She could feel the field burning even before she saw the flames.
The crevasse that had hidden the entrance was blown open, the barrier stone rubble that made a jagged stone bridge, the water that served as a moat to the field was half drained.
The flames rose high, the fog of misery thick, the sky she had crafted for them had gone unnaturally dark. An unearthly sound tore from her body, and her rage lifted her into the air, great gusts of wind whipping all around. The smoke flashed with shifting colors as she floated forward. Age-old anger burst open deep wounds, and her ancient terror made a rain come and douse the flames, but it was too late; her gorgeous field was blackened.
A battle raged by the birch trees, where the Guard’s many spirits fought an equal number of infernal dead. Blue fire trickled between them but was spread thin. Though the bulk of the Power and Light was in Cairo, being channeled by Beatrice Smith, a portion would always be tied to Phoenix’s remains, and that portion fought fearlessly.
There was a hole in her paradise, a cracked archway in what looked like an expanse of rolling hill. Her Guard were being tormented by the most vile of Darkness’s minions, and they did not have the advantage of their old powers. They were surrounded, being driven in clusters, picked at, brawling.
Darkness was nowhere to be seen. This place, even with its once blue sky now a charred purple twilight, was too bright for him.
“Halt!” Persephone cried in that language known only to the Guard and the dead. The battle paused as if the combative arms were uniformly lifted by strings.
The Guard stared at her and nodded, but the infernals just grinned. A battle cry from somewhere deep below rumbled the blackened earth beneath her feet, an ugly cry from Darkness’s hollow throat. It sounded louder from the water, from that rising tide toward which her friends were being pushed. Darkness wanted to suck his foes down into the whirling depths of the river.
The battle resumed, with the dead forcing her champions toward the shore. The screams of her Guard had Persephone tearing out her hair.
Aodhan broke from the battle to draw her away from the breach. “Take the remains of your beloved and go. Leave this place. Don’t let what’s left of him fall into Darkness’s hands; he’ll just scatter the ashes in the river, or worse,” the Celt told her. “You’re going to have to use all your energy, all your heart, to get yourself and him away from here. You can fight a battle for us another day.”
“Where is he taking you?” Persephone sobbed.
“I’ve hung back out of his sight, gone back and forth to see the first battalion imprisoned. In a tower. Far behind his throne, in the shadows of the shadows. He’s corralling everyone there. Gather your lover and make a plan for tomorrow, for today is already lost.”
Persephone’s tears had formed into tiny, sharp tacks that she threw at the feet of her foes. The dog had come, leaping and yelping, its one then a hundred forms nipping at Guard flesh; it had squealed as its dread pads were pierced by her quicksilver thorns.
As much as rage bade her fight, she knew Aodhan was correct. Persephone blazed light and tore ahead, casting back restless spirits as she ran to the circle of heather, to the trees that grew from her love’s resting place. The eternal flame of phoenix fire lashed out at offending spirits, then flowed around her, sustaining her light.
Falling to her knees, she tore into the soft earth, desperation giving her fingers strength. She could hear Darkness screaming, but he could not come within paces of her here. Especially not lit like she was. Her breath was ragged in her throat, her bosom burned, and she knew her impenetrable aura would last only moments longer.
She unearthed a vessel carved with a feather and lit by blue light. Phoenix’s physical remains.
“My Lady,” Aodhan breathed, suddenly at her side. “We have safe passage for you, there. Come quickly while the bulwark holds.”
She glanced up to see the Guard spirits again fighting back those gray, sagging, miserable wretches from the bowels of the Whisper-world, creatures that hardly had human form remaining, flanking an opening through a gray stone arch.
“Aodhan, tell them I’ll come for them. Please. Tell them I’ll come.”
“They know, my Lady.”
“But you must remind them; they’ll forget. Rally them. They’ll despair in this place—”
Aodhan held up a hand. “Just don’t be long.”
Persephone nodded. “And you, stay clear of him. Do not be captured, no matter what. Follow behind me. Haunt the Earth, bide your time. Come to the Liminal with me. I have no choice but to beg its help.”
