by Blake Rivers
In the centre of the room was a large marble hearth, a blazing fire within. A low table sat in front, guarded by two leather settees set opposite one another.
Romany let go of her hand and seated herself, indicating for Ami to do the same. Ami touched down on the very edge, her hands folding in her lap.
Out of the shadows came two of the robed elders who’d taken Raven and herself prisoner. They stood in waiting, thin hands stroking beards.
“Where is Jonus?” Romany asked.
The first man bowed. “Madam Romany, I shall fetch him for you.”
“No,” she said, “I do not wish to be disturbed. Find him, let him know that I’ve noted his absence. That is all.”
The man bowed again and continued on out with the other. The second man locked eyes with Ami briefly before shutting the doors, and she wondered if it had been he who had attacked Raven. Then they were alone.
Ami shrank back into the sofa, weary and en guard. Was this woman aware of the power that now infected her every vein? That her own touch had revived that which she’d herself suppressed?
Romany’s power was static between them—it almost crackled.
The woman placed the sword down against the hearth, her expression impassive, giving nothing away. Ami was sure her own told her whole story…though perhaps not. If it had, the woman would surely not be wasting time on courtesy and comfort. The library was pleasant, caught in orange flickers and warmth. Disarming.
The crackle of the fire filled the silence between them.
Ami stared into the flames. They weren’t the same flames that Adam had set in a similar grate, ones that turned to green and showed images of the past; they were just flames, hot on her skin, relaxing to watch.
Finally, with a sigh, Romany spoke, her soft lips parting to flash white teeth.
“I want your story. I want you to tell me everything about yourself, including how you obtained the sword.”
“Why does it matter?”
“It matters.” The fire licked at the woman’s face, shifting the crescent of darkness, shifting the brilliance of light. “In turn I shall tell you of myself, if you wish to know.”
“Are you the one causing the layers to shake?” Ami asked, and to her surprise the woman smirked.
“Yes and no. Is that why you are here? To talk of tremors and shakes? We cannot start like this.” Her accent had become more pronounced, her voice remaining calm. Ami could have placed it in that moment, perhaps she could’ve guessed—something Eastern—but then the inclination slipped from her mind as the woman went on. “We must start with the story, the story from the beginning, for all reasons and all answers shall come from the story. When we read a book, such as one from my collection here, we do not look at it and then ask of another how the middle sections ends. No. We shall start at the beginning.”
“Then you start,” Ami said, “and you tell me your story.”
Romany’s eyes touched on her, feather-light. “Okay, I shall tell you, I shall tell you my story so that you know, but once I have done, you are to tell me all of you. A decision shall be made, but only then. A decision that can only be sounded when all cards are shown.”
Ami sat back, part of her mind chasing Raven through the dark, wishing she were with him, with her Hero; the rest remained focussed on Romany as she leaned forward into the light.
“Millions of years ago, there was a disaster that ripped the world apart; but for millions of years before that, there was us.”
*
Mattus closed the doors, but not without a further look back. The familiarity swept over him once more and he almost buckled. Trubus was there to catch him, but he shook him off. “I do not need your assistance, Brother.”
“If you are about to faint again—”
“I did not faint the first time,” he snapped. “It was—” But he didn’t wish to say, didn’t wish to confide. This was something that would frighten his brothers, and they would not understand. It could not be explained, though if there were reason behind it then the reason lay with her, with the girl.
He left the doors and walked away, Trubus hurrying to keep up.
“Where is Jonus? Madam Romany is not best pleased with his absence. She called on he before I. Where is he?”
Mattus did not answer, though he knew where Jonus had been. He’d found him playing with the man, had seen him. But Jonus had made matters worse, for the man had been spirited away by some unknowns—more strangers.
He pushed through a set of doors and continued on down a stairwell, no longer caring if Trubus followed. His mind was filled with the girl, images of the girl, images that haunted each corner of his mind. He would try to sleep, he would try to rest, but if she invaded his very dreams, what was he to do?
