One could stave off madness by compartmentalizing thoughts, by selectively forgetting memories until they became useful, and such was a common practice. But stress and exhaustion were like hammers striking at the cracks in such resolve, and Sophio, as the Vicar of Shashava, carried an immeasurable weight upon her mind. Iosef counted it a miracle that her moments of confusion were not even more frequent and more disruptive.
“It occurs, my love,” he murmured to her. “We all suffer the madness of memory, even I, and I am yet young.”
Sophio shook her head and said, “Oh, Iosef, you cannot imagine it. It is everything and nothing at once. It is a thousand voices crying out and each of them demanding an answer.” She clenched her eyes shut and continued, “There was a time when I could still silence it all, so long ago. I knew a memory for what it was and it did not mislead me. But now....”
“My love,” Iosef said softly, kissing her temple and whispering in her ear, “you have occupied Shashava’s throne for five hundred years, as long a time as Shashava. No one but you could have withstood the weight of such responsibility for such endless time. Anyone else would have shattered long before now.”
“You do not understand,” Sophio replied. “It is my responsibility to maintain the House of Shashava until Shashava or the Companions return. I must keep it safe in their stead. And if I am losing myself, how can I carry out that task?”
“You need rest, my love,” Iosef said. “We all need rest, and you have had so little of it.”
“How can I rest when I must be ever vigilant against corruption? If I am not the Vicar of Shashava, who can be trusted to carry out that duty? When The Three left, it was chaos....” Sophio shuddered at the memory. “Those who would take power are so easily corrupted by it. There is no successor I could appoint, Iosef. Any who would accept the task could not be trusted with it.”
Iosef sighed. It was the same reply he had received for decades, repeated each time he urged Sophio to contemplate relinquishing the throne.
“But surely, the Council could rule—” he began.
“No,” Sophio said sharply. Then, more softly, she explained, “When The Three first left in search of Shashava, there was a council put in place to rule. They became greedy and corrupt, they formed pacts and alliances in search of power, and they killed one another, each claiming the right to be Vicar of Shashava. I cannot allow that to happen again.”
“I know, my love, I know,” Iosef replied. Silently, his mind turned, struggling to find some solution that she would accept. “But perhaps...perhaps a sojourn in the outer world. Just you and I.”
Sophio shook her head and said, “I cannot leave the House unattended.”
“Not for long, my love,” Iosef insisted. “A few months, perhaps a year. Too little time for evil to take root, but time enough for your mind to rest. The Council can be trusted to manage affairs for so short a time, surely.”
There was silence as Sophio considered the suggestion. Iosef had little hope for it, however. He had suggested sojourns before, and she had not accepted them.
But slowly, Sophio nodded.
“I suppose that it is...necessary,” she said. “And a year is too short a time for the Council to fall to corruption.” There was another long silence. “Very well, husband, you and I will sojourn in the world. I only hope that it is time enough for healing.”
“I am certain of it,” Iosef replied, holding her in his arms and silently praying that it would be so.
Chapter Eight
•
A few days later, Sophio called a meeting of the Council to outline her plans to them. Iosef went with her, though he remained standing behind her chair throughout the proceedings, watching and observing silently. However unique and privileged his station as Sophio’s only student, he was not a member of Council, and it was not his place to speak unless addressed by one of them.
After attending to a few matters of infrastructure in anticipation of the approaching winter, Sophio rose from her chair and addressed her advisors.
“Sisters and Brothers,” she said, “I have an announcement. I intend, in two weeks’ time, to depart on a sojourn in the world. My husband, Iosef Vardanishvili, will accompany me. In my absence, I expect this council to maintain order and to govern in my stead.”
There were a few murmurs among the Council, and most of the members looked at her in astonishment. In particular, Philippa frowned openly at the news.
“Eristavi, is that wise?” she asked. “You are the Vicar of Shashava. We are merely your advisors. It is your prerogative to rule, not ours.”
“And as such, it is my prerogative to delegate authority within the House of Shashava as I deem appropriate,” Sophio replied. “And I exercise that authority now.” She paused for a time, considering her next statement with her usual care. “I have dwelt too long within this haven of wisdom and contemplation. I fear that I have forgotten the world. I look inward when my eye should turn outward as well. Do not forget that Shashava went on many a sojourn before the final departure, as did The Three and the rest of Shashava’s Companions. I have come to realize that it is wise to do so.”
There was a long silence. While Sophio spoke the truth, she had never departed for the world since ascending the throne. It must have seemed to the Council that such a thing would never—perhaps could never—come to pass.
“How long do you intend to leave us?” asked Marie of Toulouse, who in her mortality had been a preacher of the Cathar faith until her views on voluntary poverty and the equality of women had proven too radical even for that reform-minded sect. “I think there is little question that we can govern in your stead, but I believe what troubles us is the question of how long we must bear this responsibility.”
There were nods among the others and quiet statements of agreement.
“We are yet young, Eristavi,” said Reza of Samarkand. “Even together, we do not have your wisdom or your insight. And what if there were to be division?”
