Alone in the corner, he fixed his eyes on the two of them, and though much discipline and time was needed before he would be a seasoned spellcrafter, Paganini had gifted him with a Mother Yarrow. She listened to his head, and saw what he saw, knew what he knew. Her incredible power watched over him and emerged in dire need, though in the meantime, only trickles of her true force fueled his meager requests and spells. Anything greater might arouse suspicion from the likes of Temujin Gur and attract unwanted attention. So he watched Johanna and Gleb, and whispered to himself, Nai Yarrow, deixe-me escoitar (Mother Yarrow, let me hear), and the first voice he heard was Gleb:
"... but if I am suddenly rich?"
"It will take him days to die, and you can hide the gold in the wall of your room, just as you have before.”
“Then I …“
“This cannot be delayed. The fool just informed me he will resist to his dying day any effort by Empress Elizabeth to marry his daughter to her nephew Peter, and I cannot have this. We must act quickly. His day to begin dying is now."
"Yes, I understand."
"His brat of a daughter will be crushed by his death and that will not be a source of unhappiness to me. And once the deed is done, you will see to the destruction of this World Stormer thing. Do you hear? Pound it to pieces. It humiliated me."
"Yes, mistress. It will be done. I will personally see to its wreckage."
"Fail in these tasks and I will see to your wreckage, Gleb Brerezhnoy."
Zolo heard Gleb moan. It was almost enough to make Zolo feel sorry for the bully, but no time for pity, not for Gleb. And how many other murders had he committed for her? Zolo pondered it all, heard the words repeated in his head:
It will take him days to die.
* Оверман *
PONDERING THE DEATH OF THE OLD WOMAN from the troupe, and feeling guilty in a way she could not dismiss, Freddie resolved to consider the matter further in her castle bedchamber. Despite the adrenaline rush she experienced, the excitement and horror of the banquet had frazzled her nerves and exhausted her.
Upon entering the bedchamber she lit a few candles, changed out of her heavy banquet garment, and warmed herself before a fireplace blaze prepared by the maidservants. Once warmed, she began to tremble. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps the insanity of the banquet had finally caught up to her? She stood and walked towards her four-post bed, desiring to lie down, but her intentions were interrupted by a small teakwood music box on her bedside table. Where had it come from? A gift perhaps? She sat on the bed and felt compelled to open it without hesitation, as though a gentle force inclined her, and once done, she heard strange yet incredibly beautiful violin music. The violin sounded so perfect she knew it must be a Stradivarius. It touched her soul with hope and sadness at once, and tears began to fall from her eyes as she sat on the bed to listen. She imagined great white seabirds riding the breeze of a pink dusk, the crashing of brutal ocean against the windy cliffs of forever. It uplifted her soul while reminding her of her own mortality. It filled the dark smoke of her head and turned it to light.
Nothing but light.
Years later, as she tried to move her body, she felt stiff and tingling, as though she’d been sitting in the same position forever. Then her eyes began to focus. The source of light became a window, an arched window without shutters at least fifteen feet away and over ten feet tall from sill to top. Through this window her eyes beheld enormous, snow-peaked mountains in a misty distance, big as the Himalayas beneath a sky blue as European winter, and in that sky, streaks of cloud and specks of white bird, like gulls, circling and soaring.
Could this be a dream? Gulls meant ocean nearby, but ...?
The violin music resumed.
That same music. This can only be a dream.
She rose from her seat, wobbly and stiff, and walked forward towards the window. From only a foot away she stopped and beheld a sight that stunned her. Before her rose a city, the most godlike city imaginable. Scores and more scores of four-sided towers gleamed in the sun, thrusting up for many hundreds, even thousands of feet, rivaling the snowy mountains beyond in sheer grandeur. Composed of brilliant white and golden stone, they possessed countless numbers of arched windows from base to crest, many of the towers with dark bronze balconies brimming with brilliant flowers, plants and small fountains; and all of them topped with massive roofs of carnelian-red tile flaring out from the tops—like Tibetan structures in paintings she’d seen, but on a scale far larger than she would have ever believed possible. And too, the sound of mysterious wind voices touched her ears, gusts and mellower breeze carrying soft words and melodic whispers incomprehensible to her. Pillows of cloud and white gulls drifted among the towers, and the teary-beautiful violin music became one with the dream city. As she stared, unmoving, one of the gulls soared nearby.
