Before Leonaie can scream a hand from out of the darkness slaps her face, then the thud of something heavy bounces to her lap. Looking down she sees a severed hand, the skin is white and translucent. She flinches, cries out and flips her legs over the opposite side of the bed and stumbles back. The hand remains on the sheet. It is the hand of Samuel.
Emil Wishfeill with a drawn sword stands just beside Samuel’s body. He is watching the blood flow out onto the floor. He takes a nimble step to the side to prevent blood touching his shoes.
“As I have said,” Emil says, “I would return the hand. And there you have it. For my father. For my father.”
Leonaie is paralyzed with horror. Her mouth opens as if to scream, but there is no voice. Her eyes are glassed and unblinking. Her hand loosens and drops the hand held mirror. It shatters.
“Five years bad luck,” Emil says. “Isn’t that what you get for breaking a mirror?” Emil moves again to keep his feet from the flooding pool. White foam has formed a collar around Samuel’s neck. “Alas,” Emil says, “No healing from this one, I’m afraid. Now, what was his famous line to the barkeeper? ‘Maria, a bag. Perhaps we should double bag the head?’ Something like that.” He glares at her, “Leonaie, a bag! A bag! Dear me, I cannot wait to drop his head into the sea.”
The room whirls again. A tingle of glass beads chime in her ears. A mist forms in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m afraid you aren’t scheduled for termination, yet, my dear,” she hears him say as grief overcomes her. “Especially now. You’re the third immortal to be made. Albion will want to meet you.”
She does not notice him as he moves beside her. Nor does she see the rag rising up to her nose and mouth. Samuel’s face lingers like a ghost in a mirror behind her. She reaches out to the bottle of rose water. Her hand brushes over the glass bottles and the filigree boxes of chrome filled with color and powder. She is young again. Forever stretches out. Before he goes to the door, Samuel kisses her forehead.
Test
November 6, this year
Venice, Italy
“I think it would be in our combined interest if you allowed Julia to hold the leaves,” Albion Ravistelle says. His sword is raised and pointed at William’s throat. “When you fall, they could be damaged.”
“Hubris, Albion, hubris,” Greenhame says.
“Nay,” Albion replies. “It is simply destiny. Out with the old, in with evolution. Remove the gods, remove the greed of man—and you get an earth filled with leaves like the ones you hold. Evergreen and healing. Heaven on earth.” He taps William’s sword with his, nudging it to the side. “And survival for our kind.”
“Such zealotry. You are not seeing.”
“On the contrary. It is you that are blind to your bondage.” He then raises his voice to the small assembly, “Another thrall is among us. Shall we suffer him to exist?”
“Nay!” the group shouted. Julia recoils from the bursting voices.
As the sound fades away, Albion presses. His sword circles and plinks gently—playfully. William backs up, allowing Albion’s advance. Their styles are familiar, almost mirror-like. Their feet shuffle like a dance long rehearsed. Finally, Albion’s press becomes a violent attack. His sword extends and his body leans forward into a lunge. Lightening fast, the tip reaches well beyond William’s evasive dodge. In turn, William parries the blade, steps forward with his left foot and closes distance. He spins his wrist and slices Albion’s left cheek. Blood explodes from the wound as he lurches backward.
“Apologies, Apothecary. I meant to only touch you with the flat of the blade.”
Albion does not respond.
Their swords turn and parry in a flurry of moves.
William calls out, “Helen, my dear. Please do consider joining us. Your little boy misses you, and would very much like to be held by his mother.” Julia sees Helen’s eyes glisten suddenly. “I can take you to him—he is nearby.”
Albion hisses and with four bats against Greenhame’s blade, at a near run, he finds his target. Albion’s blade drags across William’s upper sword arm. The hard hit cuts through his sleeve.
“I, too,” Albion sneers, “meant the flat.”
A door at the far end of the chamber opens. Julia turns to see two more Endale Gen guards and a shorter man dressed in grey and black enter. The Endale Gen guards push a rolling stretcher in. Upon it is a woman. Silver grey hair, but the face of a young woman. Attractive. Julia’s focus ticks to William.
