by Linda Howard
He was the Tower. He was chaos. Most thought that was a bad thing, but Veton knew better. Chaos was necessary. It was a part of life, as much as love, death, and happiness. Without chaos, one would not appreciate the more pleasant things in life. If life were pleasant from birth to death, how boring would that be? No one appreciated happiness unless it was occasionally disrupted.
From the rubble left by his influence, new and better things could and would rise.
He’d been trapped here, as they all had, since the fires of Alexandria. Now, that had been great chaos. The destruction of knowledge, the flames that licked from and consumed fragile books … beautiful. He hadn’t known the Alexandria Deck was in the library, but even if he had, he didn’t know that he’d have acted differently. Yes, the chaos had affected him also, but chaos was lovely in its own right.
His work had not been appreciated. Some of his card mates had been downright hostile. He still felt sulky whenever he remembered their reaction; what had they thought he’d do? Cause a bit of rain?
Silly beings.
They had all been so annoyed because the fire had supposedly destroyed the Alexandria Deck, the means with which they could take short vacations and travel between the worlds. Without the deck, they were all confined to Aeonia. How ironic that they had quickly seemed to adjust and become content with their existence here, while he, the one who had wrought the fire and destruction that cost them the use of the deck, was the one who felt most restless and confined. If that wasn’t chaos, he didn’t know what was.
Then Lenna had disappeared, and the realization of what must have happened had almost sent him to his knees, so great had been his joy. The deck still existed! Someone had found it, and knew how to use it! Now all he had to do was get it under his control, so those silly humans couldn’t lose track of it again.
While the Emperor was making certain of the circumstances of Lenna’s disappearance, Veton acted. He knew what had happened; why worry about the how of it?
He could barely wait to visit Seven again. Some worlds weren’t worth the effort, but Seven—Seven was special. It teemed with humans who were influenced by the Major Arcana each and every day. The One had created the Arcana to embody all the vices and virtues that resulted from the smallest decision; some of the humans believed the cards could be used to foretell the future, but what did humans know? They were wrong about so many things; that was what made them so deliciously unpredictable. Whether or not they believed didn’t matter, because they were all touched by the power the cards represented. In love, in fortune, in health, the influence of the vices and virtues held in the Major Arcana existed in all the realms.
Like a child, Veton whirled in happiness, his long white hair flying around him. Then he sobered and quickly summoned three Hunters. While Jerrick was still “investigating,” Veton was acting. How delicious was it that he was one step—perhaps even two—ahead of the Emperor?
The Hunters appeared almost immediately. Two of them, Stroud and Nevan, had worked for him before. The female, Esma, was new to him. Interested, Veton surveyed her. Stroud and Nevan were very alike, both about six foot two, muscled, brown hair cut very short. Esma was muscular, too, for a woman, but she had not lost her femininity in her pursuit of physical strength—far from it. He liked how she wore her long dark hair in a tidy bun. Her equally dark eyes were fierce and carried in them a hunger he found attractive. She didn’t look away, but boldly met his gaze. Interesting. He knew the picture he presented, a man so handsome it bordered on eerie, with long white hair and pale blue eyes; he carried the image even further by normally dressing all in white, or silver. In some moods he went with all black, but that was almost like a warning so he wore the black only when he was happy. Why be predictable?
How he had envied the Hunters all these millennia; they could travel through the realms at will, experience things he could only observe.
Soon he would once again be able to do the same.
“The Alexandria Deck,” Veton said, his voice smooth. “It has been uncovered in Seven, and I want it.”
Stroud asked, “How are we to locate it?”
“Strength has been pulled from this plane to that of Seven. Only the deck could have accomplished that. Find Strength, and you find the deck.” He looked at each of them in turn. He had been told his icy blue eyes were disturbing to some. How could anything about him be disturbing? He didn’t understand it.
“Do you expect her to hand it over without a fuss?” Esma asked, her tone less than deferential.
Oooh, how exciting: insolence! It had been so long since he’d experienced anything except the obedience of his attendants.
“I don’t know if she somehow discovered the deck and engineered her travel, or if she was taken unawares,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter. Retrieve the deck.” He thought, intrigued, that Lenna might not be inclined to hand over to him the power to control travel between the worlds. What if she fought? She was Strength; taking the easy path wasn’t part of her being. If she knew he’d sent the Hunters for the Alexandria Deck, would she fight? Yes, she definitely would.
With relish, he voiced the unthinkable. “Kill her, if there is no other way.”
Nevan gasped. Esma’s eyes widened. Only Stroud seemed unaffected, but then Stroud was the most experienced at working with Veton, and knew how his mind worked.
“I know it is unheard of for a Hunter to assassinate one of the Major Arcana,” Veton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “To be honest, I don’t know what will happen if one of the Arcane dies. I don’t know if we can die.” Talk about magnificent chaos! “It has never happened, not in all the years of our existence, but that doesn’t mean it is impossible.”
“You are all as you have been since creation,” Esma said. She was not so insolent now, he noticed. Finally, there was a touch of respect in her voice.
