The Tower of the Forgotten

by Sara M. Harvey

  He smiled. "She was ruthless. She’d have made a fine leader, but she made a damn brilliant Aldias. Took Vedma training, too, for years." He reached through the bars and stroked one of her feathers with a disturbing sort of admiration. "Although I am not sure I’d like the wings and the rest," he gestured at Portia’s eyes and hair, "I am happy with what I have."

  "What do you want here, my lord?"

  "I can let you out of here, or I can make sure you stay here until you rot, no matter how long that takes. Don’t you toy with the Primacy, girl. We can and will break you."

  p style="text-indent:1.2em;margin-bottom: 0;margin-top: 0">Portia crossed her arms. She did not like to be bullied. "You haven’t even remotely answered my question."

  "Do you know why my sister wanted you?"

  "Yes. She knew who my father was. And my brother." She glanced toward the unseen tower. "She knew her hideous grafting would work on me, but only after exhausting her resources at the convent."

  "Great minds often learn more from failure than success, don’t they, Mistress Gyony?" He gave her a glimpse of Imogen, watery and pale, the memory of a ghost.

  "It doesn’t excuse her for the horrors she perpetrated on those children."

  "They’re coming along fine, just fine. In fact, I should share the regards of Kendrick and Radinka, the most promising of the survivors. I have taken a personal interest in their schooling. Never did trust the Edulica not to spare the rod—it makes for spoilt children: temperamental, stubborn, unwilling to do what they are told."

  "Do you not see me in this cage, my lord?" Her temper flared and she gritted her teeth, refusing to be baited by him. "The good Lady Hester cannot have failed in that regard, don’t you think?"

  He leaned against the bars. "Since you seem eager to prove your obedience, I shall ask you to not pester the men who will come for you soon to move you to the new location. I trust that you can do that for me? In honor of your beloved Hester?"

  "I would be a great deal happier if I knew what this was all about. You want to use me as a pawn, but I don’t even know the game."

  He laughed, and it had a mean edge to it. "Of course not, you stupid child. I am Regalii, of the blood of kings of our kind, the ones that claim submission from the kings of mankind. And what’s more, I am Primacy, one of the seven great Nephilim blessed to stand in the presence of God and given the charge of all Nephilim below me—both those who serve the order of the Grigori and those who do not. It is not for me to explain anything to you, not my actions nor my motivations. You must trust in me, I have your best interests at heart." He touched his fingertips to the lapel of his coat.

  "You’ve said as much already, and yet here I still sit. I must be of better use to you outside of this forsaken little freak show."

  He smiled with an oily grace. "Oh, Portia, you chafe at this role, but, darling, you were born for naught but this. This is exactly where you need to be. And, oh, what a role you shall play. In the age that is coming, you will be hailed as the mother of a new breed. There will be nothing on this earth that will not be touched by your essence. And I tremble with the thought of how beautiful it is all going to be." He reverently kissed his palm and blew it toward her.

  Portia let it flow past her like an errant breeze. She sat, impassive, staring hard at him as the sun rose, casting soft shadows across the tent. Unmoved, he bowed and left her alone with her frustrated fury.

  There was no use waiting. Alaric was neck-deep in this scheme and had been for years, longer than she had even been alive. She had to get to Captain Cadmus and…then, what? Was he alone in his machinations or had the entire Primacy been corrupted with his twisted ambitions?

  Portia began to wonder if perhaps she had been the object of secret scrutiny for a long while. After all, Analise had sent Imogen into Penemue for the sole purpose of befriending her and keeping watch on her. Perhaps it was because Imogen had failed in her purpose that she had died. Perhaps Alaric had been pulling a thousand invisible strings the entire time. The thought chilled her and turned her stomach.

  Imogen.

  Portia did not doubt her, could not doubt her. Somewhere in the echoes of their souls, twined so close together, she felt a strength of affirmation rise. And she hoped it was truth.

  * * * *

  The difference between the shoddy, ill-constructed tent and the pavilion was the use of scrap wood and plaster instead of faded burlap and sailcloth. The roustabouts had the gaudy pavilion up and functioning within days. And it showed.

