Heartland tcos-2

by Mark Teppo

  For a moment, I felt their reunion-father and daughter-and was filled with an overwhelming sensation that I had done the right thing.

  Nuriye's hair stirred about her face. I had expected it to be windier at the top of the tower, but the atmospheric pressure was so heavy that nothing more than a thin breeze could survive. She faced east, looking toward the glowing white shape of Sacre-C?ur on Montmartre. Her cheeks were damp, and though there were goosebumps on her bare arms, she didn't seem cold. At her feet, in one of the clear spots on the roof, was a white circle, filled with squirming sigils.

  "The light is coming," she said, nodding toward the faint line splitting the eastern horizon as Vivienne and I joined her. "It is nearly time."

  "Right," I said, adjusting my grip on the case with the swords. "I guess I'd better get on with it then." I hesitated for a second as Vivienne touched my arm.

  "Nothing has changed," she said, and I shivered at the echo in her voice. That echo of other egos, and I wondered again if that was how everyone heard my voice or if I was more sensitive to the sound. "The events that have led us to this place have not been undone. There is still culpability and responsibility for the choices that have been made. Innocents died because of the actions of those who were entrusted with the secrets."

  "I know," I said. "We all still have a lot to answer for."

  She looked at the gauntlet attached to my arm for a moment, and then her gaze moved up to my face. "Nevertheless," she said. "We may stand up in here in the open air because of your gift. Thank you."

  I nodded. "You are welcome." I looked at Nuriye. "All of you."

  Nuriye pointed toward the white shape of Sacre-C?ur. "The circle is calibrated to land you on the roof, near the statue of St. George and the dragon. There is an observation tower-a tourist lookout-nearby, with stairs that lead down to the side of the main chapel. You are still outside, but, at least, you are not at the bottom of the steps."

  "Close enough," I said.

  "I have called Viator Vraillet. Do you know him?" When I nodded, Nuriye continued. "He is friend of the family, and is willing to do us a favor in that memory."

  "That is very kind of him."

  "He won't kill any of his brothers. At least, no more than he has already. But he will aid you as best he can."

  "Hopefully, it won't come to that."

  "I hope so too," Nuriye said. She raised her face to the heavy clouds overhead, and the wind toyed with her hair again. Vivienne's long blonde hair danced around her shoulders, crackling with static electricity. "The wind is changing," Nuriye said.

  The blackness of Heaven was fading, and the gray clouds that had besieged Paris for the last day were breaking up, fleeing the dawn. As if they knew what was going to happen in less than an hour. One way or another, the Land would make a choice.

  It was too bad that I was probably going to miss the turning of the season.

  Nuriye was thinking the same thing, but she kept the thought off her face-mostly-as she raised her fingers to her lips. She kissed them, and knelt to activate the circle. The white writing glowed bright, and the thrum of magick crystallized into the round sigil written onto the roof. The Chorus touched the conduit between the circle and its destination; they could sense the golden statue of the angel and the dragon on the roof of Sacre-C?ur.

  "It is ready," Nuriye announced, as she stepped back from the flight circle. She kissed her fingers once more and touched them to the edge of my metal wrist, and the electric touch of her blessing lit the trailing edge of the Chorus. "Good luck," she said.

  I smiled at her as I took a step forward and felt the tingle of the circle's magick take hold of my leg. I met Vivienne's gaze, and saw the glimmer of her Chorus watching me, and I nodded farewell to them. Salve, patres. Nunc, meam viam indagabo.

  "Salve, fili," she Whispered.

  I focused my Will, and touched the storming mass of energy coiled beneath the circle. With a tiny exhalation, I said yes to the magick, and the rooftop of Tour Montparnasse fell away behind me.

  The white basilica went from being a white dot on the horizon to a rounded dome that filled my vision. The green-colored sculpture of St. George and the dragon loomed, and for a second, I thought I was going to impale myself on the saint's upraised standard. The Chorus flowed into a swirling umbrella of energy beneath me, absorbing the shock of the landing, and I walked away from the jump as casually as if I had just stepped off an escalator.

