Revenant Eve

by Sherwood Smith

  He dashed into the transept and returned with a violin. “Take this, and go quickly.” He pressed it into Mord’s hands.

  Chords soared in a glorious crescendo around us as we retreated, and this time, we heard the music all the way back to the crypt, only losing it to silence when we stepped back into Nôtre Dame.

  Paris was silent and empty when we emerged, shrouded in starless night. Aurélie still had the necklace light cranked to the max, but beyond its nimbus pressed cold, malevolent threat. When we neared the horrible forest, it blinked into another reality: still human figures, young and old, some looking like corpses freshly dug up, others near death, many marked by rivulets of blood, like cracks in sculpture. Each still, gazes fixed on hopelessness and darkness.

  Mord held the amulet gripped in one hand, the violin in the other. He began walking toward the victims, searching each face intently as he passed.

  Aurélie gave a muffled cry and darted around him, one hand clutching her necklace, the other outstretched, fingers distended. She ran from tree to tree like someone demented as Jaska followed in her wake. Light bloomed on every person she touched with the necklace. Of course she wasn’t going to leave anyone behind, though many of the people she touched crumpled to the ground, apparently lifeless. Others staggered, some shying away when Jaska or I tried to help them. Most vanished like smoke.

  Nobody tried to stop Aurélie. That necklace was too powerful.

  She found Elisheva.

  Mord was there to catch Elisheva when she started to fall. He crushed her in his arms, his head bent as he whispered endearments. I gripped my nails in my palms, afraid she was dead. But her eyelashes fluttered, and she gazed up into his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, over and over. “I’m sorry.”

  “I had faith you would come,” she whispered.

  “Let’s—” I began, go unspoken.

  An army of gargoyles, trolls, scaly things, snake-fiends, you name it, encircled us. Leading them were the three seraphs, who I mentally termed the fake angels, as beautiful as ever.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  THE PEWTER-HAIRED ONE SAID, “Your power is not strong enough.”

  Elisheva touched Aurélie. “They want you to use the necklace’s power to attack them.”

  “I know,” Aurélie said, without shifting her steady gaze from the three demons. “That is, I don’t know everything about this necklace that there is to know. But I’ve seen in dreams what it can do,” she whispered as the silvery light expanded to touch the slowly advancing hordes of nightmare figures: she was trying to free their souls.

  Either her magic did not work, or else they embraced their evil, because there was no visible effect outside of the cold glitter of reflected light in those malicious eyes. One goblin creature licked his chops, drool hanging down in a long strand.

  Jaska gripped the sword. Mord gravely held the amulet out to Elisheva, who accepted it with a voiceless word of thanks. She stirred, standing on her own, and he moved away from her, courteous and somber. Then his hand closed around the hilt of his sword, a finger at a time.

  For a measureless interval we stood there, waiting to be attacked, as the demons probably anticipated the mayhem to come.

  “No,” Aurélie said, laying a finger on Jaska’s wrist. “No.”

  He dropped the point of his sword, looking at her in silent grief. Her hand stole into his free hand, her intention plain: If death was nigh, they’d face it together. But she couldn’t take lives, even in defeat.

  I wavered, wondering if I was going to have to be the one to cross that line, because I was not going tamely, I would not let evil win without fighting back. Even if fighting was what the demons wanted, I craved justice, and there was none in standing by to watch Aurélie and Jaska, Mordechai and Elisheva, hashed to bits for the entertainment of these worse-than-bloodsuckers.

  Then Mord stretched out his hand, which was gripped white-knuckled on the sword. He dropped the weapon to the ground. Mozart’s violin had been tucked up under his armpit. He took hold of it now, bow and instrument, which he swung into position. He touched the bow to the strings and closed his eyes. One long, liquid note spooled through the tension, pure and clean and simple as water—and as compelling. With infinite absorption, and a touch as delicate as a butterfly, he began to play. Rabbi Nachman had taught him that storytelling rests on the distinction between sleep and waking, death and life, good and evil, light and lightlessness. The world cries out with longing for good, and music is one of the ways to get it there—and the Rabbi had sung a nigun to demonstrate.