Slipping into his cell, he knelt by his bed in the pitch dark and prayed to the moon. He prayed that Madam Romany would give him worth, that she would have use for him, and that he would serve her well.
Part Two
Romany
Chapter Eight
Amber sparks burst from the dying log as if from a dragon, giving its last breath to the fireplace before finally collapsing, a used carcass burning still.
Carefully, the woman placed a new log upon the old; a dry snap of a broken thing, and the wood was lost, taken and consumed. The room brightened, and in that moment, all reflected with perfect clarity within the deep wells of her eyes, filled to the brim—a sheen, a shine, a glimpse of a tear…gone.
“Millions of years. Yes, a long time ago, before such things as dinosaurs, and before the sea finally took back the land; back when all continents were as one, together for a brief union, and even then, back further still. There is no date I can give you in any calendar that you’d understand, and no way to explain how long ago I am talking of and how it doesn’t even matter. Everything has changed, you see? Everything…changed.”
Ami listened in silence as the flames continued their obscene dance, the sacrifice slowly blackening.
They were dancing, too, the woman and she, she was sure.
“We were the original civilisation, the Sentries of Celestial. We ruled the lands as men do today, though we were more peaceful than men have ever been, more intelligent—too intelligent perhaps. Men existed, though were not much more than grunting apes. They lived outside the city in the forests and were of little concern. The city of Celestial though? How can I possibly explain?” She smiled. “It was our home, my home, a great city spanning almost the earth entire. I can see it now, the great white pillars of marble, the many steps of the tall council buildings; fountains flowing with sparkling water, tasting of fruits unknown and unmade; crowded markets, bustling trade, and the wide avenues that birthed scores of orchards for all to pick from and enjoy. There were many millions of us, all happy, each and every one. I never saw an unhappy person in all my time there, not truly unhappy. The sun would rise each day and crest the rooftops and buildings, setting a white fire on every stone surface, giving all that was green and brown life and growth. We had many meadows spanning hundreds of miles in all directions, home to woodland and lakes, and all animals that dwelt within each. Clear rivers connected the lakes and cut through the city to join the main branch, eventually leading to a faraway sea I’d never even seen, so vast was our world. And at night our land shone with white flamed lanterns below, and the brightest stars above. Perhaps the stars themselves saw our city as one of their own, a burning beacon misplaced from the cosmos. I don’t know.
“As far as we knew, and as far as I have ever known, we were the beginnings of all that surrounded us, for who else but ourselves would have created such perfect beings? We were our own parents, our own history, spontaneous existence from eternal infinity…a self-serving assumption to be sure, but who could say it was not so? We knew nothing of a time before. We were forever—or so we believed. In the end, it was that very belief that led to our ultimate demise.”
Romany looked now to Ami, though she seemed not to see her
at all. Her eyes had darkened and were now portals into memory of a long ago land.
“I was born and raised within the centre of the city, the capital of all governance within Celestial, and spent my youth with others my age, playing and creating, learning always. Upon reaching maturity I was tutored as a Creator, as my father had been before me, a position of great value. Others and I were tasked with the creation and recreation of life within the city, the wind of change and colour, such was the purpose of a Creator. I was to learn to master the powers that we all possessed, tame them, shape them, and with them learn to erect buildings from the ground, complete and functional—and of course, beautiful—and to level parts of the city no longer popular, putting them to better use. All of this was done with the power of mind and energy, magic.
“Though there was no death, and therefore no end, there was boredom and the need for change, and so the Creators were there to keep Celestial fresh. Inspiration was gained from imagination, though I also pulled from the wild forests outside of the city where the subspecies lived. I would visit them often, stepping quietly and quickly from the city, down the perimeter steps into the dark and unknown. I loved the feel of the branches as they scratched and groped, the cold earth beneath my bare feet, moist and strange, so much different from within the walls. I found all the inspiration I needed underneath the canopy of overlapping limbs.