Aodhan cocked his head as if suddenly hearing a noise. “Something’s coming, my Lady.” He smiled, his eyes far away. “Some strange and beautiful things are coming, my Lady. But you must make them happen.”
Persephone nodded, clutched the vessel of her lover’s remains tightly to her, and ran. Aodhan followed, pausing at the burning edge of the field, which was torn open like a wound, to aid a comrade at the jagged threshold. The woman, from a Chinese Guard formed centuries prior, screamed rallying cries for their Fenghuang.
Where to go? The Liminal would tell her. Persephone concentrated all her remaining energy, nearly broken by burning pain, her breathing labored. Her light flew out in an arc, shifted stone and cleared a path directly to that magical place whence angels were appointed. She quickly made her way to it, being sure to close the pathways behind her. She would not be followed.
“Dear Liminal,” she gasped at the vast frame that seemed to her most like a proscenium, but with the power to enact any play and every player. Its glassy surface bore no picture, though it crackled and sparked, sensing what was happening in the field. If Persephone wasn’t mistaken, murky traces of blue passed over its surface like roiling clouds, perhaps showing a loyalty to phoenix fire.
“I beg your help,” she continued. “I know your allegiance is not to our kind but to the mortal world, but the Grand Work is for mortal good, as well you know. Darkness has taken the field; surely you feel the suffering he creates. I dare not leave our great source of power within these walls. I fear Darkness would pervert my dear heart’s remains, destroy what little I have left of my beloved. Please. Show me where to go, where to take him. I’m not even half as strong as I once was. Help me set a new course.”
The Liminal sparkled. It whirled, it shifted, and Persephone found herself lurching forward and through. Her bare feet touched smooth marble. She had landed in a grand, dim, open foyer. It was unfinished. Moonlight filtered through dusty pale curtains and gave the vast room an eerie glow.
The perimeter of the foyer was lined with pillars; a pair of halls led out through an arch on either side. The space seemed incomplete, with only one wall painted and the stone unpolished. There was a mosaic seal at her feet, but it, too, was unfinished, though Persephone could make out the word FRIENDS and the image of a dove of peace.
“Friends,” Persephone echoed. “I could not have asked for a better word of comfort.”
What was this place? She licked her finger and put it up to the air, testing the winds of time.
“I’m in your day, my dear Guard. This is 1867. But where, then, are you?”
She moved across the great foyer, bare feet padding across the silent, empty space, and stared out the window at gaslit carriages and paupers upon cobblestone streets.
“Why, it’s London.”
Her heart quickened. Somewhere in this great city was a young man who had inexplicably captured her interest, a boy who her instincts said would be important. Who could mean everything.
But none of that now. She had her Guard spirits and the remains of Phoenix to think about, so she returned to the incomplete mosaic. In her arms, the vessel glowed.
“Bury me here. This feels right,” the essence of Phoenix whispered, like a kiss glancing off her ear.
“But you’re so far from Beatrice,” Persephone protested, “from your Guard.”
“Beatrice owns part of my fire, not all; you
know that.”
“Still, won’t you be spread too thin? You’re not used to resting in mortal soil. The Whisper-world has access to all places, it sits beside all cities, lands, fields—”
“We have to test this. Darkness did not offer us much choice. Let us explore this place. The Liminal sent you here.”
Persephone took to the halls, finding the rooms marked with numbers and stocked with an inordinate number of boxes that were filled with books. Schoolbooks.
“Yes. Of course a god of wisdom should rest in a school,” she murmured. She held her beloved’s vessel as if it were a fragile baby. “But what happened? Why is this place so empty and abandoned?”
The school was beautifully appointed on every floor, Romanesque in style with a courtyard and four halls that formed a fortresslike square. Gazing out the windows, she saw that no grand lane showcased its entrance; it was surrounded by alleys and narrow streets.
