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

by G. D. Falksen

  He held Sophio in his arms, gently running his fingers through her hair, sometimes fighting against the wind as it whipped Sophio’s braids into a sort of halo around her head. The stranger, Olga, sat a few feet away, also watching the water. After weeks of traveling together, she still seemed just as friendly as when they had met upon the road and just as secretive. She eagerly spoke of anything and everything, save her identity and purpose.

  “Do you trust her?” Iosef asked softly. It was likely that Olga could hear them even at such a distance, but it was possible that the wind and the waves would drown them out.

  Sophio thought about the question before she smiled and said, “I feel that I ought to...and I know that I should not. Does that answer your question?”

  Her smile became playful for she knew that her answer said little.

  “No, it does not,” Iosef replied, kissing her ear.

  “When I remember who she is,” Sophio murmured, “I will tell you whether she can be trusted. Until then, she is our...mysterious sojourner, our companion on the road whom we can neither trust nor distrust.”

  Iosef sighed. “Sometimes I think you delight in tormenting me.”

  Sophio looked into his eyes, trying almost with success to appear aloof and serious as she replied:

  “My love, I delight in everything about you, including your torment.”

  Iosef could not help but laugh at this, and he nuzzled Sophio’s cheek. “You are a cruel mistress, beloved.”

  “Not cruel!” Sophio protested. “I could never be cruel.” There was a pause, and her eyes flashed with distress, perhaps at some memory almost forgotten. “To you. I could never be cruel to you.”

  Iosef quickly kissed her hand.

  “What troubles you, my love?” he asked.

  “I nearly had a man bled to death for my pleasure,” Sophio murmured. Though it was subtle, her tone was horrified.

  Iosef remembered the incident: two decades ago, Sophio had demanded more blood than the donor could safely give simply because she enjoyed the taste. That night she had forgotten herself and her nature.

  “It was only the once,” Iosef reassured her.

  “Twice,” Sophio corrected. “It happened twice.”

  “No lasting harm was done, and now it has been forgotten,” Iosef said. “You must not torment yourself with what might have happened. It was simply the weight of the world bearing down upon you.”

  Sophio shook her head and replied, “Do you not understand, husband? Those were the actions of a Basilisk. For a moment I became a Basilisk. I forgot reason and dignity and obligation. I discarded the sanctity of mortal life. I abandoned myself and my nature at the behest of pleasure and excess. I became like Basileios and his followers.”

  She looked into Iosef’s eyes, for the moment terrified at her own power.

  “I became like those that I most despised, Iosef,” she whispered. “And who can say that I will not do it again?”

  “I say,” Iosef replied softly, stroking Sophio’s cheek. “You are the wisest and the strongest of us. Faced with your centuries of guarding the House of Shashava against corruption, any of us might have lost ourselves to temptation as well. Surely we would have! And unlike you, we would not have pulled ourselves back from the abyss.”

  Sophio looked at him silently for a little while, perhaps considering his words. Presently, she smiled and raised Iosef’s hand to her lips.

  “You are correct, beloved,” she said. She sighed. “I have needed to be in the world for so long; I have allowed myself to wonder too much. It is a lesson I shall not forget. Perhaps you and I should sojourn together more often.” She smiled slightly. “Once every hundred years, perhaps. Often, but not irresponsible.”

  “I would like that, my love,” Iosef replied, chuckling at Sophio’s joke. “Often indeed.”

  Sophio smiled, pleased at his reply, and leaned back in Iosef’s arms. They watched the sea in silence for a little while as the sun receded and the darkness began to draw across the water. Iosef glanced at Olga once or twice, keeping an eye on her. Sophio did not seem to find her threatening, but Iosef was young enough to still feel the lure of caution.

  Presently, Sophio drew his attention again as she pointed toward the sea and said:

  “How beautifully she dances. Don’t you think so?”

  Iosef turned back, surprised by the question. He looked out onto the water, but the place that Sophio indicated was, of course, empty. Even in the growing darkness of the moonless night, Iosef could see that there was nothing there but the waves.