“The smells were rich and I would close my eyes and practice, testing the scents and painting them as colours in my mind, and then off I’d go to explore, losing myself between the trunks for hours. I’d walk the slippery slopes of riverbanks where the ground disappeared, squelching through the mud to watch the shadowfish in dark water, and then on my hands and knees climb the fallen trees to reach a nest and spy on the feeding birds, their chirps so vital. I’d seek out the men who hid in hovels and rock caves, committing them to memory to bring back later as carvings within trees, their ape-faces exact in detail.
“I’d return filthy, the mud my paint, my mind brimming with all I’d seen. And then to work, to the courtyards of temples and council buildings, taking the drab stone surfaces in hand, and moulding them between my fingers into new life, new exciting, colourful things; vines, flowers, grasses; the brightest greens, blood red petals, sunrise golden leaves, scattered together in an explosion of life. The rose was a flower I’d found in the deepest and darkest realms of the outside, and the poppy had been lazing in the sun on the very outskirts of Celestial. I brought them all inside the walls. Ponds sprung up from grey, dry floors, and I squeezed the power within my hands tightly to create the golden fishes that swam there. It was a vocation and a passion. It was what I was.”
Her eyes flickered in the firelight, and Ami watched her words play out in her mind like so many pictures, the pages of history. A cloud was coming though, she could see it, a swell of grey confusion. It shimmered on the edge of naivety, hidden by the shadow of surety. It was where the story was headed.
“The earth was a much different place millions of years ago, and so were the skies, the universe entire. We knew of planets and stars, systems and galaxies, more perhaps than any will ever know again. Our Scholars of Solitude studied the planets from their ivory towers, fine tuning their scopes and lenses, watching for hours, days at a time, the thirteen planets of the solar system, all in perfect alignment. They were irresistible to their curious minds, all laid out among the stars like a welcome path, whispering to them, teasing them in the night. Come, know us. Can you imagine? Perhaps you cannot see.”
Romany sighed, folding her hands over and over. Ami saw the trepidation of the memories, almost felt sorry for her, for what was to come. She listened intently. “We were powerful, masters and creators of everything there was, all we could touch, taste, reach out to—but we could not reach out to the stars, and over time, the whisper became a voice, the timbre darkening in that one obsession. It became a thought that rippled through the scholars and out into the people. Celestial was no longer enough. We must have it all, for were we not Sentries? Creators?
“Soon everyone had caught the infection and a new fever was born within us, the voice a shout from the bell tower at midnight for crowds to gather for meeting and discussion. Eyes were drawn to the wonder of the tiny specks of flickering light, the small coloured spheres, and the shouts turned to actions, the magic that’d been a way of life to us becoming invention, industrious thought spreading like wildfire; everyone seemed to have an idea.
“Perhaps they should be brought? Lassoed and winched into an orbit? Or maybe a catapult of such power that half the city could be thrown in an instant to the unknown place? Roads were built, sloping to the skies, ending in nowhere as ideas changed. A stone ark was made, massive in size and ornate in design, big enough to take the entire population of Celestial. Upon its grand launch, hundreds were tasked with a joining of power to lift the giant boat swiftly into the night. We all watched as the white shape disappeared from view, and we all waited many days for its return. It never did. More plans were made instead, and while some took to flying, the power propelling them fast and long until they rose too high and froze, dropping from the sky, others thought of more subtle means, more scientific and mathematical.
“The earth was suddenly too small, too much a prison for our people. It was a virus we all caught, one that we had never encountered before. Why? Perhaps it was just our time to flounder…though I still cannot truly believe that.”
Ami was caught, the library no longer there as her eyes filled with the amber and gold of sunlight falling upon the figure of a woman, her hair a yellow fire as she leant against a doorway.
“One fine day, when all still seemed as it had, a friend appeared at the door of a temple I had been working in. I had just finished its new garden and was readying to leave.