  When they came for her, Portia went quietly. She submitted to her captivity and cooperated as the roustabouts moved her to a cart bound for the rocky seashore. As if disappointed that she did not put up more of a fight, one of the men struck her across the backs of her thighs with his whip.

  She spun to face him, snatching the lash from his hands roughly. The other men tensed and stepped away from the furious glow that surrounded her. Portia cracked the man across the torso, rending his shirt and bringing up an immediate and bloody bruise across his chest. She then snapped the braided leather into several pieces and dropped them onto the dusty road. She stared hard at the man until he looked away, and only then did she deign to step into the cart.

  They gave her a wide berth as two of the men climbed onto the driving bench and the remaining two hung onto the sides, swaying as the draft horses pulled forward and sent the cart rolling down the rutted road.

  Portia ignored them and watched the tower as they approached. It shimmered in the morning light like a sacred promise, but Portia knew it was a threat.

  "Some things forgotten are best left unremembered," she murmured beneath the rattle and creak of the old cart.

  They jounced over the hastily-laid paving stones that formed the promenade that ran before the pavilion, taking her past the semi-circle of freak show tents and carts and through the alley formed by the concession and midway stands. Across the sloping meads, a new circus was being built with stretches of semi-paved paths between leveled plots. As they groaned to a stop, the two men perched on the cart’s runners came around the back to help Portia down and flank her as she walked toward the structure.

  The pavilion looked like a cross between a classical temple and a bordello, with silk vines climbing gilded pillars and bright murals on the walls depicting harp-playing angels hovering around the tower while pilgrims flocked below. Portia tasted bile in her throat and knew her patience could not outlast the Primacy’s machinations.

  The two men gave her a gentle shove that got her moving again. The pavilion was alone on the promenade, surrounded by empty planters and cleared spaces for other buildings. Besides the tower, it was the only structure for a mile in any direction. There was a peculiar connection between the two that at first she could not quite figure out. As the roustabouts led her between the pillars into the covered arcade, she looked back. And then she saw it, a ring of what looked like small, shining stones that encircled the pavilion and made a straight line to a large statue in the shape of Nigel’s tower. The stones wound around the statue in a spiral before unwinding again and leading off toward the tower itself. The line of stones disappeared beneath the surf, only to reemerge like a slim necklace around the tower’s base. The men shoved her from behind, pushing her through one of the three curved entryways that opened onto an interior viewing area. Three steps led down into the room, which surrounded a central chamber recessed into the floor and enclosed in thick glass from top to bottom.

  The small chamber was outfitted with a cot, a table, and a large, dusty pillow on the floor. It was situated, Portia realized, so that the tower was in easy view though the arched doorways and between the columns. The view out the other side of the building, facing north, was of the rocky hills that protected the town of Capitola-by-the-Sea from the worst of the coastal storms. Those craggy peaks were bathed in sunlight from overhead, as well as the eerie glow of the tower. The strange illumination also filtered into the pavilion through a skylight set into the roof. It loo
ked impressive, but as it moaned in the bracing wind, Portia doubted the safety of its construction.

  The man who had wielded the whip took out a large knife. He brandished it at Portia for an instant before bending to stab it between two floorboards and jimmy it upward. With a fair amount of grunting and cussing, he pulled up a trapdoor and braced it open before disappearing into the dark passage below. He emerged inside the central chamber via another small door hidden in the paneling.

  "Bring her in," he gruffed, and the others pushed Portia through the hole in the floor. It was not a long drop, but it was a painful landing as she came down onto her shoulder. The man within dragged her toward him with one grubby hand on her arm and another on her wing, scattering her feathers in a painful wake behind her. He rolled her into the center of the room and disappeared through the panel door, but not before delivering a sharp kick to her hip. The hasp slid into place and was latched with an additional lock, and so went the closing of the trapdoor, as well.

  The glass muffled the sound of the cart rolling away. Portia did not move a muscle. Waiting, listening, she could hear them not far off, drinking. They were as good as miles away. She lifted herself onto the cot and closed her eyes, breathing a deep sigh.