Persephone descended to the wide, welcoming foyer, passing below a vaulted ceiling. It was entirely dark here, the windows on the first level having been boarded up. Her own shifting color provided all the light she needed, however, and across the room, the word HEADMASTER on an office door caught her eye.
“Perhaps you’ll tell me your secrets,” she murmured, opening the door.
In the small office, stacked with books and strewn with papers, Persephone set the urn upon the desk and sat in the high-backed chair. She flipped through the letters and ledgers scattered atop the desk, which dealt with curricula for men and women, supplies and other details, and employment referrals. All the missives appeared to be quite friendly. Truly. The word “friend” was everywhere.
It dawned on her.
“Of course. Friends. You’re a Quaker institution, aren’t you?” she exclaimed. “I’ve always liked them; they’ve the right idea about things.”
Her eye fell upon a stack of papers crumpled on one side, as if held in a hand that had closed into a fist. Foreclosure? The bankers had withdrawn funds. A parliamentary outcry. Boycotts. Finally, a government move to close the institution before it even opened.
“Ah, yes,” Persephone murmured sadly. “The Friends have long been persecuted. Well, we’ll see about that.”
Returning to the hall where she had first landed, to the loose tiles of the central mosaic, she lifted a loose plate of plaster, revealing floorboards beneath.
“Here, my love? Is this indeed what you wish?”
A tendril of fire kissed her cheek, offering assent, so she placed the vessel between two floorboards and laid the plaster atop, smoothing the loose tiles down to make an even surface.
A crackling noise from behind made her turn. She gasped. The wide, stagelike portal of the Liminal edge had opened again, lightning threading across its glassy surface. The Whisper-world was hazily visible on the other side, a great wind emanating from its frame. Aodhan stood there, smiling, though his gaze was distant, his eyes unfocused. She rejoiced that he was safe, if only for the moment, and thanked the Liminal for letting her know.
When she turned back to the transplanted grave of her beloved, she gasped again. The mosaic had been entirely transformed. Now it was complete and cerulean fire coursed along its outer edge. The dove had become an eagle, grasping a fiery torch in its great glittering golden claws. The seal bore a new message:
AS THE PROMETHEAN FIRE WHICH BANISHED DARKNESS,
SO KNOWLEDGE BEARS THE POWER AND THE LIGHT
Phoenix fire had a new home. He, and the power of the Guard, was safe in this abandoned place. A place she would make vibrant with life and opportunity.
But it was a long, long way from Cairo.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
In a matter of weeks the Grand Work was becoming a habit, uncomfortable as some aspects were. Its six practitioners had begun to develop routines; they were growing accustomed to their powers and to one another.
The gentlemen often congregated at the edge of a small café in central Cairo. The powerful cloud of hookah smoke that lingered there made them feel as if they were somehow shielded from the outside world.
There, in the heart of the old city, it could be keenly felt that epochs had come and gone; the old streets were encumbered with mosques and other great buildings, the countless grand squares, laid out in massive asymmetry, were all filled with great antiquity. A modernization—or as some might call it, a “Westernization”—had begun around great al-Qahira, but here, surrounded by buildings centuries older, the Grand Work felt itself in good, ancient company.
It was only a matter of time before the men began talking more pointedly about the women. On this night, when the stars were bright and the smoke particularly sweet, Ahmed went so far as to recite a poem he’d written about Verena:
Your hand is that which bestows life.
Your face is worthy of a jewel mine.
Great forces brought People of the Book
Together in ways that sing glory
And I shall sing your glory always.
Your heart is a dove of peace.
Your whole being enslaves me.
Ahmed’s kind, affable face was hopeful as he finished. “Well?”
“It’s not Rumi,” Ibrahim replied, knowing the beloved Sufi poet was Ahmed’s favorite. Ahmed’s face fell. “But I think she’ll love it,” Ibrahim added and chuckled when his friend beamed. “If we encounter a lovelorn spirit, perhaps I’ll recite it.”
