The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery

by G. D. Falksen

  Magnus was prideful and arrogant, but at least he was quick to mock his own excesses. Of course, recognizing the folly of one’s own pride did not equal humility. Magnus often bragged about a duel he had once fought with the scholar Tycho Brahe over a disagreement regarding a certain alchemical principle that both men later swore never to divulge. Iosef was willing to accept the story, though Magnus’s claims that he had also been Brahe’s lover, Iosef took with rather more skepticism.

  “How many survived to be interrogated?” Iosef asked.

  “Four,” Magnus answered. “And I imagine they will all be swiftly beheaded once the matter has been fully investigated. The Law of Shashava must be enforced lest we fall prey to our darker impulses.”

  “Mmm.” Iosef nodded slightly. “What a strange contradiction it is: the Law of Shashava would make for a better world, but the only way to enforce it is through violence and death.”

  “Every law is enforced through violence,” Magnus said. “At least this one is worth the sacrifice.”

  “So I fervently hope,” Iosef agreed.

  Ahead of them, the corridor ended in a set of great double doors made of silver-inlaid wood. Guards in armor stood at either side, and they bowed to Iosef and Magnus at their approach.

  “This is where I leave you,” Magnus said. “I wish you well with your report. I must away to my business.”

  “My thanks for your company Magnus,” Iosef said. “Where are you bound? Your laboratory?”

  Magnus shook his head. “Something far more important than my studies.”

  “Ah, dueling.”

  Iosef nodded to Magnus and the two exchanged bows of farewell. The guards quickly opened the doors for Iosef and welcomed him into the Council chamber, which had stood as the place of leadership for the Shashavani for centuries, since the days when Shashava still walked among them.

  The room was large and round in shape, with a towering ceiling that rose high above its occupants. The walls were decorated with paintings, mosaics, and other adornments, all bringing glory and beauty to the room and its proceedings; but the single most important feature of the chamber was a simple stone table, made in the shape of a wide crescent, almost forming a circle. The center was hollowed out so that speakers could easily address the entire Council, and it was to this center point that Iosef walked.

  In the early days, the Council had been composed entirely of Shashava’s Companions, the ten great thinkers who had first been inducted into the Shashavani Order, all seated to either side of Shashava’s chair. Now they had all vanished into the wilderness—or into death, like Basileios, the bloodthirsty general who had driven the Shashavani into civil war after Shashava’s disappearance many centuries ago. The new Council was far younger than the first, but perhaps no less wise; most of them had held their positions for almost five hundred years.

  Iosef knelt upon the polished marble floor and bowed his head to Lady Sophio, who sat in Shashava’s chair. She was the eldest among them, the Vicar of Shashava, one of the last who remained that had known Shashava personally. It was only fitting that she reigned until their founder finally returned.

  “Eristavi,” Iosef said softly, bowing his head to her and addressing her by her formal title.

  He looked up and caught her eyes, which smiled at him even as her mouth was still. To his relief, he saw that she was in one of her more lucid moments, free from the chaos of memory that sometimes took her. She had lived more than a thousand years, and there were days when it wore upon her terribly. But today was not such a day. And that was good.

  “Iosef,” Sophio said. “My husband. Stand.”

  Iosef rose to his feet and bowed again, a movement that he then made to the elders at either side of the table.

  “I have come as I have been bidden,” he said. “I am here to answer whatever questions you may put to me.”

  “And we are pleased by it,” Sophio replied. “You are familiar with the recent violation of the Law that was committed two days ago in the Shadow of Death?”

  The Shadow of Death was the Shashavani term for mortals and the mortal realm, where death and disease still held sway.

  “I am,” Iosef answered. “I was told of an attack upon one of the Circassian villages by persons unknown. The attackers fled into the forest and were hunted down by my sworn brother, Luka. That is all I know of it.”

  One of the Council members, a Scottish philosopher of politics named Margaret the Hebridean, looked at Iosef with a grave expression and said:

  “There is more, Brother Iosef, which you ought to know. The men who attacked the Circassians were not strangers to this land. They came from other villages, seeking to sow strife within our sanctuary.”

  What? Iosef thought. Was such a thing possible?

  “I do not understand,” he replied. “I thought that all who resided here were sworn to obey the Law of Shashava?”

  “Sworn, yes,” Sophio said. “Though it seems that some of them have been drawn from the path of wisdom into ignorance and hatred. The villagers of this land have always been wayward followers of Shashava, but it seems that these brigands have forsaken wisdom altogether.”

  “What was the motivation for their crimes?” Iosef asked. “If I may be permitted to inquire.”

  It was Reza of Samarkand, the great Persian engineer, who answered, his voice tinged with anger:

  “They sought to murder the Circassians for being Muslim. It was a clear violation of Shashava’s laws.”

  “How is this possible? Surely they were raised to believe in the path of wisdom, even if they were not strong enough to follow it always.”

  “They were misled,” Sophio replied. “They each claim to have been visited by a vision of the Virgin Mary who instructed them to arm themselves for war, to ready themselves to slaughter the infidels and the heretics.”

