“It is my pleasure to serve, Eristavi,” Iosef answered. “I shall take my leave.”
He bowed to Sophio, never taking his eyes from hers. He inclined his head to both sides of the Council and withdrew from the chamber.
In the corridor, Iosef took a deep breath to steady himself. Sophio’s madness was growing. She often forgot her time and her place, but the incidents were becoming more and more common, and more and more unsettling. And the fact that Sophio had become so confused was a new development. Normally, when the madness took her, she was confident and certain, recalling information that was true but which had no bearing on the moment. To have forgotten something so serious as sensing the presence of a Basilisk....
Something would have to be done. It was the same thing he had been telling himself since he had first noticed the fits of madness a hundred years ago, but now he would have to act before his beloved wife was lost...and the House of Shashava with her.
Chapter Four
•
That evening, Varanus made her way to the portico above the dueling salon in the north wing of the castle. Left open to the outside on three sides, it was favored by many of the more physically active Shashavani for sparring and exercise on moonlit nights—or in the light of day by those Shashavani old enough not to fear the sun.
Tonight, the moon was full and the sky was cloudless, leaving the portico painted silver against the night. Torches and lanterns offered their light as well, but Varanus had little need of them, nor did either of the men she saw exchanging thrusts and parries upon the dueling floor.
The braggart Magnus Eriksen stood nearest to the door, and in true form, he was regaling his opponent with tales of his exploits in his mortal life and during his travels in the outer world. Varanus shook her head at him, but she watched the display all the same as Magnus and his opponent danced back and forth with a flickering of steel. Both men fought bare-chested, and in the moonlight Varanus found herself admiring the sight. Magnus might be insufferably arrogant, but Varanus could not deny that he possessed a certain elegant masculinity that was at least aesthetically pleasing.
“Oh liebchen,” Korbinian murmured in her ear, “you will make me jealous if you stare at him so.”
“Oh, hush,” Varanus replied softly, and the two of them shared a knowing smirk. No man, however handsome, could ever take the place of Korbinian. He was her all, now and forever.
Magnus’s dueling partner paused a moment after deflecting a blow and gave Varanus a subtle nod of greeting. The duelist was a big man, older than was common among most of the Living—for he had come to them later in life. Indeed, with the gray streaks in his beard, he almost reminded Varanus of her late grandfather, such was his appearance, character, and bearing.
“Vaclav,” Magnus said, rebounding from his failed strike and repositioning himself for the next attack, “have I ever told you of the duel I fought with Tycho Brahe at the University of Rostock?”
“Ad nauseam,” replied Vaclav the Moravian—often called “Vaclav the Hussite”, for he had been a follower of the great Czech reformer Jan Hus before joining the Shashavani.
“We quarreled, he and I, over a question of alchemical secrets,” Magnus continued, tapping his blade against Vaclav’s. “And to my great shame, I was over-exuberant and cut his nose from his face!”
Varanus approached the dueling ground and said, “I thought it was Brahe’s cousin who cut off his nose.”
“Huh?” Startled, Magnus turned in place to look at Varanus. “Doctor Varanus? I did not hear you—”
Grinning at Varanus, Vaclav bounded forward and thrust his rapier at Magnus’s throat. Magnus remembered himself and drew his sword up, deflecting the blow at the last moment. Wheeling about, he gave his sword a flourish and glared first at Vaclav, then at Varanus.
“Unsporting!” he roared, though his angry tone could not disguise the amusement in his voice. “Uncouth! Craven and cowardly! The both of you!”
“Easy now, Magnus,” Vaclav said, advancing on the Dane and trading a few cautious thrusts. “It is hardly Doctor Varanus’s fault if a young pup like you cannot stay aware of his surroundings.”
“Ha!” Magnus laughed, deflecting Vaclav’s next thrust and answering with his own. “At least I am not a doddering old relic!”
As he and Vaclav began to circle one another, he said to Varanus, “Tycho’s cousin, my foot! That was merely a story we concocted to preserve my reputation!”
“Mmm-hmm,” Varanus answered.
Beside her, Korbinian laughed. Turning to face her, he walked backward out onto the dueling floor, somehow managing to step in between the two fighters, weaving ever so slightly so that their rapier thrusts passed around him, always threatening to strike him but never landing.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said. “Mind you, I’m not about to argue the point with a man holding a sword.”
Varanus shook her head at him and mouthed the words, “How pragmatic of you.”
Naturally, neither Magnus nor Vaclav took any notice of Korbinian.
“And what can we do for you, Doctor?” Magnus asked Varanus. “Have you finally come to return the copy of Soslan’s Third Treatise that you so disgracefully absconded with?”
“Certainly not,” Varanus replied, holding her chin high and folding her arms. “Which is to say, I’m certain I don’t know what you mean by that. Surely the Third Treatise is in the archives. Perhaps you should search with greater diligence next time.”
“Ha, ha!” Magnus scoffed, though his mirth was sincere. “You’re a regular wit, Doctor Varanus.”
“And you, Doctor Eriksen.”