“‘Romany, come, all are being summoned,’ she said, all too quickly and then was gone—I never saw her again. That memory stays with me most painfully; she, standing there in the doorway, the smile on her face like that of a child, pure innocence. I can no longer remember her name. We were but children, really.” Romany shook her head and wiped at tears Ami couldn’t see, composed herself and continued, bristling as if from the cold. The fire beside them burst orange embers that winked out into lapping tongues.
“I followed her through the doorway of the temple and out into the street. Immediately she was lost to me in a crowd, a mass of bodies moving as one and filling the wide avenue. From my last hold of the railing before being swept away, I caught sight of other streets emptying into my own, the throng heaving beyond the furthest buildings at the edge of view and filtering out into one of the large meadows I’d helped create at the centre of the city.
“I was taken, pressed between bodies both strange and familiar, my feet hardly touching the ground. It was hard to breathe. All was noise, chatter and talk, fearful, apprehensive and excited, a bubbling buzz. I caught few words, but those heard ignited the fever—this was an event, the event. They’d done it.
“We erupted as a cork from a bottle, spilling out across the lush green. Statues leaned over in greeting, empty marble eyes rolling, pale grey stone wings flapping in panic—I edged around them, stepping through flower beds and fighting hedge and shrub; the people, there were so many Sentries. It was an electric gathering, a festival brought together in a moment only.
“Spinning, I finally found an order and my place, close to the front, joining men, women and children, all encircling the centrepiece of our attentions: A marble and stone platform, rising up from the ground, an empty archway within, then another, and then a third; columns accompanied the arches coming to a canopy that sheltered all, settled upon the top. It was usual architecture, yet strangely foreboding, standing without structure, a lonesome gateway to nowhere. It made me shudder to look at it, though I didn’t know why. This was not the same as the ark or the roads to the sky, nor a catapult or lasso. In its simplicity, its smooth and simple lines of marble, it spoke silently of power and thought.
I cannot fully express, and maybe I alone felt it. It was bright white, but it felt like darkness.
“Eventually the crowds settled as a speaker with amplified voice took to the stage.
“‘Fellow beings,’ the speaker said, ‘we have finally surpassed ourselves in all previous knowledge and ability. We, Sentries, are truly the creationists of the universe, for we, together and alone, have found the secret to bridging the mighty gap between the worlds.’ He pointed up to the blue sky where, faint against the glare of the sun, outlines of each of the twelve other planets could be seen. Two were very much larger than the rest, and one of those was circled by ghostly rings. ‘We are truly great, truly powerful, and finally we may continue to carry our wisdom from this place and onward.’ All was applause and rapture. The speaker continued. ‘We shall travel the planets, we shall extend Celestial through this gateway, and we shall do this right now.’ He rejoined a group of robed men, the scholars who’d gathered close, eyeing their efforts smugly. I was hypnotised by this marvel of our intellect, of our power and superiority over all things. We all were.”
Romany sneered, her beautiful and impassioned face a sudden contortion in the flames. Ami saw a shadow there that seemed bigger than the woman, as if it covered her and owned her, a parasite over a hollow shell. And then it passed, and the flames took her eyes once more.
“The scholars, each in turn, presented their power as if an offering to a temple, the worship of a new god—and why not call this god Progress by name? For that’s what it was, what it was meant to be. Soon the power of each had combined to create the symbol of the Sentries. It floated in the air like a mist, rising from upturned faces and twitching fingers, all too keen, all too confident. Trails of power connected the crowd as willing Sentries gave themselves to it, feeding it as they’d done before. It was expected, it was why they were gathered, to power the crossing. Now many more joined—I joined—in intimate contact of body and soul, each Sentry just a puddle in the pool. The ghostly shape contracted and descended on the gateway. Now only a palm-width of glorious white across, it settled upon the surface of nothing and spread to fill the archway, shaped as the figure ‘8’. It glowed and shimmered, turning silver and then crystal glass.