  “I see no one, my love,” Iosef murmured, uncertain if Sophio was playing a game at his expense. It was unlike her, but what other explanation could there be?

  Sophio frowned and pointed again, her finger outstretched toward the empty black horizon.

  “There,” she said. “The girl in sable.” When Iosef did not respond, Sophio held one hand up above her head. “The girl with the horns in black dancing upon the water. Tell me you see her, Iosef. She is looking at us now.”

  Iosef shook his head slowly and wrapped his arms tightly around Sophio to reassure her, even as he was forced to reply, “There is no one there, my love. Nothing but the sea and the sky. Not even moonlight.”

  Sophio looked bewildered by the statement, and she began to protest. A moment later, she seemed to remember herself and closed her eyes, gently shaking her head. Opening them, she studied the sea again and sighed.

  “You are right, of course,” she said. “There is nothing. No one.” Her mouth twisted with displeasure. “I lost myself again. I thought that my madness had passed, and yet it haunts me still.”

  “No, no, my love,” Iosef insisted, murmuring in her ear. “It was a momentary lapse. A vision brought on by fatigue. Perhaps a memory from long ago.”

  “Perhaps,” Sophio whispered. It did not sound like an affirmative.

  Iosef placed a hand on Sophio’s cheek and looked into her eyes, smiling at her.

  “We are both exhausted beyond measure, my love,” he said. “Starved, frozen, tired from the road. Surely this is to be expected now and again.” He laughed softly. “I count it a miracle I did not begin seeing visions while we were still in Persia, I am so exhausted.”

  Sophio smiled at this and caressed the back of Iosef’s hand with her fingertips.

  “If you are so tired, my dear Iosef, I could carry you. We are only a day or two away.”

  “And what sort of anchorites would we be, carrying one another?” Iosef asked. “No, I shall walk beside you, hand-in-hand, until we reach the tomb of Arslan Khan, and then I fear I shall collapse and be of no further use to anyone.”

  This made Sophio smile, and she kissed Iosef on the cheek.

  “You shall always be of use to me, husband. From now until the end of time.”

  “What a wonder it is to have eternity,” Iosef agreed.

  They were interrupted as a figure loomed over them. Iosef looked up and saw Olga approaching, leaning on her staff. The wind pulled at her hair as it streamed around her face, dancing as if alive.

  “Come along, my turtle doves,” Olga said, tapping her staff against the ground impatiently. “We ought to be away from here. We are so very near our goal, we should not delay.”

  “You do not wish to rest?” Sophio asked.

  Olga looked out upon the water and replied, “We have rested long enough for tonight. I do not like this place. The stars are strange.”

  The statement was an odd one, and Iosef looked up to see what Olga meant. The sky was black, no doubt obscured by clouds. There were no stars to be seen, strange or otherwise.

  “There would seem to be no stars at all,” he said.

  “Precisely why I find them strange,” Olga answered. She tapped her staff again. “Come, come, I shall lead the way.”

  Olga lit a torc
h and held it out against the darkness—for truly, the growing night was very dark, even for the keen eyes of the Living. Iosef took Sophio’s hand, and together they followed their strange companion along the shore, past dancing waves beneath a starless sky.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  •

  Svaneti

  Christmas Eve (Julian Calendar)

  As night descended upon the Shashavani valley, the loyalist army broke camp and advanced across the field under the cover of a moonless sky. They went in small companies of a dozen or so, crossing the frozen river with great care lest the ice crack beneath their weight. It was hard going without lamps or torches. The snow had begun to fall again, and the wind was bitter. But the conditions were all the more ideal: with the darkness, the clouds, and the snow, there was little chance of the army being observed as it approached the castle.

  Ekaterine was in the advance party, along with Luka, Seteney, and some others, their armor muffled with cloth and their weapons blackened with pitch. Ekaterine herself wore no armor, but she carried a dagger borrowed from one of the soldiers. Luka stuck close to her side as she led the way toward the hidden passage she had used to escape.

