll fight as hard as anyone else here. I'll fight like my -” I catch myself just in time.
My father.
I was going to say, I'll fight like my father.
“Drink your tea,” Absalom mutters.
Sighing, I take another sip, but I feel as if I'm wasting time by just sitting around. “Why don't we go and look for them?” I ask. “I hate feeling like a target.”
“Me too,” he mutters. “The worst part is...” He pauses, and I can see the hint of dread in his eyes. “I spoke to the council about my fears, but they dismissed everything I said. They told me Gothos is impregnable, that there's no way the spiders could get here without us knowing.”
“But you think that's wrong?” I ask.
“It's just a feeling,” he replies. “I keep sensing a presence, as if there's some kind of danger here with us already. I keep telling myself that I'm wrong, but I can't shake the fear that our ranks have already been breached.”
“You mean a spy? Something already inside the house?”
“I don't know. The feeling's getting stronger, though. I think we're missing something right under our noses.”
I pause for a moment. “Me too,” I tell him finally. “It's in the air somehow. A kind of stillness that doesn't belong. I was walking down a corridor earlier and I suddenly felt certain that someone was behind me, watching. I turned and there was no sign of anyone, but... This'll sound crazy, but I could sense that someone or something had been there, just a fraction of a second earlier.”
“I once swore that I'd never fight again,” he continues, staring into space for a moment. “I swore I was done, that I'd never need to pick up another weapon. Now I'm starting to think that as long as life itself exists, there will always be pain and suffering.”
“It'll be okay,” I reply. “We'll fight, we'll win, and then this will all be over. If we're lucky, this might even be the last time we ever have to fight.”
“I wish I could believe you,” he says, turning to me. “I remember thinking the same thing once, when I was a younger man. But here I am, facing another war and more bloodshed. I don't think it'll ever stop, Abby. I think we'll all be fighting until the day we die. And do you know the worst part of any battle?” He takes another sip of tea. “The night before. Like this night. The knowledge that tomorrow, we'll most likely die.”
