Academy of Secrets: From the Outcast Angels Christian Fantasy & Science Fiction series

by Carney, Michael

  TWENTY-SIX

  Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples,

  Early Morning, Wednesday April 7 1610

  Her morning meal completed, Chrymos made her way upstairs through the servants’ narrow stairwell, which emerged into a small passageway near the main staircase. The servants were already hard at work, polishing the many marble statues of Roman emperors that dominated the grand entranceway into the Della Porta mansion.

  These were not mere busts of the Caesars, carefully bland and anonymous in the usual style of official portraits. These were life-sized, full-bodied statues, rendered by an amazingly talented if unknown craftsman. Each depicted a Roman emperor in dynamic action, memorializing an epic moment from the subject’s life.

  On the far right, first among equals was Gaius Julius Caesar, represented here in his glory days as the mighty military leader who conquered Gaul. The sculptor had captured the moment when Caesar had brought his sword flashing down, perhaps to sever the head of an enemy. The sweat could be seen glistening off Caesar’s muscled forearm as he clasped the sword tightly, delivering a mortal blow to his unknown foe.

  Far left, at the other end of this glorious parade of the mightiest Roman emperors, stood Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus Augustus, commonly known as Diocletian. This emperor’s sculpture showed him standing triumphant, winner of the Civil War that had nearly torn Rome apart. Diocletian wielded a pike that pierced the mangled corpse lying at his feet, Diocletian’s unlamented imperial rival Carinus.

  Even after three months at the Academy, Chrymos still hated the opulence on display here. It was calculated to impress even the wealthiest visitors so that they might be persuaded to send their sons to the Academy, inevitably accompanied by a healthy endowment. Meanwhile, so many of those in the city around us starve.

  Apart from the statues, other compelling sights that a visitor would see on entering the Academy building included the frescoes that adorned the glorious dome that topped the entrance hall. The dome was rumored to have been created by Michelangelo himself, a refinement of his design for the St. Peter’s Basilica dome in Rome. The frescoes, though reportedly painted by lesser artists, were still utterly breathtaking, though nowhere near as magnificent as Michelangelo’s own creations in the Sistine Chapel.

  Beneath the dome, a grand circular staircase wound its way up to the drawing rooms and the Great Hall on the first floor. Beyond lay yet another staircase, this one providing access to the second, third and fourth floors and to the mysterious Tower, rumored to contain the Academy’s most precious secrets.

  The Tower was off-limits to students, as indeed were the two upper floors, which were reserved for the Alchemae. This elite group was comprised of graduates of the Academy who at the end of their studies had gained supernatural powers. The opportunity to gain such powers and then make a difference—that was the only reason that Chrymos had stayed at the Academy and endured three tough months of study so far, fending off bullies, dealing with intransigent teachers and defying more than a few of her peers who believed that she had no place at the Academy. The Contessa’s prophecy, which had allowed Chrymos to enter the Academy, seemed to have been forgotten. In any event, that prophecy gave Chrymos no privileges nor did it save her from being treated badly by those around her.

  As she paused for a moment, yet again disgusted by the wastefulness, Chrymos spotted fellow recruit Adric, who had been striding purposefully towards the main staircase. She waved and he took that as an invitation to come over and join her.

  Adric, a twinkle in his dazzling blue eyes as always, greeted Chrymos with a quick hug and a warm smile. “Hey, C, what’s happening?”

  Chrymos started to reply but Adric held up his hand. He whispered urgently: “You can tell me your news later, sorry. Right now, you need to come with me. Something seriously important is happening and I’m determined to find out exactly what it is. This could be it—the start of the Lost War.”

  Chrymos looked around. There was a definite increase in intensity this morning. The servants, who normally polished the statuary with calm, unhurried motions, positively rushed through their chores, barely completing one Caesar before moving onto the next. The Master would not be pleased with how they’re treating his precious emperors.

  Chrymos glanced over at the main entrance. More than double the usual amount of comings and goings, and at such a pace!