  It had taken time for Mord to internalize Rabbi Nachman’s wisdom, but he had it now. From all directions, faster than wind, Mord drew bits of light: from the city’s candles, from the hearths, the torches, from the stars beyond the gathered clouds overhead, and he fashioned the light into song. Storytelling through music was his conduit to the healing of the world, the restoration of the shards of light scattered through the universe.

  Before the feet of the menacing army sprang tongues of flame, small at first, but growing larger as light gathered in streamers, coalescing in a great wheel overhead.

  The violin no longer spoke alone. Voices joined, at first in whispers, then in songs—I heard the children of Nôtre Dame—and then instruments added one by one.

  We heard Mozart’s mighty choirs, all the way from Vienna.

  Those who walked through this part of the Nasdrafus striving against the tide of violence gave their strength to Mord, forming their own army of harmony until the music broke the limits of sound and spread to the horizon, the music of the spheres, beyond beauty and beyond anguish, but partaking of both. We are finite vessels and cannot hold that much glory without burning up, but even so I exerted mind, heart, and spirit to hold the glory.

  But it slipped away, because one thing we cannot control is time.

  I don’t know when the demons vanished. I only knew that we reached Nôtre Dame and Mord was still playing, though the violin glowed, runnels of flame blue along the bow, the joins of the instrument incandescent.

  We reached the bell tower. We reached the portal…and we fell out of the Nasdrafus, into the real world through the mirror we’d first gone through, back into that small antechamber just off the ballroom in the von Mecklundburg castle. Aurélie and Jaska laughed unsteadily with relief. Mord looked more like a mad prophet than ever as he flexed his hands, in which the magic violin, Mozart’s gift, had burned to ash. Then he gently helped Elisheva, who nearly collapsed as they stepped away from thin air onto the terrace next to the kylix fountain. They were at the Eyrie, and all four looked my way.

  I was still in their time. Not where I’d hoped to be.

  FORTY-NINE

  AT FIRST, the terrace looked the same as it had when we left, but we perceived subtle differences: some seemed taller, and the colors were not the fresh light green of spring, but the crackling deep greens and lemon yellows of late summer.

  “We’ve missed weeks. Maybe months,” Jaska said, straightening up. The stiff way he moved, the pain he tried to hide, made it clear that his bad knee was the same as it had been before. His face was drawn, the planes shadowed by faint lines.

  “We might have been gone longer,” Elisheva said.

  “How do you know that?” Mord asked as he helped her to her feet.

  She ducked her head. “I made a vow not to talk about what they said to me when I was prisoned in that place, for that would be to give their words added power.” She wiped her hands down her dress—her rumpled, grimy dress. Now that they were in the real world, they all showed the effects of time.

  Elisheva turned her bruised, tired eyes to me as she wiped absently at grime on her face. “You are still a ghost.”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to hide the sharpness of disappointment. “Then there’s still something to be done. Maybe the Blessing and their marriage will free me?”

  Elisheva’s eyelids flickered. Then she straightened her shoulders. “I’ll not
hazard a guess at this moment.” But she knew something.

  I didn’t press her, as she seemed barely able to hold it together. The other three looked tired, but she looked beyond exhausted. I could almost feel her effort to marshal the last of her strength as she said, “The mirrors will still be dangerous, but I was taught that there’s a portal at Angel Xanpia’s Fountain. Shall we try it? We know how to use portals now, and the necklace should provide the Vrajhus to make the transfer possible.”

  “What will happen if the Vrajhus fails?” Aurélie asked. “Will we go back to that terrible place?”

  “I think only that we must beg a ride down the mountainside to Angel Xanpia’s Fountain,” Elisheva said.

  They took hands. I took hold of Aurélie’s shoulder—I don’t know if she felt my grip, as I could see her ruined gown through my shimmery fingers. The transfer was too quick. It felt more like we’d been shoved by an invisible hand. We fell into the water of Xanpia’s Fountain, the four of them getting thoroughly soaked.