“I trust in your ability to come to consensus,” Sophio replied, looking around the room. “You are, all of you, wise. I was not much older than most of you when I ascended Shashava’s throne. You have experience enough for this task, and I trust in your judgment. I shall be gone for only a few months. Iosef and I will return in time for Easter, for the villagers delight in such festivals, and we would not miss their happiness for the world.”
There was silence again. At length, Margaret the Hebridean spoke:
“I, for one, trust your judgment, Eristavi, and your decision. I am daunted by the task, certainly, but if you have faith in us, then I shall have faith as well.”
“And I,” said Iese of Kartli, nodding his head firmly, though there was a hint of hesitation in his voice.
“I am certain that we all share the Eristavi’s faith in us,” said Thoros of Yerevan, whose powerful build made him the largest member of the Council. It had served him well in his mortality as an aristocrat-warrior and military theorist. “Our misgivings merely show our ignorance. If we are wise enough to give council, surely we are wise enough to administrate a regency.”
Philippa shook her head and said, “Eristavi, I do not mean to question you, but I have grave misgivings about this so soon after the attack in the valley. What if there were to be another incident?”
“Then I would trust you to attend to it justly and forthrightly,” Sophio replied. She spoke with confidence, but there was a hint of hesitation in her voice. Iosef knew why: the question provoked Sophio’s own guilt at having allowed such a transgression to occur in the first place.
“And we shall,” Iese said, “if such a thing even occurs. I suspect that we shall enjoy a long and quiet winter. And of course, though it may be a bitter one, a warm spring shall follow when our Eristavi returns to us.”
“Poetically said,” Margaret told him dryly. She turned to Sophio and asked, “
Where do you and young Iosef intend to wander, Eristavi? Have you decided?”
There was another pause and then Sophio said:
“Yes. I intend to visit the tomb of Arslan Khan. I wish to verify Teimuraz’s report, and assuming that he is correct in his assessment, I wish to put to rest certain questions regarding Arslan Khan and his resting place. It will be a...pleasant diversion.”
She spoke as if she was unsure about the use of the word “pleasant”, unsure that it was the most accurate way of describing the satisfaction she would feel at putting those questions to rest. It was such a delightful, peculiar thing to hear Sophio speak, Iosef thought. He found beauty in her overly precise choice of words as he did in so many things about her.
“And what if Teimuraz’s other statement is correct as well?” asked Philippa. “What if his ‘dark presence’ is real? What if—as I suspect we all fear—it proves to be a Basilisk?”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed, “what if it proves to be Edith the Saxon? She may have fled there after her attack on the valley.”
“Why assume that it is her?” asked Reza. “It could be any Basilisk and, of course, it could be none at all.”
“It is a logical assumption,” Iese said. “So soon after Edith’s violation of our peace, word comes that there may be a Basilisk lurking nearby in Turkestan? I can easily believe that she fled there after her work here was done, to plot and scheme and plan further outrages.”
“If it is Edith the Saxon, that is troubling,” Marie replied. “She is old...older than us. It is said that Basileios himself—cursed be his name—found her in Constantinople after her family had been cast into exile by the Normans....”
“And that he tutored her to be his bloodthirsty protégée,” Thoros finished. “We all know the stories.”
“Edith was tainted with malice before Basileios brought her to us,” Sophio said, her voice calm and her words frank. “She was tainted even before William the Bastard stripped her family of their lands and cast her into exile. But I knew her, for I was old when she was young.”
Sophio placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, studying her advisors with fire in her eyes. One-by-one, they all drew back and looked down, unable to meet her gaze.
“If this is Edith the Saxon,” Sophio continued, “then I shall deal with her just as I would deal with any other Basilisk. I will destroy her utterly as punishment for her crimes both here and in the mortal world.”
Chapter Nine
•
Late Autumn
Varanus looked up from her notes and turned to Ekaterine, who sat on the floor in a pile of skirts and embroidered lace, examining samples of sun-charred flesh and bone.
“Ekaterine, is there something terribly important that I’m forgetting?” she asked.
“Umm...” Ekaterine replied, tapping her lips with her fingertip. “Lord Iosef and Lady Sophio are leaving on their sojourn in three days.”
“No, it wasn’t that.” Varanus frowned. “Lady Sophio is actually leaving the house?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Truly,” Ekaterine said. “It’s quite exciting, really. They say she’s never left since she assumed the throne. I wonder if they’re planning a festival of some sort.” She made a face. “They probably are. I shall be very cross if I’m not invited.”
“Sophio doesn’t quite seem like the festive sort,” Varanus noted. “I imagine she’ll simply slip away under the cover of daylight.”
What a pity she’s planning to return. Varanus had suffered from an antagonistic relationship with Lady Sophio ever since she had been inducted into the Order. And it was hardly her fault: perhaps she was a little dismissive of certain outdated protocols, and yes she made a habit of borrowing books and not returning them, but that was no reason for Sophio to suspect her of impudence and duplicity!
