There, cowered Yonathael, as Arlen waltzed up to him, on the other side of the ruined transistor. His gun primed, he pointed it at the top of Yonathael's skull, and just as he glanced up to plead for mercy, Arlen fired —
The blunt end of the staff whipped his hands. Arlen yelped, dropped the gun, and shrank back.
Yonathael didn't care where the firearm went. His visage was wild, thrilled, and pleased, as he lunged and smashed his staff into Arlen's face. His head snapped to the left, and blood spluttered from his lips and nose. Yonathael twirled his staff and thrust its blunt end into Arlen's stomach.
The blond man bowed forward, but staggered back, narrowly missing the downward blow Yonathael intended for the back of his head. He folded one arm over his belly and withdrew behind the chassis of one of the rotors.
"You think you can hide from me?" Yonathael mockingly cooed. "I know you, Arlen, I've known you, I know everything there is to know about you. And you think that cowering behind a rotor is going to help!?"
His gun gleamed cool blue under the emergency light. It was right there, to his left, against the wall, just a hop, skip, and three vaults away. He could get it, he could. He only had to do it right.
"Or is it a little game you want to play?" Yonathael chuckled. "Tell you what, I'll guess, and you tell me if I'm right." He leveled the staff with his waist, as his eyes steadily roved from coil to coil. He knew which one Arlen was behind. The question was: which one was he going to move to?
Arlen leaped left.
"What!?" Yonathael thrust the U-shaped end of his staff at the rotor Arlen moved to, and with almost no resistance, the thick bolts anchoring it to the floor strained, broke, and the rotor went soaring into the wall. "You don't want to ENTERTAIN ME!?"
Arlen vaulted left again, rolled and snatched a disconnected lead pipe.
Again Yonathael thrust, and the second rotor went just like the first. Only, this time, instead of continuing left, he scowled as Arlen went back cross-ways; right, and forward, towards Yonathael.
He was quick, the lead pipe clutched low in his grip like a battle axe ripe for cleaving someone's chest in. Arlen rushed upon Yonathael, and swung that pipe upwards, aimed dead for Yonathael's chin.
The staff came between them. Arlen pushed until his veins bulged so much, they appeared as if they were going to burst. And Yonathael intently pushed back with the power emanating from his staff. The two were locked in place, caught in a desperate tug-of-war; both bent on giving his adversary nothing; both bent on stealing his opponent's all.
"If you're so powerful," Arlen heaved, "put that stick down and take me on like a man!"
Sweat amplified Yonathael's devilish smile. How little Arlen understood.
"Come on," Arlen grunted. "What are you, waiting for something!?"
"Yes," Yonathael said.
"Dad!" Marqisian's voice was like the high-pitched chirp of a distressed songbird. He gazed down from the walkway at the two of them. And it was all too late for Arlen to realize that Yonathael was stalling, biding his time, waiting — for Marqisian.
"These," Yonathael hissed lowly, almost like a whisper, "are such precious moments." He put his weight behind the staff, and leaned it towards Arlen.
Despite his strength, the pipe flew out of Arlen's hand, upwards, and shattered the glass casing of the walkway. His son ducked and covered his head with his arms. Glass flew everywhere. And at the mere inclination of Yonathael's staff, the mid-section of the walkway groaned, bent, and broke apart.
Marqisian gripped the metal for his life, as the separated ends of the walkway dropped and the long path dangled, swinging like windswept vines at its middle.
"Marqster!" In an instant Arlen forgot about Yonathael. Nevermind the struggle, he dashed for his son.
Just as he was about under Marqisian, Yonathael tossed the final bullet up into the air like a coin. He took a half-step back, and readied his staff, keeping his eyes on Arlen. When the bullet came low enough, he put the staff's power to it. And like the cannister of a rail gun, the bullet made its mark with unfathomable speed.
Marqisian dropped into the safety of his father's arms.
"Marqi, you're alright?" Arlen asked.
Marqisian nodded. "Yeah."
Arlen put him down, and leaned back against the wall. His wan face, as he slid down and sat, reflected a saddened, sorrowful smile.
Marqisian knew, but he didn't want to believe it. He sat down in his father's lap, and rested his head near Arlen's chest. The beats of his hearts were funny: one fluttered a little more than normal, the other didn't beat at all. His shirt was wet and sticky around the right side of his chest, turned black by blood, and silver over the wound.
"You're not okay, are you?" Marqisian asked.
Arlen ruffled Marqisian's hair, and did his best to look as though it was merely a flesh wound. He kissed his son on his forehead. "I love you, boy."
The boy's eyes began to water.
"It's okay to cry, Marqi. As much as I hate to see you do it," Arlen said, wiping a stray tear from his son's cheek. "I need you to be strong for me, and watch out for Lel and your sister. You got that?"
Marqisian sniffed. He started to shake his head no, but nodded anyway.
"That's my little tough-man," Arlen said. He lay down on his side, and closed his eyes. His son huddled close to him, under his arm, and sobbed, as he gradually, hesitantly, reluctantly, fell asleep.