Magnus traded a few more blows with Vaclav before attempting a singularly ambitious thrust when it seemed the other man was not paying attention. Older and more seasoned by almost two centuries, Vaclav reacted instantly, deflecting the thrust with only a moment’s uncertainty. The two men grinned at one another and drew back, resuming their dance, swords at the ready.
“Ah, the duel,” Korbinian said, still standing invisibly in the middle of the match. He leaned backward quickly to avoid being skewered by Vaclav’s blade, which made Varanus gasp instinctively. She knew that he could not be harmed, not now that he was dead, but it was still a frightening thing. “This brings back memories, you know.”
“Don’t be horrid,” Varanus whispered.
It was a duel that had taken Korbinian’s life, and the very mention of it brought Varanus back to that terrible Christmas Eve night. She clenched her eyes shut and willed herself to forget again.
“Oh, liebchen,” Korbinian said, touching Varanus’s cheek.
Startled, Varanus opened her eyes and saw him standing directly before her, looking at her with sad and apologetic eyes.
“I did not mean to upset you,” he added. “I would never wish to do that. But the past is the past; we cannot change it. We can only go forward, together.”
“Together,” Varanus murmured in agreement, smiling and taking Korbinian’s hand in hers. She gently pressed his palm to her lips and kissed it, her movements as subtle as she could manage so that the others would not notice anything peculiar.
“Did I ever tell you about the summer I spent in Potsdam with Voltaire and Frederick the Great, Vaclav?” Magnus asked.
“Many times,” Vaclav answered.
“Hmph.” Undeterred, Magnus glanced toward Varanus. “You, Doctor? Have I told you?”
“1751, was it?” Varanus asked.
“Ah, such happy days.” Magnus sighed.
However poignant his remembrances—if they were even true—they did not distract him from the duel, for he deflected a pair of sharp thrusts by Vaclav and replied in kind with his own.
“Of course,” he continued, “it could not last. They quarreled, you know.”
“So History tells us,” Varanus noted dryly.
“I shall take your word for it,” Varanus replied, her tone indicating that his word was, she believed, the sole evidence for the claim.
Magnus grinned and turned back to Vaclav, who had been waiting, poised to strike but holding back his attack until his partner was ready again. When Magnus looked at him, Vaclav lunged, and Magnus all but fell backward to evade the blow. Magnus hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a crouch, thrusting his rapier into Vaclav’s stomach.
Everything was still and silent for a moment as they stood there: Vaclav with his sword raised, his expression confused; Magnus on the ground, straining at the furthest reach of his arm to make the strike. Slowly, Magnus withdrew his sword. Vaclav lowered his own blade and touched his belly. He pulled his hand away and found it covered with blood.
For a moment, Varanus found the portico and the duelists fading away, fading into that horrible Christmas Eve night thirty years ago, as Korbinian stood before her, his fallen enemy’s sword thrust through his chest. Varanus shuddered and closed her eyes tightly against the image.
When she opened them again, the vision was gone, and Vaclav was helping Magnus to his feet. The wound in his belly was already beginning to close. The two men laughed at one another and patted each other on the back.
“Well done, Magnus,” Vaclav said. “Your reach is improving.”
“I am full of surprises, my dear Vaclav,” Magnus replied. He turned to Varanus. “And what can I do for you, Doctor? If you haven’t come to return Soslan’s Treatise....”
“I have come to speak to Father Vaclav, actually,” Varanus said.
“What?” Magnus asked, sounding surprised.
Vaclav laughed loudly and slapped Magnus on the shoulder.
“Well, it seems that some people still have time for a doddering old relic,” he said. He handed his sword to an attendant and retrieved a long silken tunic in exchange, which he pulled on over his head once his wound had stopped bleeding. Approaching Varanus, he asked, “How may I be of service, Doctor?”
“It is a matter of some complexity, Father Vaclav,” Varanus replied. “Are you certain you have the time? I would hate to interrupt your sparring...or Doctor Eriksen’s fond recollections of Potsdam.”
At this, Magnus scoffed and waved Varanus away with his sword.
Vaclav grinned and said, “Oh, believe me, Doctor, over the years dear Magnus has regaled me with his stories so many times, I daresay I recall that summer better than Voltaire himself did.”
“Or at all,” Varanus mused, which only set Vaclav laughing again.
* * * *
“So you see,” Varanus told Vaclav, as they walked through one of the upper corridors of the castle, “it is really the whole nature of being that concerns me. What it is to be Shashavani. Each point, each quality, is individually fascinating, but the whole interconnected state is really what I must decipher.”
Vaclav chuckled a little and shook his head.
“Your enthusiasm is inspiring, Doctor Varanus,” he said, “but I would advise temperance in the matter. This is a question that has puzzled many of us for centuries. If we have not answered it in a thousand years, it seems unlikely that we shall do so in the next hundred. Even with so keen a mind as yours devoted to the question,” he added with a sincere smile.
“Oh, I do not expect to find all the answers tonight,” Varanus replied, “nor even in the next century, but eventually I will unlock the secret.”
“But you have reached an impasse?” Vaclav asked.
“Indeed, yes,” Varanus said. “You see, I have studied all the texts that I can find on the matter. Well, all of the major ones at least.”