“We are, but everything changes.Perhaps when Strength is killed, if she is killed, another will take her place.” He looked pointedly at Esma. “The One might replace her with a wave of His hand, but I suppose it is possible someone from another world might be assigned to take her place. There must always be Strength. As far as I know, Strength doesn’t necessarily have to be Lenna.” He looked deep into Esma’s eyes as he spoke, knowing the inference she would draw. The Hunter would never suffice for the hallowed position, but now was not the time to tell her so. If she thought she might be elevated, she’d fight all the harder.
Truth be told, if Lenna had voluntarily left Aeonia and didn’t want to return, that brought up another problem entirely. If it was indeed possible that she could be killed, a replacement would likely be provided, in one way or another. That was logical, to his way of thinking. If she didn’t return to her proper place, Aeonia and all the Major Arcana would cease to exist; that little wrinkle had been thrown in to keep them under control. The only solution then might be to attempt to kill Lenna so perhaps another could take her place.
Only the One knew for certain if it was possible.
He lightly clapped his hands to get their attention. There were specifics, important details his Hunters had to know before they left. “Bring me the entire deck. Every card, each one more beautiful than the last.” Veton closed his eyes and reached deep, fleetingly, into the world he could not yet touch. Seeing the world in a general way was easy; finding one particular entity in that teeming mass was more of a challenge. Because he knew Lenna he was able to briefly see her, and was surprised by her companion. A child.
And then she was gone.
The deck had to be where Lenna was, because it had brought her over. He wanted his Hunters to find her before she had a chance to hide the cards. He would not allow this opportunity to slip by.
Stroud was the strongest of the trio of hunters, so Veton looked to him. “The Emperor will soon send a Hunter to collect Lenna. She can’t be gone from Aeonia long. She must return or be replaced within five days.” Or else this world would crumble. Much as he enjoyed destructio
n, he didn’t care to see it here, outside and even within his own home. Would Lenna’s death be the same? If she was killed by his Hunters would Aeonia be no more, as it would be if she simply did not return? Possible, but who was to know? Even when his own existence was at risk, Veton loved uncertainty.
He was looking at Stroud but he asked them all, “If this Hunter interferes with your mission to recover the cards, do you have an aversion to killing one of your own?”
None of them did. He was always careful to choose Hunters who were not burdened with scruples. Hunters were as long-lived as the Major Arcana, though their job added a level of danger that had made it evident that while they were virtually immortal, immune to normal death, they were not invincible. They were tough to kill, but they could, and did, die.
With relish, he said, “I’ve heard the Emperor requested Caine.” Gleefully he watched their expressions tighten. For three Hunters to handle one was nothing unexpected; Caine, however, was a different proposition. Even for Hunters, he was known for both his ferocity and his tenacity. Had they really thought the Emperor would send an ordinary Hunter—assuming any Hunter was ordinary—on so important a mission?
It was Esma who lifted her chin and asked, “What if he reaches Strength before we do?”
Veton smiled, intrigued by her valor. “I have the power to cause a delay. You will reach her before he does. Go, go now.”
They each nodded in agreement, then disappeared without ceremony. Without effort, damn them. Veton set aside his flare of resentment. He wouldn’t be imprisoned here much longer. It had begun.
To give his Hunters even more time before Jerrick’s Hunter could begin looking for Lenna, he concentrated hard; interfering with time was the most demanding thing he could do, something that required a lot of energy for not much result. Teleporting was almost instantaneous, with almost being the important word. There was a time lapse, however small, between the beginning of teleport and the end; a journey had to have a beginning and an end. That small lapse gave him an opening. Creating a wrinkle that would cause the Emperor’s Hunter an even greater delay was a matter of agonizing precision, one that was at the very limit of his power. When it was done he collapsed on the luxurious golden rug, breathing hard and barely conscious. Then he began to giggle.
Soon, he would be able to personally witness the chaos he created. It was long past time for the people of Seven to remember what an apocalypse felt like; he’d have to think up something special for them.
“I don’t want to go in,” Elijah whispered. He remained behind Lenna as she stood in the open door surveying the kitchen, and she understood. He’d been traumatized here. He had seen things no child should see.
But she was barely inside before he slipped in, closing the door behind him. He stood very close, too close, and while she needed to continue on she did not immediately move away.
She turned and looked down at him, and he ducked his head. “It’s too cold to wait outside,” he said in a small voice.
It wasn’t the weather that had made him come inside, she knew, but the fear of being alone. She put her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. She had no experience with young beings, but the child elicited a strong sense of protection in her. He was so small and helpless, so sad, that he touched her heart.
She hated to distress him, but she had to ask: “Where did you last see your mother?”
His little face tightened, and silently he pointed.
“Wait for me here,” she said, knowing the instruction was unnecessary. The child had no desire to see what lay beyond this room.
She looked around, orienting herself. This house was much like the other, she thought; it was small by her standards, but more than sufficient for two humans. Leaving Elijah in the kitchen, she moved into a hallway. Pictures hung on the wall, pictures of Elijah—as he was now and as he had been in years past—with a young woman who faintly resembled him. She didn’t have Elijah’s expressive and impossibly deep eyes, but there was a sameness to their mouths and chins.