  Was this indecent haste in preparation for this afternoon’s ceremony—or did it signal an even more significant event?

  Adric waited for her, barely restraining himself. “We need to go—we have just a couple of minutes to get in place.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A Few Minutes Later

  Academy of Secrets, Naples, Kingdom of Naples, Wednesday April 7 1610

  Chrymos followed Adric as he rushed up the sweeping circular staircase, past several servants industriously polishing the balustrades, past the gleaming marble pillars that flanked the first floor entrance and into the small chapel where Father Carracci celebrated Mass every Sunday.

  Adric looked around furtively, reassuring himself that the chapel was indeed empty, and then walked briskly up to the front, near the altar. “Hurry,” he called to Chrymos, “we don’t have long.”

  Chrymos reluctantly moved to the front of the chapel, only to see Adric squeezing behind the towering statue of San Gennaro, one of the patron saints of Naples. Legend had it that San Gennaro had proven his claim for sainthood more than a thousand years earlier, at Pozzuoli, when his Roman persecutors had attempted to feed him to wild bears. Instead, the holy man had emerged from the arena untouched.

  Chrymos had knelt in front of the statue on many occasions, praying for the saint to protect her children, but she had never thought to go behind the massive sculpture. Puzzled, she followed Adric, just in time to see him pulling aside a curtain that hung off the back wall. Adric then opened a mostly-hidden wall panel and eased through. Oh well, in for a grana, in for a piastra, thought Chrymos, and she followed Adric on what was likely to turn into yet another of his many ill-considered quests.

  Slipping through the wall panel, Chrymos found herself in a small room. Adric, a few feet away, indicated that she should close the panel behind her.

  “I think this was a priesthole,” said Adric. Chrymos looked at him blankly.

  “You’ve never heard of priestholes, C? They’re secret rooms where priests can hide if they’re wanted by the authorities,” Adric explained. Chrymos shook her head.

  “Okay, that probably doesn’t make much sense in Naples, priests certainly don’t need to hide around here,” conceded Adric, “but I first came across priestholes when I was over in England a few years ago, hoping to find work. As you probably do know, the English Queen, Elizabeth I, didn’t take too kindly to Catholic priests trying to preach in her Protestant country. Believers had to construct secret places where priests could hide, in case the queen’s soldiers came looking for someone to string up.”

  “Okay, now I understand,” said Chrymos. “Still, I suppose many of Europe’s great mansions would also have secret rooms like this—you never know when you’re going to fall out of favor with the ruler of the week.” Her comment reflected the reality that so many countries in Europe regularly changed allegiance, through invasion, arranged marriage, or very occasionally citizen revolt.

  She inspected her surroundings. Not much to entertain anyone who’s hiding in here, she thought. A desk and chairs, bookshelf, a small bed, a wooden chest. She peered inside the chest, was vaguely disappointed to find it empty.

  Clearly, the servants don’t know about this place, she thought—everything was absolutely covered in dust, a situation that the Contessa would simply not tolerate if she knew.

  “C, over here!”

  Adric stood by the far wall, about six feet away, grinning contagiously but with his finger pressed to his lips. She didn’t actually need to be told to stay silent—she knew that the two of them had no business being in this roo
m and she had no wish to be discovered.

  Again, Adric beckoned her forward. Again Chrymos followed, this time to a small peephole through which they could look down on one of the mansion’s large drawing rooms. Adric whispered directly into Chrymos’ ear. “Isn’t this amazing? This peephole has obviously been built especially for eavesdropping. I discovered the room by accident about a month ago, when I had to clean up after that unfortunate calcio incident.”

  Chrymos couldn’t help but smile at the memory. On that particular Sunday, Adric had brought a football with him to Mass, aiming to play a game of calcio soon after the service. Naturally, the ball had chosen the most inopportune moment to escape from his grasp, bounce heavily on the wooden floor, and roll down towards the altar, interrupting one of Father Carracci’s more passionate sermons. Adric was fortunate indeed to survive the Dominican friar’s wrath with merely a day’s servitude scrubbing the chapel floor.