  It was a tunnel in the lower wall, little more than a drain used as an outflow for the castle’s springs. Most of the water was captured and stored in the cisterns for use, and so there was little but a trickle left, but during times of heavy rain or when the spring overflowed, it was useful to prevent flooding.

  There were supposed to be three sets of bars that blocked the tunnel at regular intervals, preventing anyone from entering from outside. But these had been crudely torn out of the walls and lay discarded in the icy, toe-deep water. Luka looked at them and then turned toward Ekaterine as if expecting an explanation.

  “We had to escape,” Ekaterine said, shrugging. “So we chipped away the mortar and broke out the bars.”

  “How?” Luka demanded. “This is meant to be impenetrable!”

  “We had Living with us,” Ekaterine explained. “It took some effort from them, truly, but I rather suspect that the bars were meant to keep out mortals, not Shashavani.”

  “Likely enough, I suppose.”

  Safely inside the tunnel, they were permitted to light lanterns for guidance, but these were still kept shuttered except for a sliver of light in case soldiers were posted inside. It was a reasonable precaution, for as they crept into the cistern chamber, Ekaterine saw firelight coming from above them.

  She held up a hand for the others to stop and went ahead into the chamber. It was a tall vertical pit of stone through which all of the unwanted cistern water was flushed. The cisterns themselves—tremendous water-filled tanks—rose above them on three sides, each fed partly from the springs and partly from rainwater captured on the rooftops, filtered, and deposited into the tanks by way of pipes.

  Ekaterine listened carefully and heard voices speaking on the platform above them. It seemed that soldiers had been placed on guard to protect the water supplies, though they did not appear to have noticed that anything was amiss in the pit below. Ekaterine looked at Luka and motioned with her head. Then she pointed from the staircase to the platform and mimed a walking motion with her fingers. Luka nodded his understanding, though he seemed a little exasperated with her pantomime.

  Luka signaled for Seteney to join them and then directed the others to wait. He led the way up the stairs, drawing his sword as he did so. Ekaterine drew her dagger and followed him, trying not to be too annoyed by Luka’s insistence upon leading. After all, she was the one who had escaped from there, not he. She doubted Luka had so much as visited the cisterns in the past hundred years.

  At the top of the stairs, they saw five men and women in armor standing around a small fire, warming their hands against the chill. They wore armor and carried weapons, but they all faced toward the doorway into the main castle, as if they were more afraid of attack from within. It was peculiar, but it was agreeable all the same.

  Luka began to whisper some instructions to Seteney, but Ekaterine was in no mood for delays. She crept around to the back of the guards, her dagger at the ready. Luka looked at her and spread his arms in frustration. Ekaterine pointed at the five guards with her weapon and gave Luka a look that demanded to know what was causing the delay. Finally, throwing up his empty hand, Luka nodded at Seteney, and the two of them approached the group with swift but quiet steps.

  Finally! Ekaterine thought.

  Once Luka and Seteney were nearly in range, Ekaterine charged the nearest soldier. The man was taken quite by surprise, only hearing her footsteps at the last moment, and by then he could do little but turn to face his killer. Ekaterine covered his mouth with her hand as she drove the dagger into him.

  Luka and Seteney each had swords and put them to good use, hacking the soldiers to death viciously. One soldier tried to run for the door instead of fighting, and Ekaterine bolted after him, managing to catch and leap upon him just before he escaped. The two of them struggled for a few moments as Ekaterine tried to stab him and he tried to grab her weapon to turn it against her. Ekaterine gritted her teeth and finally, unable to overpower her enemy, struck her forehead against his face. The impact of the blow made her head swim, and she rolled onto the floor, momentarily dazed.

  When she regained her senses, she saw Seteney standing over her, pulling her bloody sword out of the soldier’s body. Seteney turned and smiled at her slightly, offering her a hand up. Ekaterine took the hand and stood, brushing herself off and doing her best to look presentable.