  Being invisible, I didn’t get wet. I gazed up at the smiling face of the stone statue, hoping that Xanpia would come forward and tell me that I was nearly done, but nothing happened.

  It was dawn, the sun crowning Dsaret mountain. Very few people were about. The only one who noticed the sudden appearance of four persons splashing in the fountain was an old man driving a couple of cows toward Prinz Karl-Rafael Street. He did a double-take, his bearded face expressing astonishment as the four sloshed over the low rim of the fountain, Mord helping Jaska. I was shocked to see gray strands in Mord’s hair at his temples, and faint lines around Jaska’s eyes. Both Elisheva and Aurélie looked subtly different, the contours of their faces planed somewhat of the roundness of youth. There were silvery strands among the red in Elisheva’s hair. All four had aged.

  They wrung their clothes out as best they could and started up the street toward the great square, shedding water at every step. Aurélie’s once-beautiful ball gown was a spectacular mess, the once-pretty green ribbons trailing like seaweed.

  About a block and a half later a patrol of King’s Guard trotted up. Cue astonishment: “The king?”

  “The king!”

  Their profound shock would have been funny except for the consternation that was so clear in those wide eyes and open mouths. Their consternation was reflected in Jaska as he breathed, “The king?”

  Half the patrol was sent galloping, and the other half closed protectively around Jaska, though there was no attacker. Maybe they were trying to keep him from vanishing again.

  The reason became clear when we reached the palace a short time later, and Margit came flying out, heedless of her dignity. Her face was careworn, her silk gown was the gray of half-mourning. “Jaska,” she cried, and we could see faint lines at the corners of her eyes, same as her brother’s. “Jaska, you are back!”

  She flung herself into his arms. “Ten years,” she cried. “Jaska, it’s been ten years.”

  “I think…I can explain,” Elisheva said faintly.

  “Let us get her inside.” Mord’s voice was urgent.

  “Please forgive me,” Jaska said to his sister, who motioned hovering servants to help Mord with Elisheva. Despite her efforts, she was tottering. “We were striving beyond our knowledge,” Jaska said, “almost beyond our strength. But we did finally prevail.”

  A crowd was fast forming. Jaska turned around and raised his voice. “I am home. This time, for good.”

  A cheer went up, tentative at first then gathering force.

  “Come inside,” Margit murmured, as a new figure appeared in the door to the palace—Benedek Ysvorod, hair gray at the temples, otherwise looking fit and aware. Kingly.

  His brows lifted, then he bowed. If there was an air of mockery—yeah, Jaska saw it, all right—nothing was said out loud as I followed them into the palace. Behind us, the King’s Guard began clearing everyone away.

  “Mother?” Jaska asked.

  Margit stopped and took his hands. “She died two years ago.”

  He winced, his head bowing.

  They continued on into one of the state rooms, and she shut the door, then stood with her back to it. “She believed to the end that you were in the Nasdrafus, that you were doing something about this terrible situation.”

  “What situation?” Jaska asked.

  But Margit swept on. “You vanished so suddenly the night before Gabrielle’s wedding. No trace. We let the word spread that you had gone to the Nasdrafus on our behalf, because oh, Jaska, Aurélie, it was just as you predicted.” She turned to Aurélie. “d’Enghien assassinated, Bonaparte declaring himself emperor. And then he marched against the empire, and in the Year Nine, against Russia. France against Russia. All Europe was a battlefield. The campaign was disastrous even for Bonaparte, who until then could not be beaten. So we had the fear of reprisal when they retreated, marauding where they could to stay alive.”

  “So Dobrenica escaped?”

  “Only because their road lay to the north. But he is back, and the goal is Dresden—and beyond. So much of Europe lies in ruins. And it seems we are about to join them.” She paused as Jaska took a quick step, and stumbled. “Jaska, what happened?”

  “Nothing. It’s only my knee. I forgot about it.…Never mind that, I must know everything. I must make amends.” The stress was shifting from her to him.

  “Here,” she said in a practical tone. “Permit us to first get you fed and rested. Though things are dire, you all look travel worn. Ten years! I will tell you everything.”