She turned her head to glance at it.
She blinked twice, and realized, it was not a bird at all.
The body of it belonged to a human being.
Man or woman she did not know. The white wings of a gauzy light material tightened over a thin-wood frame, and it reminded her of ... yes, a sketch of a flying device imagined by Leonardo Da Vinci. That’s it. But these fly, actually fly. The wings lifted these Da Vinci-like magic contraptions to whatever heights they wished.
This is a dream, one of those wherein I can hear my thoughts saying, 'this is a dream'.
She imagined her arms fitted in the flying wings and she raised them before her, as if asking the gods of this city for her own wings, and then she noticed: My arms and hands are larger, my arms stronger, as though I am older. And next, she heard words in her head, as when Temujin Gur had spoken to her without lips. The voice male, though richer and calmer:
"Turn around and see, Princess von Anhalt."
She turned around as the dream voice commanded and saw herself in a tall mirror. She appeared older by several years. But how many? She saw a powerful and excitingly beautiful woman, her hair longer than ever and cascading over her full chest, her pure white skin draped in a sleeveless carnelian chemise that fell to her ankles. She felt cool inside of it, breezy and vital, and as her mind cleared, her being surged with a feeling of unbelievable power. She felt as though she could tear down castle walls with her bare hands or squeeze sword iron to putty. All part of the dream, a wonderful dream, or perhaps this is Heaven. Mother has poisoned me and I have arrived. Let it be so then. At least I lived to see her afraid of me.
"You are nineteen in years, and Princess Johanna has not tried to poison you, at least not yet."
That voice again. But where? Where stands the god who speaks?
"On the contrary, I am godless ... Over here, princess, to your left."
Freddie turned to her left, and way across the room saw a man sitting behind a four-legged wooden table not more than five feet long. She noted various contraptions and papers on the table top. The man's head was down and he busily wrote with a large golden pen. His clothing simple: a black waistcoat over a white long-sleeve shirt with broad cuffs. She walked towards him and the image became clearer as he stopped writing and glanced up at her: his narrow head framed by wavy dark hair that fell to his shoulders, his skin pale, nose long and craggy, lips thin, and his eyes, small and sleepy eyes staring at her with a look she interpreted as apathy, as if he had spent most of his life eternally bored because he could never be surprised, and her appearance before him now was no exception.
At this point she wished the dream would take another turn. She walked to within a few feet of this odd sleepy man and halted. He placed his golden pen down on the table beside the paper, the head of the pen easily the size of her thumb. She looked more closely and saw an actual head, that of Buddha, for she recognized the placid face and the three-fin helmet.
"This is no dream, my future Czarina, and you are not drugged. You are in a city known as Saravastra, named after the Hindu Goddess Sarasvati. The year is 1898, the country Tibet. Those are the Himalayas outside and my name is
Niccolo Paganini. I am a World Maker and known in this place as the Time King Bodhisattva, though such title is admittedly my own and not bestowed by Tibet's Buddhist monks, or any other tradition," he said with a weak smile and cleared his throat.
Freddie noticed his long and delicate white fingers placed atop the table, looking like precious sea anemone. His left foot below the table slid back and forth. Such an odd tic!
“You are the ... Bodhisattva King … on Time?” she asked in a daze.
No answer to her question, though he said, "I do follow the tenets of Buddhism, however, and find them gratifying. You might consider it at some point, but that is a discussion for another time, perhaps in the year 3145, or earlier, in 1683."
Freddie reached over with one hand and pinched her other arm.
Paganini continued. "The woman whose body you inhabit is you, of course, but at the age of 33. The consciousness of your older self is within you now, listening and watching, and freely allowing you to inhabit her. When your own consciousness returns to your castle, your hand will still be on the music box, and all of this will have happened in less than one tenth of a moment, and reside forever as a memory lodged safely in your left wrist."
"My wrist?"
"Yes, in a place where Temujin Gur, as you call him, will not notice. We don't wish him to know your soul has traveled to Saravastra. The images and knowledge you gain here become like a beacon of light in your head because they are so unique and tantalizing. The Mongolian warlock would spot it in a moment. We need to conceal it but allow it to trickle into you as needed."
"I think I—"
"No, you don't understand, not yet."
Before she could answer, another voice, sounding like hers, cut in and said:
But you will.
A whisper in her head, But you will. Another voice intruded into her mind. When would it end? It made her realize she might be going insane.
No, not insane. You are me, and you are awakening, the whispering voice inside her said.
It was definitely her voice, no question.
Yes, I am you, but you as you will be many years from now. You must listen to your new acariya, Paganini. Pay no attention to his manner. He is one with sadness and great troubles.
Paganini lifted a single piece of paper from the desk, and handed it up to Freddie. She took it from him and read the words on it:
I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.
"Those words were written by the man who is our enemy, Master Edison Godfellow. You know him best as Leonardo Da Vinci," Paganini said, his face flat and demeanor likewise. Would anything ever stir the man to passion? His nose twitched, his foot still sliding back and forth beneath the table. His beautiful white fingers intertwined with each other as though about to copulate and give birth to more fingers. Freddie began to feel irritated, but then she noticed a strikingly beautiful violin sitting on a stand behind Paganini. She'd heard stories of the Messiah Stradivarius, the most wondrous and perfect violin in the world.
Might this be it?
Back to more important matters though.
"Da Vinci? You mean Da Vinci of—"
"Yes, that Da Vinci. The famous Da Vinci. He now has his own cult of personality, so to speak that he calls, the Quadro del Overman, or Cadre of The Overman, and his army of spellcraft captains and Dio Soldati, or God Soldiers, are spread throughout the centuries like a growing pox. We are waging war against them, a war for utopia you might say.”
Freddie gaped at Paganini, looking dumber than ever in her life.
"For now, consider it a deadly chess match in four dimensions, and you, Princess von Anhalt, are the only Queen on the board. You do play chess, quite well, yes?"
"I do ... but why am I—"
"Your rare aria power. Only one other World Maker ever possessed it. The demonstration you gave at the banquet for Empress Elizabeth was only the beginning."
"What happened, sir, to the other possessor of aria?"
"You will learn, in time." Paganini sat back in his chair, staring at her with his sleepy eyes, his anemone fingers uncurling and resting on his belly. “We were once friends, Edison and I. We were both born in bronze age Italy, blessed or cursed by Ahriman, I am not certain which.”
“Ahriman?”
“A magical being who fell to Asia from the stars ten thousand years ago. It is said he instills his power in the World Makers at birth, and we grow to realize it, just as you are realizing yours."
"I am ... yes."
"By age sixteen I ruled the Etruscans, and Edison moved to the Middle East to become Sargon of Akkad, a rather ruthless dictator. I never approved of his militarism, but he mellowed going into the 14th century, content with art and invention until he adopted the dangerous philosophy of a man who hasn't yet been born in your own century, a philosopher by the name of Friedrich Nietzsche. Edison considers him to be a prophet for the next stage of human evolution that he terms, “Age of The Overman.”
“Evolution?”
“You don’t know Charles Darwin yet, but never mind. Edison believes he must usher in this new stage of humankind and do so on the backs of millions of corpses and enough tears to create another Atlantic Ocean should it ever dry up."