But of course, Sophio was completely mad, so there was no point in trying to make sense of her. A pity she couldn’t be locked away in the attic or some other sensible course of action. Leaving the valley was the first reasonable thing she’d done since Varanus had known her. If only she’d go away altogether and leave saner minds in charge. Not that the Council was exactly what Varanus would call “sane” nor were any of the elder Shashavani, come to think of it. Iosef insisted it was a more lucid and enlightened frame of mind that one simply had to grow into, but Varanus had her doubts.
“We’ve run out of water again,” Ekaterine offered, slightly abashed. She was so very uncomfortable with the whole project, and Varanus simply couldn’t imagine why.
“That’s it!” Varanus exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “We need more water. Come along to the grotto.”
Excited at the prospect of fresh samples and her mind whirling over new tests to conduct, Varanus grabbed her Gladstone bag and walked across the room to Ekaterine.
“Come along,” she repeated, tapping Ekaterine on the shoulder. “Time is wasting, and there is science to be done.”
“I don’t think you’re using that word correctly,” Ekaterine said.
“ ‘Done’?” Varanus asked.
Ekaterine merely looked at her for a few moments. Then she said:
“I don’t think we should do this.”
“Discuss science?”
“Take the water,” Ekaterine answered. “We should not have done it the first time, or the second time, and certainly not the third time. And we should not do it now.”
Varanus took Ekaterine by the arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Oh, tush,” she said. “In the past few months, we have discovered more about the nature of that water—indeed, of the Shashavani condition—than the rest of the Order has managed in a thousand years!”
“A slight exaggeration,” Ekaterine said. “We have discovered that we know very little and that modern science is desperately in need of a more advanced microscope, but otherwise we have glowing spots in water that disappear after a few days, and we don’t know what they are or what they do.”
“We know that the body burns in sunlight from the inside out,” Varanus reminded her. “More or less.”
To Varanus’s surprise, her tests had revealed that, while the surface of the skin showed the first signs of burning at the touch of sunlight, prolonged exposure caused the bones themselves to heat and decay, consuming the flesh from within. It was quite illogical, and she could not imagine why this might be, but there it was.
“You did not need the water to discern that,” Ekaterine said.
“True,” Varanus agreed, “but I do wonder what would happen if we exposed the water to sunlight. It might catch on fire!”
“It might...” Ekaterine replied, “or it might prove to be water.”
Varanus folded her arms and said, “You have no sense of wonder.”
“We should not be taking the water,” Ekaterine insisted. “It is wrong, and clearly whatever secrets it has, we do not possess the means to uncover them.”
“You don’t have to accompany me,” Varanus reminded her. “I can do it myself.”
Ekaterine stood and shook her head. Taking Varanus by the arms, she said:
“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t dream of letting you do something so foolish on your own! I only wish that you wouldn’t do it at all!”
“It will be the last time,” Varanus said. “I promise you, the last time.”
Until the New Year, she thought.
Ekaterine would come round to it eventually. It was just a matter of time. And if Varanus could find some way to make this next batch produce more conclusive results, Ekaterine might begin to see the benefit in what they were doing. The stumbling block was clearly a lack of progress; once that was removed, Ekaterine would surely support the endeavor wholeheartedly.
* * * *
They went to the lower corridors as surreptitiously as poss
ible. In the upper halls no one would think twice at seeing them out, but in the catacombs it would be a different matter. Few people went into those deep places except on special business. There was nothing there for most of the Shashavani; only rarely did one find cause to visit the crumbling old chambers, whether for nostalgia or in search of knowledge forgotten over the centuries. There was no protocol against visiting them, of course, but if they were seen, they would be noted and remembered, and that might bring up awkward questions.
As they neared the grotto, Varanus heard the sound of voices speaking quietly in an adjoining room. She motioned Ekaterine to silence and together they crept forward to get a look. Around a corner and through an old brick archway, Varanus saw a small chapel, long abandoned but still with its own manner of beauty. The flickering lamplight illuminated the painted walls, the bare altar, and two figures that stood inside the doorway: one was dressed in simple robes, the other in an embroidered chokha and bearing the arms of a warrior.
After a few moments, Varanus recognized them as the Greek nun Philippa and Zawditu, the marshal of the Shashavani.
“You do realize what you are asking, don’t you?” asked Zawditu.
“It is a small thing,” Philippa insisted. “Simply...rearrange the duties of the castle guards once the Eristavi departs. I do not ask you to limit their numbers, merely to change where they are placed.”
“That is no small thing,” Zawditu said. “And it will be noticed.”
“You are the Strategos,” Philippa replied. “It is within your authority. No one will question it.”
“And you ask that the guards assigned to the Council chamber—”
“Answer to me, yes,” Philippa said. “And I ask that you ensure the loyalty of the guards assigned to the armories. It is simply...pragmatic.”
Zawditu frowned and turned to look at one of the painted walls, the lamplight casting a brooding shadow over her face.
The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery Page 8
