by Samuel Fort
Chapter 40: Isolation
The temple in Cash had not been dormant.
One of the medics from the town, who had been left behind to tend to the wounded, found his way to Sam’s home, nearly frozen to death. He reported that Cash was now in ruins. It was home to, and surrounded by, dozens of the ribbed monstrosities Fiela had dispatched. They seemed to have no particular objective aside from moving away from the black temple, though there was always one in the vicinity. Anything the bashmu crossed paths with was attacked, whether object, animal, or vegetation. Trees were turned into sawdust, buildings into rubble, and animals into sausage.
The temple monsters left scars of utter destruction across the landscape. They moved slowly when not threatened, but they did move, and constantly, and in all directions.
The medic was the only survivor from Cash. When asked if the bashmu were headed toward Sam’s home, he couldn’t say. They didn’t seem to have an objective. But even if they didn’t, it seemed inevitable that one or more would eventually show up on Sam’s doorstep. That would be a problem, because there was only one Fiela and no more chains or high roofs to jump from. There was no certainty the girl could kill another of them, much less several at once.
It was obviously that Sam’s homestead would have to be abandoned for some sturdier and more distant domicile, preferably one with a clear view of the lands around it. There were other reasons to leave the tiny home, however. The ramshackle house was badly insulated, its fireplace woefully inefficient, and its two bedrooms tiny. Sam admitted his homestead development project was a little behind schedule. In his defense, he pointed out that he had never anticipated its use as a post-apocalyptic shelter for a queen and a small army fleeing the ravages of seemingly undead Sumerian temple monsters during an epic, weeklong blizzard.
As a consequence, Sam did not protest too heartily when, a week previous, a nearly-frozen Peth scout suggested relocating the Red Guard to a McMansion discovered three miles away. The slog to house was grueling, the Peth being forced to shovel through walls of snow every inch of the way. The snow fell so aggressively that the paths they cleared disappeared behind them in only minutes.
The payoff was significant, however. The 8,000 square foot, three-level home was a godsend. It was in middle of a clearing that was slated for further development, that development being suspended indefinitely as a consequence of the world coming to an end. An unfinished golf course to the south made the house ideal for Peth lookouts. Three of its six bedrooms had wood burning fireplaces and two of those had skylights. The skylights were enveloped in snow but still glowed white, which was better than nothing. The building was easily capable of housing the remnants of the Red Guard.
Significant finds included a large propane grill beneath the snow on the back patio and four spare canisters of propane in the ridiculously oversized garage.
Sam had grudgingly admitted it was a “pretty nice place.”
Lilian sat alone in her music room. She played a piece that had always brought her comfort, Chopin’s Nocturne in C Sharp Minor.
When the fortress had been a hotel at the turn of the previous century, the music room had housed an indoor garden. The floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides of the room and the stained glass skylight above bathed the room in natural light. Persian rugs of every variety were placed about the room, some small, some large.
The room’s art nouveau inspiration was evident in everything from its ornate varnished furniture to its intricate, hand-painted floral wallpaper. Original works of art from Alphonse Mucha and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrc were softly illuminated by Tiffany lamps placed on tables designed by and built by the most prestigious artisans of the era.
The grand piano Lilian played was at the center of the room. A harp that seemed molded from gold rested next to one of the perimeter windows, a velvet upholstered stool next to it. There were also three music stands and several settees and chairs.
This was one of the several rooms that, as a group, now constituted a gilded cage. Lilian had lived most of her life in such opulence, and with similar restrictions on her movement, a consequence of the alleged crimes of her father, the mad king, Sargon. She found it impossible to fathom how she had been returned to a cage only months after successfully orchestrating the most successful power grab in the history of the Nisirtu. Last week she was queen of the world. Today she was a fallen noble on death row.
Her husband was dead and her sister was missing, as was her golden squadron and her champion, Disparthian. The squadron would return, of course, when the snows allowed it, but by then she would have been executed. Her only two defenders, the dukes Romini and, oddly, Hobuk, had only managed to delay the inevitable.
Last night she’d used the needle. The world was far more bearable when experienced through the prism of opium. She knew of a source for more of the vital mediator and had tasked Persipia to collect it.
She waited.
“That’s a sad song,” said someone behind her.
Lilian removed her fingers from the keys and pivoted. She saw Persipia standing in the doorway. The consort was not alone. The young girl, Celeste, stood in front of her, wearing an old pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt. It was Celeste who had spoken.
Surprised to see the Ardoon child in the royal quarters, Lilian looked at Persipia questioningly. The consort said in Agati, “You are not allowed Nisirtu visitors, Annasa. I thought perhaps…”
Lilian sighed. “So you bring a slave child to keep me company?”
Celeste said, “It’s not polite to speak in Niz. I don’t understand it.”
Lilian said, “Niz? Gods, girl! It is called Agati and it is my language, and Lady Persipia’s, and these are my quarters.”
Celeste turned to face Persipia. “Can we go, please?”