“Ah, Leonaie,” he says. “But no Samuel. Distressing.”
William moves his position back near to the entrance of the chamber. Julia notices a pair of the Endale Gen guards moving slowly around behind him. They draw. As Albion attacks again, pushing William into a retreat, Julia calls out, “Look out behind.”
Greenhame twirls his body to the right with his sword outstretched. His sword tip catches the guard across the throat. He falls. William then drops to a knee extending his arm into a stop thrust. The second guard impales himself upon his sword. William does not pause. With a single sweeping motion, he yanks his blade from out of the man’s ribcage and circles it through Albion’s forward leg. The blow does not separate the limb from his body, but it breaks his ankle. Albion falls to the floor in agony. William rolls his body, shoulder down and rises up behind him, the leaves cradled like a glass of wine. The sharp of the blade finds a resting place at Albion’s throat.
“How disappointing, Albion,” William whispers. “And it could have been just the two of us. No poetry for you, these days.”
With the glimmering blade angled to tear through Albion’s throat, William calls out to the audience. His tone is commanding and dramatic, like a stage actor breaking the fourth wall, “So kind of all of you to come, but I would ask now that the house lights be brought up bright, for you have but slumber'd here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream.” He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Aye me, why does my death delay?” He clears his throat, “Friends, drop your weapons, I beg.” There is no hesitation in Albion’s followers. Swords, daggers, firearms bang to the floor. “Well done. Now then, logistics. Julia, won’t you lift from the collection a pistol or some projectile weapon that you can handle?”
Julia finds a small revolver and pulls it into her grip.
“Very good, my dear. Helen, my sweet, won’t you step to the stretcher and gently wheel dear Leonaie to the door behind me? Julia, perhaps you might place the barrel of the weapon to the back of her head? I am uncertain if I trust Mrs. Newirth just yet.” The two women obey. Helen pushes the stretcher to the chamber entrance with Julia following closely.
He takes a long look around. His eyes stop on Marcus Rearden, “Doctor, do you care to depart with us?”
“Go fuck yourself, William,” Marcus growls.
Greenhame is unaffected. He rises. Albion stands with him. The sharp steel nicks his skin. The leaves at the side of his face.
“I thank you all for your cooperation while your master faces the shadow of oblivion.” He leans his head to the side and shouts. “Corey, la porta!”
The door behind them opens. Corey Thomas stands with four armed Orathom Wis. “Come, William. Quickly.”
“Where is Samuel?”
Corey’s voice quavers, “He is slain.”
“Alack,” Greenhame whispers. “Sweet Leonaie.”
Corey calls again, “Come away, William. I don’t know how much longer we have before he comes.”
“Then he is here,” William says. There is defeat in his voice.
“Come away!”
The far door opens. A figure rushes through.
William, “Julia, have Mrs. Newirth wheel Leonaie into the protection of our friends. Follow Corey.”
Running toward William now is Nicolas Cythe. He carries both a rapier and a dagger. He stops just feet away. “Young William,” he says, “let poor Albion go, won’t you? He and I have made amends. Perhaps it is time for us to do the
same. There is much to do between Heaven and Earth.”
The man’s hair is black. His eyes spiral with green stars. Julia feels a boulder swing inside her chest and pound against her rib cage. A searing rake of spikes crawls over every inch of her body. Everything spins. Tingling needles circling in her vision. Her feet shuffle and she is shaking. The pistol aimed at Helen’s head lowers slightly. Corey’s hand reaches to her, “The Rathinalya. Steady, Julia.” She crimps her eyes shut then opens them wide and inhales deeply trying to feel the flat of her feet against the solid wood floor. Leonaie lets out a aching moan from the stretcher. The sound of a nightmare.
Mastering this abnormal sensation, she nods at Corey and pulls Helen back by her shoulder. Helen moves with her.
“Another time, Nicholas,” William says. His tone is now solemn. “Another time.”
Cythe opens his arms. His head tilts slightly. The points of his weapons are raised like wings. “No time like the present, William.”