  “An effective if unexpected improvisation,” Seteney said.

  “I have a hard head,” Ekaterine replied. There was a pause, and then she could not help but add, “Like my cousin.”

  Seteney looked like she wanted to agree, but she merely grinned and replied, “As you say.”

  They returned to Luka, who was busy killing the last of the soldiers. Blood now stained the platform, but the cisterns were protected by sealed covers, so there was little concern of contamination.

  “Seteney,” Luka said, “go and inform the Strategos that the way has been cleared. The gate is ours.”

  “Sir,” Seteney replied with a nod.

  Luka turned to Ekaterine and looked at her. He seemed annoyed but at the same time relieved. After a while he smiled and placed his hand on her cheek.

  “One of these days, Cousin,” he said, “your rashness will be the death of you.”

  Ekaterine frowned. “And to think I imagined you might compliment me on my quick thinking.”

  “Quick running,” Luka corrected.

  “Tush,” Ekaterine said. She knelt by the fire and rubbed her hands together. “It is bitter cold, even in here.”

  Luka knelt beside her and said, “It is winter. Christmas, even. Or it will be soon.” He shook his head. “To think that there will be so much blood shed on Christmas.”

  “Yes,” Ekaterine agreed sadly. “Still.... At least it isn’t Easter.”

  Luka stared at her silently for a time before he simply shook his head.

  “You so often know how to find the positive side of everything,” he said.

  “I know,” Ekaterine said, grinning.

  “It is infuriating.”

  “I know that as well,” Ekaterine replied. In the pit behind them, she heard the muffled sounds of Zawditu’s soldiers creeping their way in and up the stairs. “I know that there’s a war to be fought,” she told Luka, “but when we get upstairs, we must try to find Varanus. She will be worried sick about me.” Ekaterine frowned and bit her lip at the thought. Varanus would be just as worried about her as she was about Varanus. “And she’ll be cross with me for not coming to find her.”

  “You were half frozen from the river,” Luka said softly. “She would understand.”

  Ekaterine did not particularly like the way Luka said “would” instead of “will
”, but she kept it to herself.

  “Promise me you will help me find her.”

  “Cousin...” Luka began, his expression falling.

  “What?” Ekaterine demanded.

  “The Doctor...is dead,” Luka said. “How many times must I say it?”

  It had been the ludicrous refrain Luka had repeated to Ekaterine any time she made mention of Varanus, and Ekaterine was growing tired of it.

  “Don’t be absurd, Luka,” she chided. “Of course the Doctor is alive. She’s very clever and not at all the sort of person who would up and die without telling me.”

  “Cousin,” Luka replied, “the Doctor has been trapped in the castle for almost two weeks. She is not past her century; she cannot survive on her own.”

  “Now see here—”

  “We do not know what has been happening here, but as she is Lord Iosef’s student, I am certain Margaret will have killed her as a member of Lady Sophio’s household.”

  “She’s not dead,” Ekaterine repeated.

  “She is dead.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “She—” Luka began, but he stopped as the first of the soldiers reached them. He leaned down and whispered to Ekaterine, “Believe what you wish, Cousin, but denying the plain truth will not prevent it. You shall only be all the more hurt by it when you can deny it no longer.”

  “We shall see,” Ekaterine said. “We shall see and I shall be right.”

  Luka exhaled with annoyance and turned away to greet the soldiers who joined them. After the first dozen arrived to secure the position, Lady Zawditu appeared in the company of several bodyguards. Ekaterine gasped at the sight of her, for surely it must have caused no small consternation for the Strategos to venture on so dangerous a mission. But of course, no general of the Shashavani would be inclined to lead from the rear unless it was necessary. How better to direct her forces in the field than with them in clear view?

  Ekaterine quickly bowed to Zawditu and withdrew so as not to interfere, but she did listen as Zawditu approached Luka and addressed him: