Interlude 4: Alixandra
Alixandra sank down onto the mattress in their hotel in San Juan in relief, feeling exhaustion wash over her as she finally got off of her feet. She and Michael had been traveling non-stop ever since they left Caer Anglia in July, and they had finally reached their last stop before returning to their winter home. They’d circled the globe, from Wales to Rome, Cairo, Dubai, Moscow, Hong Kong, Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, and now San Juan. Michael was like a machine, driven by a mission she could no longer bear to contemplate.
In each city, they met with the Lord or Lady of the district, exchanged small talk, and extended the invitation for each group to bring a few ambassadors to Caer Anglia for the Rite of Passages in June. In each city, Michael left her alone for one, two, three nights, returning every time a bit more resolute and a bit… harder. As much as she tried to resist peeking into the lives of other numen, it seemed as though his was the only life she could see with any clarity.
She had broken her oath to Juno, and now she was paying the price.
Though she couldn’t see her son—he was too close to the Swordsmith for that—she could easily picture him in her mind’s eye. Manas looked almost entirely like Michael—it was only his olive complexion that he’d gotten from her. Even if Juno stripped everything from her—her ability to see the other numen, her immortal life—she couldn’t bring herself to regret this son, two thousand years in the making. It was easy to picture him in the days of the Roman Empire, toga-clad, strolling with his father through the streets to the Forum. She let her mind drift for a moment, thinking of the man who would have been her husband—and Manas’s father—had her life taken its normal course.
Herminius.
He had been waiting for her to complete her time with Vesta, determined to marry her, whatever the cost. After her encounter with the tricky Juno, she’d fled Rome without reason or explanation, never seeing Herminius again. She had called Michael by his name for good reason. She had seen enough people in her long lifetime to know that certain traits will out, no matter how many generations lie between ancestor and descendant. She wasn’t exactly sure how Herminius’s people had gotten from Rome to England…the farthest back Michael could trace his family…but it was certainly doable. The Aerons themselves had made the same journey once. She had been tempted to look in The Book, to trace Michael’s ancestors, but eventually decided it wasn’t worth the time or the pain.
Michael was here, now, two thousand years later, a perfect replica of the man she lost. She’d offered her love for him to Juno once, but she was too world weary to do it again. As Divus Julius himself had said, “The die has been cast!”—and so it was. She had spoken to the goddess herself, touched her hand, but that was so long ago, and no evidence of the gods’ reign remained. The odds against her had been slight, and as the years passed and her numina remained undiminished, she’d breathed a slight sigh of relief. She only began to experience a slight decay of her abilities as Manas neared puberty, and she had her suspicions as to why. Once her son had a child, she officially became the head of a line of descendants. His passage into physical manhood made that moment all the more probable.
As he headed into his teach year, she had not experienced any faltering in her abilities until that moment in Wales. After that, the decay had become almost exponential. As if taunting her, her visions of Michael were not only in real time, but were coming before he could even act. They brought to the forefront every blood spatter, every desperate face, until she could barely look him in the eye when he entered their suite. Her life had been far from innocent, and she’d killed her share of men in her day, but these murders were cold-blooded—murders of innocent and guilty alike. Murder by circumstance.
She heard him at the door and hurriedly turned toward the wall, slowing her breathing to feign sleep. Though she longed to say something, she’d made her choice long ago, when she’d given him the list of living Power users from all across the globe.
“So… we were always taught that you kept track of every numen, birth and death,” Michael said to her, sitting up in her bed and presenting the wide expanse of his back to her. At twenty-five, he was an excellent example of a man in his prime—sure of his worth and ready to take on the world.
Though she was two thousand years older than he, being with him made her feel like a young girl again. Of course, her body reflected none of the years’ ravages—she was a blushing eighteen-year-old in all but her mind. “I do,” she said softly, running a hand down along his spine. He shivered, but kept his back to her.
“Do you keep it all in your head?”
“How could I? Do you know how many people that would be? No, I keep a book.”
“Must be a pretty big book!” He peeked over his shoulder at her, just the edge of a teasing grin in sight.
“Would you like to see it?” she asked, suddenly feeling reckless. She’d already defied Juno by taking him as a lover. What could it hurt?
“You keep it here?”
“I keep part of it here,” she confided. “I fill volume after volume, then have volumes bound together and placed in a safety deposit box. Only the most current generations are here.” She left the bed, not bothering to clothe herself, and knelt near the corner of the large decorative rug that adorned the floor. She peeled back the corner to reveal a small floor safe set into the wood, and brought the leather bound volume it contained to the bed.
He took a deep breath and accepted the book from her, holding it almost reverentially.
“May I look?”
“Yes.”
He gently separated the cover from the interior pages and began to peruse it. “You don’t divide it by numina?”
“I can’t—the numbers are never even enough for me to know how to space the book. No, it’s chronological, with annotations.”
He found his own name. “Warrington, Michael. A, LY, C [t.v. 1,463 + 1,628]. 31 July 1949 --. What does all that mean?”
“The A stands for Artifex. You were both the Lord Younger and a Council member. The numbers are your parent’s designations in this book.”
He flipped backwards through the pages rapidly, looking for 1463. It was his father’s entry. “You do this for everyone?”
“Every single one.”
“For all this time?”
“Yes.”
“Juno did not set you an easy task.”
“No… but it is my task, and I do it gladly.”
While they spoke, Michael’s hands were busy hunting through the pages of the still living numen. “There are so few Fulmen in here, Alix.”
“Yes, the Fulmen have been in steady decline. They seem to have short life spans, and few children that carry on their legacy. It seems that most other numina override the Fulmen legacy. For example…” She turned to the listing for John Aeron. “Eight children, all tested at birth for their numina. Of the eight, seven took on their mother’s Gravis designation. Only this last one…”
“Trevor,” Michael said with a snarl.
She pulled back, startled. “I didn’t know you disliked the Aeron boy.”
“I was John’s prize student. His protégé. He’d finally admitted to himself that the Aeron line would end with him. He was grooming me, Alix.”
“You could never have been the Swordsmith, Michael. Another Fulmen would have been chosen.”
“I have plans. Dreams about the things we could achieve as a people—as the Chosen people of the gods! Why must the Swordsmith always be a Fulmen? What if there were no Fulmen left?”
“Well…” she hesitated.
“Tell me.” His voice was soft in her ear. “The gods must always have a plan.”
“Gaius Aeronius once told me that if he died without a child, the Sword would pass to the next numen that touched it. Of course,” she said hurriedly as she saw his eyes light up, “this was at the very beginning. There are countless Fulmen now.”
“You’re wrong. You’ve counted them—every single one.” He
hefted the book in his hand. “They’re listed here.”
“Do you think they’ll all just drop dead at your command?”
Instead of feeling the sting of her words, he merely grinned. “Stranger things have happened, my love.”
Chapter Fifteen
The morning of the last Friday in October dawned crisp and cold, a faint sheen of dew over everything as the students slowly wandered from their beds and out into Caer Anglia proper. No classes were ever conducted on the day of the Drawing of the Names-- students were encouraged to meditate or spend time in quiet exercise. Many of them were too nervous to concentrate on anything, so they simply milled about with their friends and tried not to think about the evening to come. Nolan slept in that morning, taking advantage of the time without Angus in the room to relax more fully than he ever could constantly watching his own back. When Angus returned after lunch, Nolan immediately disappeared, hoping to find Leiani in their meeting spot on the roof deck. When he opened the door, however, he was faced with a gigantic pair of wings. He drew a deep, involuntary breath, and the wings snapped back into nothingness with shattering speed. Their owner spun around to face him.
It was Gia.
They both stood awkwardly for a moment—since the night in her room, they hadn’t spoken again. She’d been avoiding him. Finally, his brain snapped into gear, and he backtracked toward the door.
“I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to interrupt your meditation.”
“No!” she practically shouted before blushing and forcing her voice into a more even tone. “You just startled me. Please, stay.”
Nolan nodded and inched forward until he was perched on the same bit of wall. “So... what were you doing?”
She shifted her shoulders in what could have been a shrug. “I can’t fly here because of the baileys, so I try to come out and preen, just to keep my feathers in good condition.”
“Where did they go?”
“We learned that in biology, remember?” she chided with a smile, but turned so he could see her back. The back of her shirt was open in a large circle, exposing her shoulder blades and a considerable expanse of spine. “They’re still settling-- you should be able to see them.”
Sure enough, he could see the faint imprint of feathers pushing up against her skin on either side of her spine. Fascinated, he reached out without thinking and traced a fingertip down along the feather imprint, feeling the ridges in her skin.
She shivered and jumped slightly, but didn’t pull away.
“Does it hurt?” he whispered.
“Only to keep them trapped for so long. I was used to flying once a day at the very least. Keeping them cramped in my back gives me terrible backaches. I try to sneak up here every day to at least stretch them out.”
Nolan made a noise in the back of his throat—the feathery pattern sank into her skin and was gone, as if it had never been. She turned back to face him, her cheeks bright red.
“Are you nervous about tonight?”
Nolan shrugged. “Not really. We’re just picking our opponents... why should I be nervous?”
Gia’s face drained of color so quickly her head began to spin. “You have no idea, do you?”
“Idea of what?” He put his hands on her shoulders and steadied her a bit, afraid she was about to pitch backwards off the deck. “Gia, what is it?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Nolan, this is where we choose our opponents for June, yes. Haven’t you thought about what that means?”
His blank expression told her all she needed to know. “Most of the deaths here at Caer Anglia occur between October and June. When someone is caught or prosecuted for it, it’s almost always the person who would have faced the victim in the capstone. People who think they can’t win in a fair fight often find other.... less fair ways of winning.”
Nolan was horrified. “The whole point of the Rite of Passage is honorable battle! It’s supposed to teach us how to fight each other, and sometimes people die, but to circumvent the whole thing is just...”
Gia touched his hand, affected by his obvious disillusionment. “Perhaps under your grandfather we were an honorable group. The last twenty years have seen a change... one I’m afraid we’ll never rebound from.”
“How do you know all this?”
Gia sighed deeply and turned back to face the trees, avoiding his eyes. “My brother is one of the ones who merely looks at results, not methods. A victory is a victory to him.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“He is,” she said before she remembered just who she was talking to. She swung her feet to the roof deck and stood. “You were probably looking for Leiani—she was still asleep, the last time I checked. I can let her know you’re looking, if you want.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just follow you down,” he said with a smile, heading for the door and holding it open for her.
“Thank you, sir,” she said with a mock curtsy, laughing under her breath a bit as she passed him. He stopped her in the doorway. “Gia?”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“It’s your secret to tell, isn’t it? I’m sure anyone would have…”
“No,” he interrupted, “they wouldn’t have. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Nolan.” She touched his shoulder lightly. “Come on, let’s get you back to Leiani... she may be looking for you by now.”
She was, in fact. It took three different tries to find the right spot, but they finally found Leiani standing in front of Nolan’s room, looking antsy.
“There you are!” she exclaimed when they rounded the corner. “I thought we were meeting for dinner!”
“We are,” Nolan said, giving her a quick kiss. “I was nervous, so I went up to see if you were on the roof, and found Gia. She’s been helping me look for you.”
Leiani cut her eyes to Gia and gave her a cool smile. “Thanks, Gia. I want to make sure Nolan and I go into the Drawing together—moral support and all that.”
“Gia, want to join us for dinner? It’s open early today.”
Now Leiani was glaring at Nolan so fiercely that Gia was surprised the side of his head wasn’t spontaneously combusting on the spot.
“Nolan, we were supposed to have an intimate dinner, just the two of us!” Leiani protested.
“I don’t want to interfere in your time together,” Gia said hurriedly. “No third wheel, and all that. I’ll just... see you later, Nolan.”
She hurried off in the direction of her room, presumably to get ready for the Drawing.
“What was that about?” Leiani demanded, hands on her hips.
“Me? Why were you being so rude?” Nolan shot back. “She seems lonely--I just wanted to offer...”
“To bring her along on our date? Are you crazy?”
“It’s dinner, Leiani. In the dining hall. We’re not going to a three star restaurant.”
“That’s the point, Nolan! We don’t have those kinds of opportunities while we’re stuck here, so we have to make every romantic moment count, and you’re inviting her along!”
“I get the feeling it’s less that I invited someone and more who I invited,” Nolan said suddenly. “I know you two don’t get along, but...”
Leiani stamped her foot, beyond furious. “Nolan Aeron, Disanza and I have disliked each other for almost two decades! I know her. She’ll try to take you from me out of spite.”
Nolan began to laugh. “Spite? I don’t think there’s a spiteful bone in her body. And if you don’t trust her, trust me—I’m not a cheater.”
Leiani relaxed a bit, reading the sincerity in his tone. “Okay, I’m sorry. She just rubs me the wrong way. Can we go to dinner now?”
“Sure… we’re going to be late if we don’t.”
On their way to dinner, however, Jenkins waylaid them. “Hello, children.”
“Hi, Uncle Robert,” Leiani responded. “We’re on our way to dinner.”
“I’m sorry to disappoi
nt you, but I need to borrow my nephew until the Drawing. Nolan, this way, please.”
“But--!”
Nolan gave her a kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hand. “I’ll find you at the Drawing, I promise.”
She gave up with a pout. “Okay.”
Nolan followed his uncle down the hall to Jenkins’ private rooms.
“Are you ready?” Jenkins asked the moment the door closed behind them.
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Why?”
Jenkins headed for a small wardrobe to the right of the windows. “The Drawing of the Names is a very important in the initiates’ lives. Everyone wears formal attire—usually dresses and suits nowadays. The Lords and Ladies Younger, however, wear something particularly tailored to the seat they claim.”
He threw open the wardrobe, revealing a dark interior holding only one item—a garment bag, sheathed in a fine film of dust. He brushed the dust aside irritably and laid the garment bag on the couch, unzipping it to reveal one of the most unusual outfits Nolan had ever seen. The trousers and coat were made of heavy navy brocade, the coat shot through with coppery threads in an unusual pattern and bearing the Fulmen symbol in a patch above the heart. A pair of black dress shoes sat in the bottom of the garment bag, looking as if they were in need of a shining.
“The fashion has changed over the years, of course, but one thing remains the same. Go on, put it on. Leave an undershirt on—your father used to complain of the fabric being scratchy.”
Nolan flinched. “This was--?”
“It was your father’s, yes. Until you are publicly declared the Swordsmith, however, you cannot change it, so get dressed!” Jenkins turned to give Nolan the illusion of privacy as he stripped to his underclothes and pulled on the jacket and trouser, scratching uncomfortably.
Pins and Needles (The Chosen Book 1) Page 14