  “You know, you can’t even see this peephole from down there,” whispered Adric, interrupting her reminiscences, “not unless you’re as tall as one of those biblical giants that the good Father keeps talking about.”

  “This is all very interesting Adric,” interrupted Chrymos, “but why are we here now, this morning? What’s this all about?”

  “A few minutes ago, there was an urgent visitor for Master Della Porta,” began Adric. “I overheard one of the servants being instructed to take the visitor to the room below. I—shhhh, there’s someone coming.”

  There was a scraping noise coming from behind them—the wall panel was being removed to gain access to the room.

  Adric and Chrymos hurried over and hid behind the desk. Hopefully whoever this is he wants to use the peephole, thought Chrymos desperately. If he comes over to the desk, he’ll see us for sure.

  The pair held their breath as they heard the panel moved and then replaced. Then quiet footsteps moved towards them—and then, thankfully, passing by, towards the far wall where the peephole lay.

  Then silence.

  Adric, who had a better view than Chrymos, mouthed one word: “Luca”.

  Chrymos was caught by surprise. He’s been released early. I wasn’t expecting him to show up until the ceremony this afternoon. She wasn’t particularly surprised, though, to find him eavesdropping. From her experience, Luca was always up to no good.

  There was one problem, though, and it was a big one. Our classes are due to start in—Chrymos guessed the time—about an hour. She and Adric couldn’t leave until Luca did—if they tried to get from the desk to the secret panel while he was still here, they would easily be seen. Luca will happily turn us in to the teachers if he finds us in here and I’m sure he’ll concoct a marvelous excuse to explain his own presence.

  There was little else they could do but wait.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  LOA Headquarters, the Royal Exchange Building, London, England, midday, Wednesday April 7 1610

  Jesse began the urgently-arranged meeting of the LOA Directorate with a shock announcement. “Directors, I have grave news. Our messenger was intercepted two days ago. I regret to advise that this is the catalyst that will trigger the forthcoming global disaster. I have established that the pathgem will soon be rediscovered.”

  The announcement was greeted with puzzlement by most of those present, so Jesse added a further explanation. “The pathgem is one of three powerkeys that were taken from Heaven during the Great Rebellion. It has always been regarded as the least of the keys—but in the wrong hands its use could still destroy this world.”

  Ravid, a tall, clean-shaven Outcast Angel with short brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, had the grace to look guilty—it was he who had brought the pathgem from Heaven, only to have it stolen by the Darke Warriors when Sanctuary was destroyed. Jesse glossed over Ravid’s role and continued to address the LOA Directorate.

  “Thirteen hundred years ago, when our enemies last used the pathgem, disaster was averted thanks to the courageous actions of a single individual, our fellow Outcast, Machkiel. You have the details in the briefing paper in front of you. If we cannot again defeat those who wield the pathgem, then evil will triumph, the nations of this world will fall to oppressors and freedom will be a distant memory. We need every available team to take action, fast.”

  Jesse waited to see how the LOA’s ruling Directorate would react. The LOA—named after, and originally created in conjunction with, the legendary Library of Alexandria—sought, like its namesake, to collect information. Unlike the original library, however, this LOA sometimes found it necessary to take direct action, and the organization maintained several small response teams around the known world for precisely that purpose. Jesse now proposed to divert all of those teams to tackle the pathgem threat, an unprecedented step—which was why Jesse was seeking Directorate approval.

  The room in which the LOA Directorate met, on the top floor of Sir Thomas Gresham’s Royal Exchange building in London, was sparsely furnished, barren except for the substantial oak table that dominated the room and around which the directors now sat in uncomfortable leather chairs. A grasshopper, the Gresham family crest, was carved into the center of the table; otherwise, the table was unadorned except for the briefing papers in front of each director.

  The LOA leader, Jesse, was a tall, solidly-built but usually unthreatening figure, typically with a ready smile and gentle words of encouragement. He wore a simple dark green robe and sandals and currently walked with something of a limp, the result of a misadventure in Wallachia a few months earlier. Jesse managed his limp with the aid of a stout quarterstaff, a handy walking aid whose very existence also discouraged undesirable attention.