Some time passed. Minutes or hours, no one really knew. But the touch of Lellayla's warm, cinnamon-skinned hands startled Marqisian.
She didn't say anything, she was just on her knees. Arlen was cold by then. And Marqisian almost clung to his father's stiff corpse as if he could put some warmth — put some life — back into him. But when Lellayla opened her arms, he crawled out from his father, and embraced her.
He cried.
Inconsolable, she didn't try to comfort him. She just let him wail until the waterworks of his eyes shut off, and he could utter no more.
It was time to face the truth: Arlen was dead, and they needed to move on.
Lellayla fished Arlen's phone out of her pocket. She expected a certain voice to ask: 'What are you doing?' But Marqisian didn't have words. She watched him stand there until the other end of the call answered.
"Thirty-one-twenty-six, what can I do for you?" The operator asked.
"This is…" She didn't know what to say, not really. She looked, distantly, at Arlen's dead body.
"This is…?"
"This is Arch Gantoness Lellayla DuShaffte, I'm declaring an emergency."
The call was stark silent. "Ma'am, the Arch Ganton is —"
"I said: I am Lellayla DuShaffte, Arch Gantoness, and I'm declaring an emergency. I need all available personnel in the west annex of the Embassy immediately."
The operator hurriedly tapped in her orders. "Ma'am, what about house security?"
"As of this evening, house security is compromised. Again, I want every official we have."
"Ma'am!"
The officers were wet when they arrived. But the blankets they draped around Lel and Marqi were thick, comfortable, heavy, and warm. They snapped pictures of Arlen, and asked Lel what she knew. Then they came to Marqisian, but he just stared at the body. The officers went back to her. As they jotted down her statement and grilled her for anything else she may have known in the slightest, Marqisian wandered around the generators.
There it was, gleaming cool blue under the emergency light, by the wall. The mouth of the barrel looked like the gaping jaws of an ufiden. Its trigger guard was notched, mimicking the wide scales of the lizard's belly. The hammer reflected the bending tail, and the sight was the prominent, curled horn of the ufiden's crown. And the handle was wrapped tight in genuine ufiden skin.
He picked it up and stuffed it down his pants, the same way he'd seen his father do, and concealed the rest under his shirt.
"Marqi," Lel called for him.
He closed the front of his blanket and stea
dily strode to her.
"We're leaving," she said.
He was inclined to ask where to, but maybe it was better to let her make these decisions without his constant questioning. After all, she had become a widow, and in the process, inherited a nation. And his father would tell him to stand down and let her make a strong impression for herself.
"Lastly," she turned to the officers. "Search the entire premises. The man who did this, and Sara's corpse, have to still be here, somewhere. I want to lay my fists on her before she's burned, and see him brought to justice."
The officers thudded their fists to their chests, between their hearts. "It will be done, Ma'am!"
A helo hovered close to the Embassy's west wing exit when Lellayla and Marqisian stepped outside. The great curtain was gone, and the water poured down. It was the strangest thing, the deafening downpour, as it flooded the city streets and threatened to invade ground-level homes. The helo's rain shield kept them dry, for the most part, as they shuffled through the dense, dank air and into the cabin.
The Helomaster shut the doors with the flick of his finger, and before long, they were smoothly up in the air, and off, eastwards.
It was worthwhile to stare out the window, as the rains let up and the ground went from bog, to swamp, to marshland, and finally to dry, grassy planes. Soon the air became dry, and the grass below turned into brown patches that speckled the land as the soil mixed with sand. The black, tan, and white dunes shifted like snakes in the wind.
As nightfall crept across the horizon and the pinkish-purple hues of the daytime sky receded, the capitol of Alekzandrya — the City of Nine Rooks, Alekzandrya herself — was alight like a beacon in the distance. She straddled a deep, winding river that stretched from her north shore clear to her southeastern banks, and the majesty of her sheer breadth, girth, and height made her foes reconsider each time they wanted to take her. The top tier, Highbar, alone, fondled the bottom of the clouds.
It was a lot to take in, especially for Lellayla, who gripped the arms of her seat and pushed back. She crossed her legs, panted, and bobbed, hoping no one would notice that she was wet. The helo touched down on an outstretched landing dock that extended from the side of the neck of Nexus's central tower, the Forty-fifth. She hesitated to get out of her seat, rising tardily. Hot, electric aches shot down her legs. She groaned, and nearly fell. The Helomaster and Marqisian helped her down and walked her to the doors.
Anileon's unamused face was far from a warm reception. The weary koja eyed them suspiciously. "Since when is it acceptable to arrive in the middle of the night unannounced? Are you aware how rude this is?"
"We've an emergency," Lel panted.
"What emergency?" Anileon's voice was as rigid as his posture.