  “Heretics?” Iosef asked.

  “Us,” said Iese of Kartli, a learned scribe formerly of the Georgian court. He stroked his bearded chin for a moment, troubled by the knowledge. “Apparently, we are all heretics and nonbelievers for placing the Law of Shashava above the Law of God.”

  The other members of the Council shook their heads at such foolishness.

  “Surely the Virgin Mary did not actually appear to these men,” Iosef protested. He still was not certain why he had been summoned. There was clearly a purpose for it, but it had not yet been revealed to him.

  “Certainly not,” said Margaret, almost scoffing at the idea—as much as any elder of the Shashavani could be said to “scoff”, for by that age their emotions had become so dulled and subtle that it was often difficult to discern them at all.

  “But,” Sophio said, “it is possible that someone did appear to them, someone who wished to turn the weak-minded and the ignorant against us. And we may know who.”

  “Who?”

  “Iosef, you recently returned from investigating the actions of a Basilisk, is that correct?” It was Margaret who asked.

  Basilisks were rogue Shashavani who had succumbed to corruption and the temptation of their great physical prowess. They sought mastery over mankind rather than the quiet pursuit of knowledge. Basileios had been the most heinous of them, but there had been Basilisks before and after him. It was necessary to maintain vigilance against them, lest their brutality draw the attention of the mortal world.

  Iosef nodded. “That is correct. I was dispatched at this council’s request, you will remember.”

  He waited for the Council members to dig up the details of their instructions from within their memories. Certainly, it must have been so insignificant a matter at the time that they only half recalled it now. At their age, to remember all things clearly could only lead to madness. Only by compartmentalizing memories and ideas could they carry on with their centuries-long work without forgetting anything important.

  “We so rec
all, husband,” Sophio said, nodding. “And we are pleased by your diligence.”

  “I am here to serve,” Iosef answered. “I tracked the Basilisk to Paris initially, where I encountered the remnants of her activities in the catacombs there. I followed her to London, and again I arrived too late. By the time I discovered her lair, she had moved on.”

  “And then you followed her to America?” asked Philippa of Nicaea. “To Boston?”

  It did not surprise Iosef that Philippa recalled the details of his report better than the others: a Greek nun, she had operated a monastic spy ring during the dark days of the Latin Empire. She had always been the most attentive to news of the outside world.

  “That is correct, My Lady,” Iosef said.

  “And in Boston you encountered the Basilisk?”

  “Briefly,” Iosef answered, “but yes. I found her lair in a network of tunnels beneath the city, as I had in London and in Paris before that. We spied one another at a distance. It seems she considered me little enough of a threat to let me live, and I am thankful for it.”

  Margaret leaned forward over the table and looked at Iosef with a grave expression.

  “This is very important, Iosef,” she said. “The Basilisk.... Was she Edith the Saxon?”

  Iosef frowned at the mention of the name. In truth, he had gone to observe, not to deduce, and the matter of the Basilisk’s identity was something he had intentionally kept from his mind. But as he considered the question, he felt a sense of dread at the realization that it could easily have been so. Certain things he had seen in Paris, London, and Boston did indeed correspond with the artistic nature of Edith’s known atrocities.

  “It may have been Edith,” Iosef replied. “I cannot say for certain. I cannot even be certain that it was a woman. I only viewed her at a distance and her face was concealed. She wore a dress and her hair was long, but I never saw her features.”

  “What was her purpose?” asked Lakshmi of Bengal, a natural philosopher and astronomer from the Indies. “What was she doing in these secret places?”

  Iosef was silent for a moment, recalling the sights with perfect clarity. It was enough to make one shudder, even one of the Living for whom the heart beat slowly and fear seldom was felt.

  “She was...conjoining bodies,” he said.

  “Conjoining?” Philippa demanded.

  “In Paris I found skeletons that had been constructed from the remains of many different bodies. They were...statues...adornments. Skulls with laurels made of hands, or torsos with many arms. It was very artistic even as it was profane.”

  “She has done such things before,” Margaret said. She frowned and a shadow fell across her pale countenance. “It has been observed.”

  “In London,” Iosef continued, “I found whole bodies not yet succumbed to rot arranged in just such a way. But as their flesh was still on them, they had been sewn together to make grotesque forms: centaurs and serpent-men and other such things. Some of them were altogether abstract, forming shapes and images rather than identifiable creatures.”

  He looked at Sophio, but she merely stared silently at him, listening and contemplating as was so often her way.

  “And these things were kept secret?” asked Margaret. “In previous cases, she has put her creations on display to torment those who walk in the Shadow of Death.”

  “I believe they were experiments,” Iosef answered. “She was testing different ways to combine the human form, however crudely it proved to be.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Iosef hesitated to reply:

  “The creation of living statuary.”

  “What?” Reza asked.

  “In Boston, I discovered her lair soon enough after her departure that her work was still fresh,” Iosef explained. “I found there the fruits of her labors. She had taken...pieces of yet-living men and women and...grafted them onto one another so that a man might have four arms and no legs, but still be capable of some manner of movement. Or that she might have a candelabrum that could speak and observe.”