  Jesse’s shoulder-length silver hair and foot-long salt-and-pepper beard, both dramatically out of control and desperately in need of trimming, would ordinarily make him appear like a friendly elderly grandfather, perhaps a little on the forgetful side. Not on this occasion—Jesse’s whole stance proclaimed stress and tension.

  Jesse was one of those who called themselves Outcast Angels. Along with Lucifer and many hundreds of thousands of other angels, they had been banished from Heaven for their actions during the Great Rebellion—but several thousand Outcast Angels had chosen not to continue defying God. Instead, they had been battling against Lucifer and his angels-turned-demons for many millennia.

  The Outcast Angels still retained the supernatural powers that they had been given in Heaven. Jesse himself had been blessed with the power of prophecy. He could consider any individuals, perceive their possible futures and determine the most probable outcomes in their lives.

  Jesse gazed around at the directors. All but Ravid and Shamar—the other two Outcast Angels who were members of the LOA’s governing body, the Directorate—were human. Jesse had individually chosen all of the directors, both for their wisdom and for their commitment to the LOA’s long-term mission.

  The human members of the LOA Directorate were not personally familiar with situations such as this current crisis—though the Outcast Angels seemed to encounter them all too often over the centuries—and asked to hear more. Jesse leaned on his quarterstaff as he continued his report.

  “I have examined a great many possible futures for the world’s leaders. These are the most likely outcomes if the pathgem is found.

  “King Henri IV of France will be the first to die, in less than six weeks from now. He will be travelling through the streets of Paris in his royal carriage. An assassin lurks, a blade will flash out and the king will die. All this will happen whether the pathgem is recovered or not. Still, the king senses something unusual and unexpected, but does not see it before he dies, and so neither can I.”

  The French representative, Bishop de Richelieu, at twenty-five the youngest member of the LOA Directorate, was naturally greatly disturbed by this news. He stood up, started pacing, and then spoke quickly. “We must stop this heinous crime tout de suite. We must warn His Majesty, keep him off the streets, and double his guard—”

  Jes
se was sympathetic but cautious. “Your grace, I do understand how you feel. We will do what we can to avoid this tragedy. By all means, you should also set in motion what precautions you can—but quietly, delicately. His majesty’s future can still be changed.What I’ve shared with you is a prophecy, not a certainty. But without proof, without some tangible evidence, I fear that you will put yourself at risk should you tell the king or his courtiers what lies ahead. If your warnings go unheeded, and then the king is still assassinated, I must advise you that you will be considered part of the conspiracy. Your most likely future in that case is that you will be put on trial, found guilty and swiftly put to death. Your holy position will not be enough to protect you.”

  “My fate is unimportant,” said the Bishop, “what matters is the king.”

  Jesse’s next words gave de Richelieu reason to reconsider. “I try to avoid telling anyone their own most likely future, but in this case I believe it is necessary for me to do so. Your Grace, your possible futures are changing before my eyes, as you consider what actions you should take in response to my prophecy. I can tell you this: if you can avoid being caught up in events surrounding the death of King Henri, then you have a very meaningful role to play in the future of France. I will not give details, lest I sway your future choices—suffice to say that you will find yourself in a position of substantial influence, which you will of course use for the betterment of your country. Your Grace, I entreat you, mourn the imminent death of your king in silence, for the greater good.”

  The bishop resumed his seat, pondering Jesse’s comments. The Outcast Angel, his prophetic vision confirming that the worst outcomes for de Richelieu had been averted, continued.

  “As I was saying, this first tragedy is not because of the pathgem. But once the jewel is rediscovered—and I fear that this will happen very soon, the probabilities are so strong—the crisis will then escalate rapidly. In mid-summer, in the Dutch Republic, Maurice of Orange will be meeting with the deputies who collectively form the republic’s Council of State. Maurice will be arguing with the Council over military budget cuts.”