  “I am to understand that Benedek has not been crowned, then?”

  Margit colored. “I said I’d marry him, but not…He understood. Jaska, he’s been my mainstay. He offered the dukes and the Grand Council five years after Mother died, at which time we would have to declare you dead. And they accepted because everyone feels, especially in these times, that we must have a king.”

  “Is Hippolyte safe?”

  “Oh, he returned long ago. The year you left, as you commanded. And our legation was closed before the French invaded Vienna. He’s been wonderful—he’s our main source of information. Has contacts everywhere, and Irena stayed true, but the duke won’t permit them to marry. You know why.”

  “Hippolyte shall be declared a baron the day we’re crowned,” Jaska promised, holding tightly to Aurélie’s hand. “I’d make him a duke if we had another mountain.” He turned his head. “Mordechai, I wish you would reconsider. A barony is all I have to give you, and it would never repay my debt.”

  Mord had been whispering to Elisheva, who was reclining in a deep chair, the needs of the moment transcending royal protocol. He lifted his head at that. “I cannot accept.” And at Jaska’s weary disappointment, he said, “I am honored. Deeply. But I am wary of secular rank. I believe my father was right that such things draw attention to us, and attention is never good for Jews in a Christian world.”

  “Not here,” Jaska protested, clearly distraught. “Not in Dobrenica.”

  Elisheva struggled to sit upright. “That must wait.”

  Everyone fell silent and gathered around her chair. She gripped Mord’s hand tightly, as if to draw strength as she struggled to lift her voice. “Their plan was this: to keep you ensorcelled until Napoleon and his wars reached Dobrenica. In the resulting slaughter, they would gain enough power to take the Esplumoir, the gate between worlds. Remember: there are only three on all the earth, and one is here. It has been their goal all along.”

  She turned to look my way, then dropped her gaze. Uh-oh.

  “But the demons have not won yet,” Margit declared and smiled thinly at her brother. “If the cheer I heard today is indicative, we might have our true peace at last. If so, on September 2nd, we shall be able to evoke the Blessing. We can be rid of the demons altogether!”

  Elisheva shook her head minutely, but the others didn’t notice because Mord took them all by surprise. “After what we just experienced, I can trust it is possible. But…if we are
closed from the world, how does the Messiah find us if he comes?”

  Aurélie whispered to Jaska, “And if we are closed away forever, that means I will never again see my family?”

  Elisheva drew a deep breath and turned her grave gaze upward to meet Mord’s. “Mordechai, our rabbi, may he be forever blessed, can answer your question. Our rabbinical father wrote many centuries ago to the Ari-Hakadosh, the most holy, who said, that surely, when the Messiah comes, he will have the power to bring us all together, wherever we have scattered.”

  “Then my only wish, besides to marry you, Elisheva bashert—” Mord turned from her to Jaska, “—is to start a music school. With music, I know where I am in the world.”

  Elisheva flicked a glance at Aurélie. “Nothing on Earth is forever. The enchantment of the Blessing breaks when any of us break the peace, or cross the border into the outer world. If Bonaparte ceases to be a threat, well, then we shall re-engage with the world.”

  “And you can bring your family here, Aurélie,” Jaska said to her. “And welcome.”

  She clasped her hands with joy, as Elisheva closed her eyes again.

  Margit said across Elisheva to Aurélie, “Those letters, do you remember writing them? Of course you do, if it was only days ago for you. I sent the letters off. I think it was two or three years after that, one summer, we received via the Swedish legation a trunk of rose slips sent by your cousin, a Mrs. Charles Kittredge. We could not lay them by, of course, and not knowing what you wished done, we divided them to see where they would grow best. My share I planted myself, out there by the gazebo as a reminder of, oh, many things. I think you understand me?”

  “I do,” Aurélie said. “And I thank you.”

  “Then this very year, she sent another letter, along with a book. The book is in English, so we do not know if is fiction or philosophy, but Hippolyte translated the formidable title, Pride and Prejudice. We have it laid by.” She shook her head. “But all that can wait. Is it the Blessing, then, that we need?”