  Her presence at the seashore did not go unnoticed. Within moments, she sensed activity at the tower: movements, fluctuations in the hum and glow, and a general and unshakable feeling of being watched. She sat up and stepped out of the chamber, slipping between the worlds as easily as falling asleep. The tower flickered within a shroud of lightning, all the small stones glinting in unison. It stung as she crossed over them.

  She followed the single line of them across the empty central court that, she supposed, would soon hold the concessions and midway, until she came upon the replica of the tower at its center. The ring around it glowed as well, and a small wisp of shimmering fog mimicked the lightning at the tower. Portia touched it and felt the faint bass vibrations deep within, like the rhythmic drawing of breath.

  "Do you know what this is all about?" Aseneth breathed heavily; she had come a long way from her little shanty.

  "Unfortunately, I do. And I can only advise you to stay as far away from all of this as possible."

  Aseneth grunted and scratched at the patch of whiskers on her chin. She rummaged in the small pouch on her belt and pulled out a mottled egg. She bent down and scratched a circle in the dirt, cracked the egg’s shell, and dumped its contents onto the ground, then spat. Crouching down, she looked at the saliva and half-formed chicken embryo. Her eyebrows drew together sharply. Her joints creaked loudly as she straightened and focused her mismatched eyes sharply on Portia.

  "The good news: you have help coming, from many places in this world and the next."

  "The bad news?"

  Aseneth sighed and looked back at the mess on the ground. "I’m not sure exactly how to tell you, but it says you aren’t going to live through this."

  Portia laughed. "Is that all? I haven’t lived through the last couple of adventures I’ve been on."

  "Well, then, this should be nothing new."

  Something pricked Portia’s awareness from the site of the old circus. By Portia’s reckoning, it was early evening. She could see her real-world shadow cast long from her feet, crossing the circle of entrails. The glow that rose up from the road shimmered with aching familiarity, and Portia forgot all about the fortune-teller as she ran toward it, stepping through the veil to the living world.

  A tempest raged behind Portia’s breastbone, but she dared not believe, not yet. The young woman was hardly more than a silhouette, a tall, corseted figure with a charming hat perched on a coif of bright red hair. She wore pale blue in ruffled swags around her waist and striped stockings down her legs with an emerald green corset and miniature top hat. Portia would never have trusted her own eyes had she not recognized the delicate aura that was Imogen’s alone. The rush of power through her sternum was dizzying, and she could see it reverberating in Imogen’s face. Her multi-layered irises surrounded pupils gone wide with desire.

  Caught between the light of the tower and the glow coming off of Portia’s flesh, Imogen looked like a ghost, still.

  "My love," Portia whispered. "How?"

  "I ran away to join the circus." She put her hands on her waist and twirled, shaking her hips playfully. "Do you like it?"

  "You did this for me?"

  "Captain Cadmus is as tired of waiting as you are. And worried the Primacy isn’t as concerned as they ought to be. The Captain and I devised our own plan after we saw the advert that Circus Avernus put in the papers. I am a little worried about what they are doing here. There is much we need to discuss."

  Portia nodded. "And the costume?" She raised a pale eyebrow.

  Her beloved laughed. "Call it a perk. Besides, I knew you’d love it!"

  Sighing, Portia had to nod. "I cannot tell a lie. You look…fantastic." She hesitated to touch her, fearing that it would wake her from this dream.

  "You must be able to see that it is me, truly me. No tricks, no illusions."

  "I don’t dare trust my senses."

  "Then I suppose you must trust me, then." Imogen entwined her fingers with Portia’s and lifted them to her mouth, favoring each knuckle with a petal-soft kiss.

  "I thought you came here to talk."

  Imogen paused and bit back a laugh. "You want to talk, my dear?"

  "Well, I…I mean, it is important."

  "Not more than this. We’ll have plenty of time for talking later. I know I have been waiting far too long for us both to have bodies in the same place at the same time. Haven’t you?"

  Tongue-tied, Portia could only nod.