In truth, there were so many books and scrolls and manuscripts in the Shashavani libraries that she suspected even the librarians themselves did not have a full count of them. Every few years, lost texts were discovered; and every few years, more texts were forgotten, waiting to be discovered anew in some future century. Varanus had encountered many cases where a writer had referenced an earlier Shashavani text that was known to be somewhere in the archives, yet could not be found, and so the writer’s own commentary was used to discern the content of the earlier work until it resurfaced.
“Well,” Vaclav said, chuckling, “I am a scholar of religion, philosophy, and the arts of war, none of which pertain to your question. What service may I be to you, other than as a friendly ear?”
“You were close with Soslan the Alan before he departed on his last sojourn, is that correct?” Varanus asked.
Vaclav sighed wistfully and nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “Soslan and I were dear friends while he was still among us. I often miss his company.”
The poignancy of Vaclav’s tone gave Varanus a touch of sadness. She could well understand such a feeling of loss. She dreaded to think how lonely life would be if she were ever to lose Ekaterine. At least she would always have Korbinian, but then it was not the same; nor would Ekaterine be a substitute for Korbinian if he ever left her for good. And Vaclav had no Korbinian, at least as far as Varanus knew.
“Did he ever speak to you regarding his work?” Varanus asked. “Any...any theories he had not yet written down or formulae that he left out of his Treatise? Research that he had conducted but not shared?”
“I fear not,” Vaclav replied. “Soslan was always eager to discuss his work when it was finished, but seldom before. It was a matter of pride, I think. He did not want to share something that might prove to be a failure. But he did mention that there was something different about the blood...our blood. What, he did not expound upon.”
“Oh, that much is certainly true,” Varanus agreed. “I have already conducted an extensive examination of my own blood, along with blood from those still walking in the Shadow of Death. We are changed somehow, that much I can discern. But how we are changed, why we are changed, that I cannot make out. I have examined countless samples beneath a microscope, but still the secret eludes me. The device is simply not powerful enough for my purposes.”
Vaclav spread his hands and said, “I fear that there is little I can do to aid you, my good Doctor.” He paused and held up a finger as a thought came to him. “All I can suggest is this. When I was a young man still in my mortality, I followed the examples of Wycliffe and Hus in criticizing the corruption of the Church. And whenever we preached reform, we always asked one simple question: ‘Is there a scriptural basis for this principle of Canon law or religious custom?’ And from that we would determine whether something was truly the will of God or rather the invention of man.”
He chuckled a little and added, “I see now that such a rule is too simple. The Bible is but one scripture among many scriptures, each with its own part of wisdom. But the principle remains. Find the source, Doctor Varanus. Always find the source. Read your Konstantine and Aisha and Soslan, your Symeon and Padmavati. But do not merely trust their words. Rather learn their methods and recreate their results.”
“Of course,” Varanus said, betraying more of her frustration than she intended. Vaclav’s words were good advice, but they were redundant. “I am a scientist, Father Vaclav, not a philosopher. The first thing I tried to do was recreate the experiments of those who came before me, but still the truth eludes me as it eluded them.”
She expected Vaclav to take offense at her dismissal of his advice, but he simply smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, looking rather pleased by her independence of thought.
“Build a better microscope?” he offered, perhaps in jest.
But that suggestion, quite unexpectedly, set off a chain of thoughts in Varanus’s mind. She shivered at the experience as a cascade of half-memories and unformed ideas flooded her mind. She found herself reconsidering her earlier experiments, which had been done to mimic the work of Konstantine and the others. But
Konstantine had not enjoyed modern equipment or modern knowledge. Surely there was a better way for each of those experiments to be conducted!
And then Vaclav’s words reverberated in Varanus’s ears, bringing forth an idea that should have been her first course of action.
Find the source.
“Father Vaclav, thank you!” Varanus exclaimed, embracing him tightly. “You have been immeasurably helpful!”
“I...you are welcome?” Vaclav stammered, bewildered.
Varanus turned and hurried down the corridor back toward her rooms.
“Doctor Varanus, where are you going?” Vaclav called after her.
Varanus looked over her shoulder and replied:
“To build a better microscope!”
And to find a better sample to study with it, she thought.
Chapter Five
•
Varanus left Vaclav and went directly to her rooms, her sudden revelation burning in her mind. Vaclav could not have intended it, but his words had reminded her of the one resource that she had not examined. She had studied blood samples, she had tested the nature of her undying body, and she had painstakingly replicated the experiments of those who had come before her, but she had never once thought to go to their source.
She found Ekaterine in her study, lounging on a sofa while she read from Aisha’s Compendium. Without looking up, she raised one hand to wave at Varanus and asked:
“Do you think, perhaps, that we ought to begin returning some of these books?”
“Absolutely not,” Varanus replied, crossing to her and leaning against the armrest. “If people started returning books to libraries, who knows what trouble might result.”
“Well, books might become available for other people to read,” Ekaterine said.
“Oh yes. And then someone else might take them, and suddenly they wouldn’t be available for me to read, quite possibly at some critical juncture.” Varanus shook her head at the thought. “No, no, far more sensible to amass them here where I know they’ll be safe.”
The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery Page 4