The poet gave a thoughtful sigh. “Since the Grand Work has disrupted my ability to study with my father and our teacher, I find that writing helps alleviate my guilt.” He shook his head. “I may have gone to khanqa like Sufi before me, but I’ve a different commission now. Still, I sometimes feel I should be farther along on the path of faith than I am.”
“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re the closest thing we have to godly,” Ibrahim offered.
Chuckling, the Sufi shook his head in modest denial before launching into a new recitation, again a piece of his own creation:
O Grand Work, we wield you with our minds and hands,
You chose we special few as servants of your Peace
When those who do not know you would yearn for you
Bound to earth, you tether us to Heaven
In the midst of this rapturous ode, George entered the café. Seeing the reverie Ahmed had put himself in, and Ibrahim’s raised eyebrow, the red-blond youth said nothing. When he finished, George applauded. Ahmed bowed his head. Ibrahim’s cocked eyebrow remained.
“You know, Ibrahim,” George said, pulling up a chair next to him, “Your name, ‘Wasil,’ is like the English word ‘wassail,’ which means to drink heartily in good company. To be merry, festive, and hospitable. I think there’s a secret, jolly, festive, drunken Englishman inside you somewhere.”
Ibrahim blinked. “If so, please gather our friends and exorcise him.”
George paused, frowning until he glimpsed the smirk growing on Ibrahim’s blank face. Then he laughed heartily, clapping Ibrahim too hard on the back and nearly spilling his Turkish tea. “That, my friend, is dry English wit.”
Ibrahim replied, “While I did learn much from the man who raised me, please don’t think you English invented everything.”
“Fair enough!” George held up his hands.
“You Westerners, in all your conquering and claiming, think you created civilization. It began here, you know,” Ibrahim added.
“And I love this land for that. Truly, I do.” George grinned and changed the subject. “I’ve filled my brother’s room entirely with art. He hates art, but Belle has him praising it and asking for more. It’s wonderful!”
Ahmed returned his smile and Ibrahim enjoyed a quiet chuckle.
George continued, a picture of rapturous youth alongside the similarly cheerful Ahmed. “Here I am, doing the one thing, the only thing in the world I’ve ever wanted to do—paint—and I suddenly have my family’s blessing. They’re merchants. All they know is trade on the pound, franc, a
nd the para; they know nothing of spirit. They were going to disown me! I tell you, the Grand Work hasn’t just saved other souls but mine, too.”
“But has it saved your heart?” Ahmed asked. “It has mine. I just read Ibrahim a verse I composed for Verena.”
George’s fair skin flushed. “Well … There’s Belle, of course. Her parents couldn’t have chosen a better name. Beautiful in all ways.” He said no more, but his expression spoke volumes.
Ahmed turned to Ibrahim, a mischievous sparkle in his wide, dark eyes. “That leaves you our auspicious leader. Unless you’d like to duel me for the fair Verena and compete in composing Rubaiyat verses? George’s heart is wide open to me. Yours? Inscrutable.”
“I feel the Pull,” Ibrahim hissed, getting to his feet. It had hit him like a wave of heat from a fire. “A disturbance in the Copt hara, not far from the Smith and Gayed households.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Did we make him so uncomfortable that he uses our Grand Work to change the subject?” He gave Ahmed a coy grin, but a moment later the two both groaned, thrown forward by the pain of the Pull. Ahmed rose, tossing coins on the table as the English youth muttered, “That was too convenient.”
Already headed out into the dark city street, Ibrahim glared at his friends over his shoulder. “You were being worse than matchmaker women. Come. We’ve work to do.”
It wasn’t long before they turned a corner to find fabric, litters, chariots, and palm fans floating everywhere down the avenue. Mortals in the employ of a European tour company, likely Cook’s, were squealing, horrified, for everything they’d gathered for a paid reenactment of an ancient parade was being lifted away by unseen hands.
The ghosts of those who would have actually participated in such a rite—or a ritual somewhat similar; one could not count on Cook for historical authenticity so much as providing what Westerners assumed and wanted to see—fussed over them like locusts. The avenue was a mess of floating props and a chorus of mortal screams.
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