  Precision targeting: the joy of having a professional set the spell for you.

  Vraillet, standing in the observation tower off to my left, whistled and waved to get my attention. I jogged over, noticing the heat radiating through the stones of the roof. The Chorus refused to fold back into my head; the heat made them agitated, even though there was no active threat.

  In a little while, the sun would break the horizon and its light would hit this point, the highest point in Paris-Tour Montparnasse, notwithstanding. Axis mundi, I thought, trying not to dwell on the sensation that I had been in this situation before. Running in front of dawn, trying to stop those who waited for the light. Over and over, I thought, until we got it right.

  I handed up the wooden box holding the swords and then grabbed the lip of the tower, hauling myself up and over the edge. Inside, the stone was black with age; it was like crawling into a tomb, and the Chorus collapsed into an even tighter array. The stairs were narrow and steep, and the ceiling was six inches too low, and I slipped more than once on the way down.

  As Vivienne had warned me, the tower's egress was on the side of the church, and in order to reach the main chapel, I had to walk around the front of the church. The ground fell away quickly from Sacre-C?ur, and the view down the steps and out across Paris was phenomenal, all the more so with the radiant light from the souls of the Watchers who had gathered for the Coronation. Seeing the rippling wave of their lights as they zeroed in on me took my breath away, and for a moment, my courage wavered.

  The Architects were gone, and I was on my own. Even though I had made this choice myself, even though I had come here of my own volition, the reality was a sudden shock. A moment of terror at the enormity of the task before me. Even more so than when I had climbed the tower in Portland to face Bernard. It had been different that night: I was the man for the job. I had been driven to that point for the very purpose of stopping the mad alchemist.

  This was different. In a little while, the light of the dawn would inaugurate a new era of leadership of La Societe Lumineuse. There were people inside Sacre-C?ur who were qualified for the role, who had fought hard to be there. What the hell was I going to do? I was one man, standing against the assembled rank. I had no allies, no support. I was all alone, and one man couldn't make much difference against a host of this size. Against all the forces arrayed against him.

  One is a start, John Nicols reminded me. Isn't this how you cross the Abyss? By being here-in the now-and anchoring yourself. His presence was like a spike driven into the ground, and for a split second, the world revolved around this point beneath my feet. I could feel everything around me: the thick ocean of the Land banging against my spike into the Weave; the thousand points of light of all the other Watchers doing the same thing; the sun, behind me, creeping closer to the horizon as the planet spun on its axis. Be true. Here. Now.

  The attention of the Watchers was now upon me. Witnesses, every one of them. Making True the Record. For a second, we stared at each other, marking this moment in time.

  There were too many of them; fighting them wasn't the way. Just as pushing against the tide of energy flowing into the church behind me was equally as pointless. I could not stop the sun from rising. I could not stop the Coronation from happening.

  Philippe's recommendation rose up in my mind, a burning coal of anger still resident in my head. Burn it all down. Floating above, buoyed aloft by the heat rising from this hot desire was John Nicols' demand from the woods outside Ravensdale. Show me altruistic occultism. Show me that one man can
make a difference.

  "Salve, mi fratres," I said, breaking the silence, and offering them the traditional greeting. They were my brothers, after all. Against the vast etheric sea, they were as tenuous points as I, tiny outposts barely able to hold their ground against the battering waves of energy pummeling them. They were alone too, as frightened as I was as to what happened next. They were no closer or further away from understanding than I.

  We were all Seekers.

  "What is the meaning of this, Viator?" someone inquired from the front rank.

  Vraillet, still holding the box of swords, only shook his head. It wasn't his place to say.

  But the question had been asked. The opportunity given. I would be allowed to answer.

  "Five years ago-" I started, trying to reach as many of them as I could before someone decided to not wait and hear me out. Before they decided to incinerate the air in my lungs. The words were ready, almost as if I had been waiting a long time to make this speech.

  Perhaps I had been. Perhaps this was what I had wanted to say to Antoine on the riverbank. Or to Philippe when he had come to die. Or perhaps it was what I had never managed to tell myself.

  "Five years ago," I continued, "I was challenged to a duel by Antoine Briande. He was a Traveler at the time, and I was but a Journeyman brother. We fought, with swords, beneath the Pont Alexandre bridge. He claimed victory, and so was it inscribed upon the Record. Yet, I stand before you this morning. Am I ghost, or is the Record wrong?"

  No one lit their spell. I continued before the moment broke.

  "Two months ago, some of your brothers attempted to bring about the end of the world with a heinous device built from knowledge left behind by Hermes Trismegistus. Look around you, brothers; if you know nothing of this act, then consider the possibility that the man next to you did. That your brother condoned an experiment where thousands of innocent souls were harvested. That your brother cared so little for the lives of those he had sworn to protect from the mysteries that he allowed them to be torn from their flesh and transformed into energy meant to power the device.

  "Antoine Briande, as a Protector-Witness of our fraternity, was there that night in Portland when the Key of Thoth was ignited. What did he claim when he returned as the Witness? That he stopped the magi responsible from causing even more havoc than they had. Did he claim that the deaths sustained were a lesser of evils? It could have been much worse. Did he tell you that?"

  The Chorus held its anchor against the chaotic churn of the Land. The waves beating against me were both thick and diffuse. There were too many magi present, all fighting to tap the currents without being burned by the profusion of power. Some were struggling to control their taps, more had given up and were listening.

  "More than fifty thousand died that night. Have we become so inhuman that all we can say is that it could have been worse?" I shook my head. "But it got worse, didn't it? What happened after Protector Briande 'saved' us all? What came next?

  "Your Hierarch, Philippe Emonet, was dying. That is what came next. Consider now, if you did not already know this, the cost borne by your liege for the death of a city. Ask the brother next to you what happens to the Hierarch when darkness devours the Land; ask your brother if he did not know how the death of those fifty thousand would poison the body and spirit of the Hierarch. And with the loss of his spirit, what followed?" I nodded. "Yes, we began to fight among ourselves."

  Glossing over the fact that it had started several years prior, I think they knew what I meant. The Upheaval was a general shift in focus; the last few days had been war. The difference between Cristobel's long-range vision and Lafoutain's view from the rank.

  "We have all lost friends recently, haven't we? Was it worth it? What have we gained from the death of our brothers? Have we gained knowledge? Does this blood on our hands bring us closer to the Divine? When the sun rises over the top of this dome behind me, will it bless you for all that you have done?

  "There will be a new Hierarch soon, and whoever he may be, he will be the leader we deserve. I ask you now, mi fratres, do we deserve a man who has lied to us? Antoine Briande did not stand against Bernard du Guyon in the tower. He did not stop the harvest in Portland. Fifty thousand died because he stood by and did nothing. Yes, it could have been worse, but it did not have to happen at all. I was there, mi fratres; I went to the tower and confronted Bernard-not once, but twice, and that is more than your Protector did."

  I turned toward Vraillet and opened the case. The gauntlet was clumsy, but I managed not to drop the sword as I picked it up. The fingers continued to tighten about the hilt as my Will meshed with the magick in Modrone's armor.

  Turning back to the crowd of Watchers, I raised both swords.

  "You could kill me now," I said with a laugh. "All of you. But, instead, I ask a boon. Ritus concursus. The Protector is a liar. He calls himself your Shepherd, but he cares not for the flock which he has been charged to protect. I challenge his right to participate in the Coronation. I challenge his right to claim the title of Architect and to approach the Land. Will you bear Witness to my challenge?"

  Vraillet smiled, a wicked smile of satisfaction. "I will," he said, and his reply was picked up by others, spreading in a wave of sound down the hill. It wasn't unanimous, but the roar of approval was more than enough to consecrate my challenge.

  "And I accept," came a voice in the silence that followed the shouts of the Watchers.

  The tall door of the church was open and Antoine stood there, framed by the heat mirage blooming out of the church. "Ah, the rough beast has slouched his way here at last," he said. He beckoned with his left hand. "Tempus fugit, Michael. Bring your toys; I want to make you bleed a little before we end this once and for all."

  He held the Spear in his right hand. My right hand. He had attached the whole thing to his arm, and much like Nuriye had magicked the gauntlet so I could operate it, Antoine had forced my dead flesh to respond to his Will.

  So much for handicapping the fight to my advantage.

  XXXV

  Kind of heavy on the rhetoric, weren't you?" Antoine noted as we walked up the central aisle of the church. My attention was drawn to the gigantic mosaic of Christ over the main sanctuary. I had forgotten how huge that piece was. Behind me, over my right shoulder, was the tiny rose window that held the sacred heart.

  Sacre-C?ur. Built ostensibly to honor the dead of the French Revolution and, later, the dead of the Franco-Prussian War, the church was erected on the highest point in Paris, and was dedicated to the motif of the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ. The symbolic representation of love for mankind by the Divine. Used by the Watchers as the center of their universe during the annual renewal of the Hierarch's promise to the Land. To Watch and to Wait.

  "They deserve to know," I replied. "You lied to them."

  Antoine was examining the sword I had given him. "There are worse sins, my friend. Besides-" He shrugged off the weight of my words. "It is your word against mine. When this is over, the matter will be settled." He glanced at me. "Once and for all."

  "Once and for all," I echoed. "It'll be nice to be done with it, don't you think?"

  Antoine didn't answer.

  Inside the church, the presence of the Land was palpable. The leys came here, pouring all the world's energy to this nexus. Once a year. The abundance of energy beneath our feet was overwhelming; too much, in fact, for the ground to contain. It was almost like an inverse of the blank oubliette where there was no etheric energy to tap; here, there was such density of force that it was starting to collapse in on itself. Too much longer and who knows what would happen. A black hole of magickal force, perhaps. Or something worse. I didn't really want to find out. Nor did anyone else.

  Tapping this energy would release an uncontrollable eruption of power. It would be like trying to stick a pin in an overinflated balloon and control the release of the air trapped inside. You can't control the release of all that pressure. It tears everything around the hole, and th
e entire balloon becomes a ragged scrap of cheap rubber.

  That'd be my fate if I tried to tap the power. Turned inside out and spattered all over the church floor.

  Antoine could tell what I was thinking. Sweat beaded across his forehead and on his upper lip. How long had he been standing in here, waiting for dawn? "It's too much, isn't it? Too much for anyone."

  "And yet, here we are, fighting for it."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Are we?"

  I wondered if Antoine was strong enough. Was that one of the hallmarks of being granted the rank of Architect: being able to handle the touch of the Land? Was that why the room wasn't mobbed with all of the rank, fighting to be the one given the opportunity to take the Crown? Was Antoine's Will focused enough that he could control the etheric flow? Instead of a messy explosion of spirit and flesh, would he be able to control the flow in a tight beam through a pinhole of restraint?

  "Maybe," I tried, seeing if he bit. Seeing how much he knew.

  A smile tugged at Antoine's lips, as if he saw through my bluff. He fell back a step and swung the sword experimentally. The one he had taken was the more simple of the two: just a long blade, burnished steel, with a hilt wrapped in gold thread. Layers and layers of gold thread. In the pommel, a single, flawless diamond, about the size of a walnut.

  "They're nice blades. Where did you find them?"

  "The Archives."

  Mine had a slight curve to it, an Arabian influence in its design, and the hilt was plain-black leather wraps worn with sweat and blood. The blade itself was mercurial, shifting in color as it cut the light in the chapel.

  He pursed his lips. "A gift from the daughters?"

  "Loan, more likely. They expect them back."

  He caught me looking at his right hand. "The way I see it, you owed me at least one." He had cleaned up while I had been climbing out of the subbasement of Tour Montparnasse, and his suit was impeccable as ever. When he raised both hands and held them side by side, the difference between them was noticeable against the white cuffs of his shirt. "Though, it is a bit worn," he said. "But it won't matter later." He smiled. "When I am Crowned."