  He shuddered, the memory of the sight quickening his pulse so much that he almost felt it.

  “I merely give examples. In truth, there were so many and of such varied nature that I do not know if I could describe them all. But they were clearly decorations that were alive.”

  “How long did they remain so?” Sophio asked, her expression never changing. Her voice was emotionless, but Iosef sensed unease in her.

  “Not long,” Iosef said. “Many had died before my arrival. The rest expired shortly thereafter. But I am certain that the making of such living statuary was her purpose. And what troubles me most is the suspicion that Boston was not the finished result, but merely another test along the way. The Basilisk has not revealed these things to the world because they are not ready to be revealed. They are not finished. But once she has perfected the technique, I am certain that she will reveal them, and I dread to imagine the result.”

  “Panic and chaos,” Philippa said, scowling. “Truly it must be Edith. This speaks of her madness in volumes.”

  “It is likely,” Sophio agreed, speaking softly. She blinked a few times, seeming to come back to herself. “But the more pressing question is, was Edith the Saxon the same ‘Blessed Virgin’ who appeared to our prisoners?”

  “The sowing of chaos and horror where there is peace?” Margaret asked rhetorically. “That has always been her purpose. She has done so in the outer world; why should she not do so here?” Margaret motioned to Iosef. “Especially if she is concerned that she has been discovered.”

  “It would not be unlike her to spread discord among us so that we would be unable to disturb her real work,” Philippa said, “though it troubles me to think that she may have violated the sanctity of the valley. How could she gain entry?”

  “It is not impossible,” Sophio said. “The Living find it simple to come and go as they please. We all know this.” The other members of the Council nodded to the truth of her statement. “But until now, the fear of discovery and of our retribution has been sufficient to keep the Basilisks away in the outer world.”

  There was a long silence as the rest of the Council considered the implications of such a development. Finally, Margaret spoke to Sophio:

  “Did you sense her?”

  Sophio considered this for a time, frowning. At length, she answered:

  “I...do not know if I sensed her or not.”

  Suddenly, Sophio seemed confused. The analytical certainty that had been there a moment before was gone, replaced by doubt. She looked at Iosef, and she almost seemed afraid—afraid that her memory had failed her or that her mind had slipped, mistaking the events of one century for the events of another. It had occurred before so many times, but suddenly Sophio was aware of it while it was happening.

  “So you may have sensed her?” Margaret asked insistently. “She may have been here?”

  “I...” Sophio stammered, struggling to sort one memory from another, no doubt searching for an event she could not remember but that should have dominated her recollection.

  Iosef would have rushed to her had he been able, but among the Council such a display of affection would be impossible. Instead, he looked into Sophio’s eyes and silently bid her to focus her thoughts on him, on what was certain, and to draw herself back into a state of calm. He did not know if it worked, but the momentary panic seemed to fade.

  “It is possible,” Sophio said to Margaret, her tone calm again and her resolve returned to her. “I may well have sensed her. Indeed, we all ought to have sensed her, for we are old enough to do so, even those on this council who never met her.”

  Margaret nodded, her face betraying a look of shame. “We ought to have noticed when she came among us,” she said. “The safekeeping of the valley is as much our responsibility as it is yours.”

  “It is more
our responsibility,” Iese interjected angrily. He looked around at the rest of the Council before turning back to Sophio. “We are your advisors, Eristavi. It is our duty to aid you in safeguarding the valley, and in that, we have failed. We have allowed a serpent to slither into the garden and threaten the tree of knowledge.”

  The other Council members looked at one another, slowly nodding in agreement and murmuring their apologies for the lapse in their duty. In the end, only Philippa remained silent, her brow furrowed in thought, her eyes darting from one member of the Council to the next.

  “Our duty aside,” she said, “I must question whether it is even possible for a Basilisk to gain entry to the valley without our notice. Must we seek phantoms in the shadows when a simpler answer may be before us?”

  “Meaning?” Reza asked.

  “We have as yet no proof that anyone appeared to these men,” Philippa said, speaking to Sophio. “We give the valley people great autonomy so long as they obey certain principles of the law. Is it so impossible that there were men among them who by their very nature hated and distrusted those whose customs are different? One man claims a visitation from the Virgin Mary and suddenly they all claim it. Such things have happened in the outer world. They could happen here. Why must we seek conspiracies when there may be a simpler answer?”

  Reza rose from his chair and addressed Philippa:

  “Why are you so quick to dismiss such a possibility, Sister? Are you truly so afraid of the possibility that a Basilisk may have violated our sanctuary?”

  “No,” Philippa protested, “it is merely that I—”

  Suddenly, Sophio rose to her feet, silencing the room. She studied her advisors without a word as if examining and admonishing each of them for some uncertain sin. Then she turned her gaze toward Iosef.

  “Husband,” she said, “we thank you for this intelligence. You may depart with our blessing. And our gratitude.”

  This last statement was said with a flicker of uncommon warmth. Iosef knew how close Sophio had come to losing sense of herself, and she was grateful for his presence.