  Turning back toward the pavilion, she noticed Aseneth had removed herself. Dusk had fallen, setting the sky above the sea afire and creating a halo around the tower. But as lovely as the view was, they only had eyes for one another, nearly stumbling in their haste to get inside.

  "How will we get in?" Imogen glanced around the pavilion, looking for the passage into the glass chamber.

  Portia took Imogen’s hand with a sly grin. "There’s a trapdoor, but we won’t be needing it."

  It was easy to envelop Imogen with her wings and bring her along as Portia sidestepped reality and walked between the worlds. Imogen shivered as they walked through the glass and into the center of the pavilion.

  The cot was narrow and cramped, but long ago, Portia and Imogen had learned to be creative in their forays, fearing Lady Hester’s punishments if they were caught. When inevitably they were discovered, their headmistress had been understanding and had urged them only to not let their love affair interfere with their duties. It had been years since the night they had gone out together on that call. Portia had borne the guilt of her beloved’s death every moment of every hour since then. Now, she held Imogen in her arms as if death had never touched her. Portia’s body pulsed with light; her hair crackled with energy, and it slowly filled Imogen, making her kaleidoscope eyes glimmer.

  They found the wings a bit cumbersome, but Portia managed to arrange them to act as both bedding and shield should anyone come wandering too near the pavilion that night. Slowly, she traced her fingertips along her beloved’s body, reacquainting herself with its soft curves and valleys. She stroked Imogen’s face from her forehead to her chin, following each caress with a kiss. Imogen’s lips were as sweet as ever; the familiar vanilla-strawberry taste of them was darker now, flavored with myrrh and a hint of lily. The faint trace of death made the mixture all that more precious to Portia, who held her close just to listen to her heartbeat. It was the most treasured sound she could imagine.

  Until she heard Imogen gasp with pleasure and cry out her name.

  * * * *

  The moonlight fell across their scattered clothes, shining on the satin as it lay crumpled on the floor. They lay nestled together on the cot, limbs entwined, covered with Portia’s glittering wings. Flesh pressed against flesh, feeling warm, alive, and invincible.


  "So, they are staging an offensive, the Grigori?"

  "They are talking about it," Imogen corrected, sounding annoyed. "All they ever do is talk."

  "There’s a reason for that." Portia sighed. "I don’t know how deeply the Primacy is involved, but we can’t trust anyone. Anyone but the Captain and each other. We need to move. Nigel is planning…I can feel it, even now." She spoke the last with regret. Nigel’s distant but constant presence had been a shadow on their lovemaking, but she had kept it from Imogen.

  Imogen shifted to gaze up into Portia’s golden eyes. "It’s quite all right. I felt it too. There is no avoiding it this close to the epicenter. That’s why I had to come. I knew you’d be languishing here on your own." She sat up and looked defiantly toward the tower. "Besides, let him watch—it’s all he can do. He can watch and watch until the sun burns out and he will never have what we have."

  Portia kissed her forehead, marveling at the subtle shift of the aura around her eyes, around what had been, on the spirit side, Portia’s eyes.

  "You know, this circus has a very strange layout. It doesn’t make a lot of sense as an entertainment area, but as a ritual space…" Imogen said.

  "Yes! I am so glad you noticed it, too. I must show you the little stones—copper beads, actually." Portia paused, remembering. "You talked about an advert? What was in it?"

  "‘The Tower of Miracles.’ They have discovered a spring at the base of the tower and they are advertising it as a cure-all."

  Portia groaned. "Of course they are!"

  "That’s not all. There is a plan for them to allow people inside."

  "You’re kidding!"

  "I’m afraid not. More souls to feed that machine. Can’t you hear the engine? It is getting louder."

  She remembered the roar of the rift engine and the tear that had opened in the sky, sundering the wall between Salus and Capitola-by-the-Sea. It was not enough, Portia knew. Nigel wanted more; he wanted total domination, and he now had the resources at hand to accomplish it. "I need to see the actual schematics of this place. I have an idea of what they are trying to do, but I want to be certain before we decide on a plan."