William presses his blade harder against Albion’s throat. Albion’s retching forces Cythe a step back. Julia can see drops of blood tapping upon the floor.
“Do not forget, Cythe—I am Orathom Wis. Though you might know of me as merciful, I have taken countless heads. Albion is quite aware of the danger he is in—and, I think, you do, too. Drop your weapons.”
Helen cries, “William, please—please don’t—”
The greenish gold flecks of light in Cythe’s eyes flare. Another vicious spasm of chills shudder through Julia.
Cythe’s weapons ring as they fall to his feet.
“Back away,” William says.
Cythe obeys.
William pulls Albion to the threshold of the chamber. “Follow us and I will destroy the leaves. I will destroy the tree of life.”
“Destroy it then, William,” Albion chokes. “Destroy it and we will start all over again. I am patient. I can wait. I can wait. I will not be ruled.”
“Do not test me.” With a heavy shove, Albion is sent rolling to the feet of Nicolas.
Standing in the closing door, William bows with blade in one hand and the leaves in the other. The door slams.
“You have a way out, I pray?” William says as the company moves swiftly down the corridor.
“William, do not test me,” Corey says. “I aided in the architecture of this stronghold. I knew this day would come.”
The Devil Inside
April, 1338
Strotford Manor, England
“William, bring my case to the table and open it, won’t you? And Robert, I will need three goblets and a pitcher of clean water.” The boy and the bishop stared at each other for a moment longer. Gravesend’s eyes pressed him, as if there were words within the gaze.
“William,” Albion said.
William pulled away and turned to the case. He hefted the it to the table and raised it up. With the help of Radulphus, he placed it beside the oil lamp. He then clicked the steel latch on the case and opened it. Turning he saw Albion leaning over the bishop. A moment later he came to the table. Looped leather straps held fifty or more glass vials to the lid. The lower compartment was filled with various pouches and envelopes, all organized in rows. William caught the smell of turf and peat. Robert stepped closer to get a look at the collection.
“So many,” he said.
“It is unlikely you’ll ever see a collection of medicines as thorough as this. Many are proven to ease—some are still in question, but they’ve shown good results. I do not carry a remedy if it doesn’t perform in some way,” Albion told him.
Albion’s finger brushed along the glass containers, searching. “I’ve just the thing for that wretched cough, Excellency. I am sure you would love to be free of it.” He pinched at a small vial—its serum was blackish. Robert set the pitcher and goblets beside the case.
Albion set to work. With a small blade, he cut the wax stopper from the vial and let fall three drops of the liquid into the goblet. He produced three dried stems from a small envelope. He then moved the goblet to the table’s edge.
“William,” he said. “Let’s give some flavor, shall we?” He gave into William’s hand four dried Thyme leaves.
“You know what to do,” came Albion’s deadly edict.
William took the leaves, and as he reached over the goblet his other hand easily released the stopper from the poison at his wrist. While he crushed the dry herb over a mortar, the scent of lemon bit the air—the poison drooled into the cup. He brushed the last of the thyme flakes from his fingers and pulled his hands away. Albion smiled at him. “Well done, William. Well done.” With a stone pestle Albion ground the thyme to a fine dust, poured it into the goblet and then filled it with water. Stirring, he lifted the concoction to his nose and smelled it for potency. “It is perfect,” he said. The boy watched the cup in Albion’s hands. He felt the cool of the empty glass at his wrist.
But before Albion could deliver the potion, the Sentinel at the foot of the bed rose and stood before the bishop. He was the largest of the four, tall and menacing. His barring gesture was simple to understand, You will not give this potion without an assayer.
“Mr. Stell,” Robert said, “I’m afraid that we must test your remedies before the bishop receives it. You must understand—”
“Of course,” Albion said. “If you would prefer, I will gladly partake of any medicine that His Excellency consumes.”
Robert’s eyes shifted to the sentinel and back to Albion. “Resistance and antidotes to poisons can be built within the body, Mr. Stell. With all due respect, we believe that one of our own will be a surer trial.”
Albion stepped back and bowed, “As you wish.” He handed the goblet to the doctor.
“Come, come!” Gravesend said. “Robert Peterson, give me the medicine. I am dead already without his aid. If he poisons me, he poisons me. At least I will be spared a few more days of suffering.”
Robert shook his head as he looked to the sentinel. “I am sorry, Excellency. We must test it first.”
“Peterson!” the bishop shouted through a series of wheezing, rattling coughs. “You will have Mr. Stell give me the potion, now!”
With another glance at the sentinel, Robert acquiesced.
The Sentinel stepped into Albion’s path.
“Father Cyrus!” Gravesend commanded. “Bring me the cup.” The monk paid no heed. He pulled the goblet from Albion’s hand and motioned to William.
Inside the dark hood, William thought he could see a kind of glowing, as if the cleric’s eyes were flaring with flecks of gold and green. He held the cup to William’s lips, his other hand clasped the back of the boy’s head. A menacing shock of a thousand stinging thorns forced the air out of William’s lungs. He struggled to keep his eyes from showing the pain. The monk tilted the drink into William’s mouth.
The flavor was sour. Abysmal. William thought of crushed insects, twitching legs and larva. Then, death. There was something within him that met the poison. His blood knew the contaminant. A warming rush of adrenaline overwhelmed the lethal drink and within moments the grotesque bite disappeared.
“Cyrus, are you satisfied?” the bishop said. “Now let the boy bring my medicine, won’t you?”
The monk remained motionless for a moment only—a slight hesitation, then offered the goblet to William.
As it came into his grasp, William stared into the poison as if it were a deep chasm. Pin pricks of light glinted far down in the abyss—like remote stars. With slow steps, and his eyes peering into the deep, he moved to Gravesend’s side. Under his shirt the leaves pressed him back. The surface of the drink now rippled. His hands began to shake.
He saw his mother’s eyes. Heard her last words on the grass before the abbey, “Seek for light in the dark.” Tears trailed in searing lines. The face of this man that killed his mother blurred. Was this vengeance or was it joy? As he drew nearer the Rathinalya faded.
William brought the edge of the goblet to Gravesend’s lips. The ailing bis
hop held William’s eyes.
But Bishop Stephen Gravesend did not have the chance to taste the potion. William pulled the cup away. He looked into the cup, back to Gravesend, to Albion and then his father.
The bishop, “What are you doing, boy?”
“Give the cup,” Albion said.
William’s hesitation was like the trigger of a snare. The room around him spun into motion. The assassins’ intention was now known.
A shuffling of feet, the sound of drawing steel, a rumbling of heavy steps upon the floor—and then the sudden return of the hissing, crackling hearth. Radulphus had been wrestled to the floor by two of the Sentinels, their swords were drawn and gleaming. Father Cyrus’s blade screeched into the light. Its sharp point aimed at Albion, backed against the wall. The final monk was behind William and his blade raised and angled to stab downward through the boy’s neck and into his abdomen.
William, with a gentle rotation of his wrist began to tip the cup and spill the poison when Gravesend’s hand sprung out, laid hold of the goblet’s stem and pulled it away. The bishop pressed the rim to his cracking lips and poured the drink down.
“Excellency, no!” Robert cried.
“I am justly paid,” he coughed, tossing the empty cup away. “I am justly paid, for I looked away. I was deceived.” A series of deep, concussive bursts from his lungs interrupted. “I will not live to see the dawn. If you have come for vengeance, be at ease. I am paid for my dealings. But learn my cause ere I depart this world. Cyrus! Lower your sword.”
The monk did not move. His sword pressed nearer to Albion’s throat.
“We will all die here today, William. You. The Apothecary. This priest—the priest I know is your father. Yes, boy, I saw you fall in Ascott before the church. We heard tell that your father was the abbot. I knew your face when you entered my chamber. Do not think the faces of the dead do not visit me in dreams. But you—you live.”
Another fit of clotted heaves. “For shouldn’t you, young William, be dead? I watched the blood drain from your body. You were left upon the grass. And now, here you are. Alive. I was told that there was but one immortal among your party, but now Cyrus has gained two.”
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 27