"Millions of corpses? … Forgive me for being so ignorant. This is all—"
"Forgiveness isn’t necessary. You must know the facts, and that is part of the reason you are here. Two major wars will happen in the 20th century. Both are catastrophic beyond imagining, accomplished with a violence you would never believe possible. Edison supports them as part of his utopian plan to create a new order of human in the 21st century. Whereas, we of Saravastra wish to prevent these ruinous wars and usher in a world both peaceful and wise, and one populated by real humans. We believe improvement of the flesh far less important than improvement of mind and soul. This is our vision of utopia, and Edison and I have debated the opposed visions endlessly.”
“This is all … so much to—”
“By the way, do you know that water falls from the stars? Our tears belong to suns that have perished.”
One overwhelming impression on top of another! She found it hard to cope. What happened to the voice of her other self? If not mad yet, she might well go mad soon enough.
You will not. Be strong.
Before she could relax, she heard a familiar noise, a zzzzzt-click sound, then another. Might the World Stormer of Anhalt be arriving? If so, no one, not even her other self could convince her of the current reality.
But it wasn't the World Stormer.
She turned to see something far more horrible. My God! She let out a gasp and stepped back. One of those evil things she witnessed in her vision back at Bärenthoren, one of those hideous insect things with a frog face that chased her and barked. Now a smaller version, walking on thin legs of gleaming bronze, zzzzzt-clicking as it went, and upon its back, a table-like surface upon which sat bowls and glasses of food and drink.
The Fracas mini-machine clattered up to the table and stopped. Paganini sighed and reached over to pick up an empty plate. He chose a large serving spoon and began to place food upon it—what looked like herring, banana slices, and strawberries. “Pardon, we are famished. World making is enough to make you ravenous,” he said with sarcasm in his voice.
"This thing ... things like this, tried to kill me. I saw the vision—"
"A lie!" Paganini almost shouted, sounding annoyed. "A lie arranged by Temujin Gur to sow distrust. He is in truth, an ancient Wizard God, almost as powerful as a World Maker, and in the employ of Edison Godfellow … or so Edison believes. His task is to mature your powers because Edison has plans for you. However, I suspect Gur nurtures his own schemes for world making. He is insane and nearly powerful enough, but the details are vague … and one of your two maj
or tasks in the days to come will be to help us discover these details."
"My tasks?"
"I feel certain that Temujin Gur will not honor the southernmost war line defined by the Treaty of Nicholas, signed by Edison and myself."
"War line?"
"The treaty draws the line at 1529, the year of the siege of Vienna by the Ottoman Empire. We call it The Nicholas Line, named after the defender of Vienna, and we both agree it is crucial the Ottoman Turks lose that conflict and that events leading up to it remain in place. The Mongol Gur, however, knows no such boundaries. I believe he will cross the Nicholas Line in defiance, if he can muster enough power … I would have him dead, but he is a difficult kill. I annihilated him once and he sprang up elsewhere, like a cancer."
Freddie believed that by all rights she should be in the throes of madness or shock brought about by this glorious and terrible dream that was not a dream. “How will Temujin Gur mature my powers?" she asked.
"Through conflict. Your powers and your ability to control them develop as a result of use. The more you are forced to use your powers, the more easily they become a part of you, and no better way than conflict, hot emotions and actual fear for your life. Whatever does not kill you, makes you stronger."
And a portion of my strength will follow you back to Europe.
"But there is more,” Paganini continued. “We must trick Gur into helping us defeat Edison’s plans. We must hurt the old Da Vinci where he lives, in his precious Dubai. The future belongs to the bold, my future Czarina."
She knew of the siege of Vienna, of course, but Dubai puzzled her. Before Freddie could respond, she heard yet another noise—a roaring sound, like a volcano erupting in the distance, and growing louder, as if a mountain of hot ash cloud bore down on Saravastra. She swiveled around to see, through another open window way across the room, a ball of roiling light streaking down like a blazing asteroid through the artic blue sky.
War of the World Makers Page 10