Persipia put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and said, “No, wait.” Looking at Lilian, she said, “Annasa, she’s Ardoon but you know your sister’s wishes. She would have her integrated into our society, as our king was.”
“Fiela may do as she wishes. It not my responsibility. Nothing is, now.”
Persipia steeled herself as best she could. “Annasa, the girl has heard rumors. She thinks her grandfather is dead.”
“Why would she think that?”
“Ardoon rumors. Her grandmother, Eliza, has fallen into the clutches of those who like to spread gossip and speculation.”
“They might be right. Slaves are like broken clocks, Persy, though right only half as often.”
Celeste said, “What are guys talking about?”
“Music,” lied Persipia.
Lilian laughed and, still speaking Agati, said, “Funeral hymns, you mean.”
“I like music,” the girl said.
“I know,” said Persipia. “That is why I brought you here. Is this not a marvelous room?”
Celeste shrugged. “I guess.”
Lilian dropped her elbows to her knees and leaned forward. She said, in Agati, “I am blessed, truly, that a malnourished slave is mildly impressed by her queen’s music room.” In English, she said, “I bet you like the same music as my sister.”
“Fiela doesn’t look like you at all. Are you two adopted?”
Lilian nodded. “We are.”
“What kind of music does Fiela like?”
“The kind that can be made without musical instruments. The kind that is made with computers and electrical contraptions. It is more noise than music.”
“Oh,” said Celeste. She looked about the room. “She doesn’t come here, I bet.”
“No, dear, she doesn’t.”
There was a painful silence. “Well,” said Lilian at last, sitting up, “thank you for visiting me, Celeste.”
“I can play,” the girl said.
“I’m in no mood to play,” replied Lilian. “Find one of the Ardoon children.”
“No,” said the girl. “I can play music.”
Lilian nodded and turned back toward her keyboard. “That’s
nice. Run along, now.”
Persipia cleared her throat. “Annasa, she knows how to play the violin.”
The queen let her fingers hover about the grand piano’s keys. “So?”
“She carried sheet music here, to Steepleguard.”
“I don’t see what that signifies, Persy.”
Persipia took a step into the room. “Annasa, her grandparents allowed her to choose two things to bring to Steepleguard. Of all the things she might have brought, she chose a small photo album and a folder of sheet music.”
Lilian lowered her hands to her lap and turned back around. She looked at Celeste. “Did you play in your school band, dear?”
The girl shook her head. “School bands don’t have violinists. Not mine, anyway.”
“Then where did you play?”
“Wherever mom and dad took me.”
Lilian sighed. “For example?”
“Denver.”
“A world traveler, are you?”
Celeste frowned. “You are not very polite.”
“And you are not very respectful. Do you know that I’m your queen?”
“I don’t have a queen. I’m an American.”
Before Lilian could fire back, Persipia intervened. “She has also been to Los Angeles, New York, Seattle, and…”
“Dallas,” said Celeste. “Boston, once, but we got there late because of the stupid airlines and I didn’t get to play.”
Lilian crossed her arms. “You played in those cities?”
“Not Boston.”
“No, silly girl, the other places.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would a ten-year-old girl be going to all those cities to play a violin?”
Celeste shrugged. “Mom and Dad wanted me to. They said it was for my college fund.”
Lilian lifted her chin. “You were paid?”
“Unless it was a charity event.”
“Solo?”
“Usually.”
The queen eyed the girl suspiciously. “When did you last play?”
“The day before the world ended. In Denver. I only played one piece before…you know. Things started going bad.”
“What piece?”
Celeste looked at the floor. “Last Rose of Summer.”
Lilian gave the slightest nod of approval. “Why did you not bring your violin? Why only the music?”
“I don’t have it anymore. It got lost when we moved to grandpa’s place. Mom, Dad and me. We were trying to get out of the city. Everyone was acting crazy. People were getting hurt. We lost almost everything we left our house with. All our suitcases, our bags, everything.”
Lilian poked at the inside of a cheek with her tongue, thinking. Finally, she rose and walked toward Celeste. The girl took a step back, running into Persipia.
“I want to see you play,” said Lilian, stopping in front of her. “I have several violins. I can lend you one.”
Celeste tilted her head to look up at Persipia, who said, “It is a fine idea, Celeste. You have nothing else to do, do you?”
“Grandma will worry.”
“I shall speak to her.”
The girl looked at Lilian, trying to determine if she was safe with this woman. She’d heard bad things. She heard this woman killed people. Children, in particular. But she trusted Persipia, and Persipia had told her that Lilian was not nearly as evil as others made her out to be.
“Okay,” she said.
Persipia squeezed the girl’s shoulders. “Good.” She looked at Lilian and said, again in Agati, “I have what you requested. The pharmacy-”
“Never mind that,” said Lilian, waving her away and taking Celeste’s hand. “Tell Mr. Fetch to bring tea and cakes, please.”
Persipia bowed and swiftly withdrew.