The pictures depicted a normal, ordinary woman, but Elijah loved her, and surely she had loved him. That alone was enough to make her special.
She stood quietly for a moment, reading the energies of the house. Though Elijah’s pointing finger could have sent her anywhere in the house, she was not drawn up the stairs. Her senses told her where the violence had taken place; she walked toward the front door and turned right, into a room furnished with a sofa and chairs, a large screen, lamps, and tables. The last time she had observed life on Seven, this would have been called a parlor.
The lights on a decorated tree shone, eye-catching and pretty in an otherwise unremarkable room.
There was no sign that a physical struggle had taken place here. No body lay on the rug; there was nothing out of place, at least not to an eye that had never seen this room before. Still, she felt a disturbing maelstrom of anger, and struggle, and death.
Too clearly, Lenna could read the energies. In her final moments, Elijah’s mother had fought with all her might. She had not wanted to die. At the very end her only thought had been for her son, for the child she loved. It had always been just the two of them against the world. She’d made mistakes, many mistakes, but she loved her child. She worked hard to make sure he had a good life.
She had possessed a will that even Lenna could admire.
And now she was dead, and Elijah was alone.
Lenna walked the room, studying it, touching the furnishings as she passed them. This room had known love and passion and laughter. It had also known fear, and pain, and death.
But there was no body, nothing to take to the authorities. All she had was the word of a child. She supposed it was only logical that Uncle Bobby would take steps to conceal his crime, but that left her with an even bigger dilemma: If she turned him over, what would they do with Elijah?
It didn’t matter. She had to find a way home, that should be her only concern—should be, had been, until Elijah had touched her heart.
Lenna stopped in the middle of the room, thinking hard.
Why was she so intent on getting home as soon as possible? Returning was necessary, but returning now wasn’t. Her time was limited but she had enough, surely, to do what she could for the child. She was also honest enough with herself to admit that she was curious about Seven; it had changed greatly since the last time she’d bothered to “see” it. Technology, clothing, speech—nothing was as it had been. Even more, for more than two thousand years the Major Arcana had been isolated in Aeonia. To be a part of another world, even for a few days, would be an adventure. She could learn so much, and knowledge was always useful.
Why not embrace the adventure?
And in the meantime, she’d find justice for Elijah—as well as a new home.
Elijah waited by the door, but when he didn’t hear Lenna say anything his attention wandered, and after a few minutes he realized he was hungry. He hesitated, then went to the small pantry. Mom never let him have sweets for breakfast, but he was hungry, and he knew she had a box of cookies hidden behind the oatmeal. He opened the pantry door, reached up as high as he possibly could, and pushed the box of oatmeal aside. He grabbed the edge of the box of cookies with his fingertips and pulled it forward, then slipped it beyond the edge and caught the box as it fell.
Chocolate chip. His favorite.
Mom’s favorite, too. He tried not to think about the last time he’d seen his mom, but it was hard to get that picture out of his head. His lower lip trembled.
When Bosco had been killed, Mom had told him to remember the good times. She said that would ease the pain. It had been hard, but he’d done it. He’d remembered playing with Bosco at the park, and how the dog had loved to lie in Elijah’s lap, even though he was really too big to fit. Mom had been right, remembering the good times had helped, though he still wished Bosco hadn’t died.
He tried to do the same now with his mom. He didn’t want to remember her the way she’d loo
ked when Uncle Bobby had killed her, so instead he remembered how she’d laughed at that last movie they’d seen. Even though it was really a kid movie, she’d laughed a lot. He remembered how she’d hugged him, how she cooked his favorite meal—macaroni and cheese and fish sticks—once a week, even though she didn’t like it at all. He didn’t think he wanted macaroni and cheese and fish sticks ever again.
He started to cry. Tears stung his eyes and he felt like there was no way he could not cry. But then he remembered that he was a Hunter, and Hunters didn’t cry. Lenna said so. Hunters were like Avengers. He’d always wanted to be a superhero.
He would be a superhero for Mom.
Lenna looked through every room, downstairs and up, making certain Elijah’s mother’s body hadn’t simply been moved to another room, though why anyone would have done that was completely illogical. She looked because, from what she remembered, that description definitely fit some humans. One could never tell.
Identifying Elijah’s room was easy, given all the toys and clutter. She retrieved the shoes he had requested, then paused. The weight of the two cards in her bag was a palpable thing, reminding her of the deck’s power. Better to separate them. She took out the cards and looked at the other she had picked up; it was the Moon. First she slipped her own card back into the bag, then she tucked the Moon card high on a shelf where it couldn’t easily be seen. That done, she returned downstairs. When she entered the kitchen, she blinked. Elijah was eating. Again. He’d eaten at the other house, before they’d left. How could he possibly be hungry?
Then again, he was a small human. Perhaps they needed more food than the fully grown.
“Your shoes,” she said, placing them on the floor beside him.
He placed the box he’d been cradling in his arms on the table and sat down in a chair to kick off his friend’s ill-fitting shoes. He didn’t ask about his mother. He took his time putting on his shoes and tying them, and then he grabbed the box from which he’d been eating and offered it to her.