Lellayla's visage contorted into an anguished grimace. "Please, may we come in? I can explain everything inside —"
"You are aware that no one in Alekzandrya wants you, yes? We'll take the boy, but you can go back to your home, unless by your husband's order —"
"Arlen — is — dead," she exclaimed. "All I'm asking for is a Sanctuary, just for the night. You can throw me out as early as dawn if you like." Tears streamed down her cheeks. And yet Anileon's apathy was impenetrable.
He parted his lips to speak, but the smooth, sultry voice of Her Grace rang through the air:
"Must we stay up half the night debating what may or may not have happened? Let her in, Tsuboha, and come to bed." Mylisto motioned for them to enter.
"My Grace." Anileon crouched and bowed, splaying his ears back. "I am more than willing to do as you say, yet my only protest is that she is a Hedonite."
Mylisto's gaze seemed skeptical at best. Her narrowed eyes were deterring, and her upright posture made her seem prudent. Still, she settled her keen eyes on Lellayla, and the infliction that seemed to only grow worse. More important than that, her skirt was wet. "Ready the birthing pool, and bring the assistance seat," she said.
Anileon flicked his ear. "Mylisto, she is —"
"We will not turn away our allies in their hour of need, regardless of racial descent. This is final. Now come, Tsuboha, or I will have you punished."
He thudded his palm to his chest and bowed his head. "As you say."
The assistance chair was soft to the touch, and contoured to Lellayla's shape. It floated on air, hovering between two nurses without a sound. The birthing pools were a method of childbearing Lel had never heard of. But as they neared the pool, its bubbling sound was calming. The water was neither too shallow or too deep, not too hot or too cold. In fact it was soothing, as they settled her into the rolling waters.
How long she had to stay there was beyond her, but the more time she spent in those waters, the better she felt. She came to a point where the contractions didn't bother her at all, and she was almost dazed, purring. She was ready, and accepted the watery warmth that filled her clear to the lips of her cervix. She felt the final tumble, and groaned as the head pushed through. An estranged motley of sensations reverberated throughout her core:
Happiness, pleasure, relief, accomplishment, expectation; agony, heartache, depression, abandonment.
Soon enough Lellayla pushed the afterbirth into the water. They severed Laylen's cord, and made certain she was alive and could breathe, then drained the water, draped Lel in a robe, and helped her up into the hovering chair. And on this occasion, normally permeated with joy, the medical staff stood silent. It was a broken picture: Lellayla tenderly cradled Laylen.
And she wept.
During that same hour, Yonathael crept along, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. The walls were distorted, wobbling, twisting, and swirling as if they were mocking him.'The generators,' he strained to project his thoughts, 'are down.'
'I can hear it,' Sara said. The great sheet of rain was no light drizzle as it came down. It cracked against the ground, having fallen like sheets of steel, and it boomed on every building. Afterwards the heavy droplets thrummed on the exterior, making a barrage of loud, arrhythmic sounds, like soldier boys scattering to war while beating their drums.
'G-good. Einarreal,' he gasped and nearly staggered to the floor. 'I'm not going to make it to the cisterns.'
A catty smile rose on her lips. Finally, some long coveted recognition. 'You don't sound so good, Mokallai.'
He grunted, not that he didn't like the sound of his name; he didn't want to be found out. 'That infernal blond — were it not for that ill-gotten child, he'd have done me in. You'll have to proceed, without me.'
'Are you sure you don't want me to come spot you?'
'No,' he growled. 'Do as planned; I need more Iisae.'
'If you insist.'
He couldn't take another step. His body grew heavy, and his arms wanted to dangle from their sockets. He leaned on the staff, but soon crumbled to his knees. He clutched the wood, but his eyes were flickering, and finally, he fell face-first to the floor.
Disorientation was normal after blacking out. But Yonathael could never get used to it. His chest heaved as he gasped and cried out, rolling onto his side. His violet-burgundy eyes stung, as if he had rubbed course grains of salt into them. He had no clue where he was, or how he had gotten into this dark, cold place, or why the rain sounded like fists beating on the building.
He barely remembered a white man's face. He was a blond man, and a furious one. Yonathael pushed up off of the floor. He sat against the wall, leering down both ends of the corridor. Arlen, that was his name. How long had it been since they had last visited? Two hundred some-odd years now? Why was he angry? His stomach writhed, and he trembled, holding his knees to his chest, when his eyes settled on a peculiar staff beside him. It was out of place, but more than that, he recognized it. And his eyes started to water.
What now? What had he done now?
No, it couldn't be that he — no, he didn't kill him, he couldn't, he wasn't a murderer!
Or maybe the spirit forced him to do it.
The sounds of boots clacking intent
ly down the corridor stole his attention. He got up and ran towards the officers. "I submit, I submit!" Yonathael shouted, holding his open hands in front of him for them to see that he was unarmed. He got down on his knees, and as they neared, put his hands behind his head.
"Identify yourself," an officer said.
"Yonathael," he said, between excited breaths, "Yonathael Illandel Alekzandyr. Whatever my crimes, please, I ask to be tried in the kingdom of my nativity."
An Elegy of Fate Page 12
