by Tony LaRocca
“No,” said Brother Leo. “Don’t, or the kid’s brain and San Domenico will both be ashes, I promise you.”
The color drained from Jacob’s walnut–like face. “Leo, this child is in horrible pain.”
“And you all just want to send her back to Hell. It’s not her fault. Let me heal her.”
Jacob’s entire frame seemed to sag. Asher had never seen anything but serenity and confidence in the old monk’s features before. The naked expression of helplessness in them now made him feel more afraid than the gun against his scalp. “Please, you can’t. You know that you can’t.”
Leo threw his filthy head back, the pressure of his pistol never letting up from Asher’s skull. He sang in a clear, majestic voice, one Asher never would have imagined him capable of.
A look of sorrow and apprehension filled Jacob’s eyes as his children descended on the bird–girl before them. Asher had heard of resurrectors commandeering each other’s wasps before, but it was only something done in extreme emergencies. He watched the spectacle before him, his mouth dry.
The bird within the girl spread its black wings through her back and sides, showering the pavement with blood. She fell to her knees, crying out as it tore itself from her fragile body and flew into the air, ripping its anterior feathers backwards through her ribs. It shrunk as it hovered, droplets of blood and flesh falling from it to fill the wounds it had left behind. After a minute, the rainfall of human debris came to an end, and the robin took to the tumultuous skies.
The girl’s shrieks ceased, reduced to sniffling and sobs. She shivered, her teeth clicking together. Her freckled face seemed to be that of a seven or eight–year–old. A look of intelligence within her blue eyes tried desperately to pierce through her shame and confusion.
“It’s all right, child,” said Leo. “You’ll be okay.” He leveled his gaze upon the other monk. “Find her something to wear, Jacob. We can heal this city, I told you we could.” He kept his gun tight against Asher’s head, his face breaking into a toothy smile. “What is your name?”
The girl opened her trembling jaw, and let out a long whistle of birdsong, the same cartoon theme she had sung before.
Pores burst open across her chest, gaping pockmarks that rented the perfection of her skin. Clear, translucent feathers pushed through, accompanied by a trickle of blood that stained them red. Tiny talons tore apart the tips of her toes, scratching against the sidewalk.
The wasp–children returned, swarming around and through her. Her feathers fell to the ground as the wounds within her skin healed. The girl raised her head, and Asher could see that her face had lost both its freckles and emotion. This was no longer a child’s face, it was the empty visage of a rubber doll. Her plastic lips parted, and her birdsong rang out into the sandy fog once more.
“Leo, release my children,” Jacob said as his swarm enveloped her for a third time. “For pity’s sake, for the child’s sake, stop them. Can’t you see what you’re doing?”
Leo sang again, but the wasps would not relent in their task. His pistol rubbed against the side of Asher’s head as the monk’s hand shook. “I can’t,” he said, his voice a haggard whisper, “they won’t listen.”
The swarm dove upon the girl over and over, each time making her features blander and simpler. Her eyes became expressionless marbles as her once plentiful, copper hair congealed into a solid helmet. She raised her hands to her face, her fingers joined together like grooved, rubber mittens.
The pressure of the pistol disappeared. Asher rolled to the side, and looked up in time to see Leo turning his weapon upon himself. Jacob shouted for him to stop, but his pleas were as ineffective as before. With a flash of light, Brother Leo exploded into ashes that blew across the sandy pavement, leaving only a rust–colored smear in their wake.
Chapter 5
The abbot’s bare, joyless office was a shrine to Spartan ideals. Asher sat on a chair so hard and rough, he could even feel its splintering edges through the thick flesh of his cloak. He glanced at Abbot Dinah from the corner of his eye. She reminded him of a roosting hen, her head wiggling on her neck when she thought no one was looking. Despite her pursed, stern lips, her eyes glinted with a smile of satisfaction. He bit the inside of his cheek. What did she have to smile about?
Jacob, on the other hand, wept openly. He pulled a tattered rag of a handkerchief out of his satchel, and blew his bulbous nose into it. He folded up the soggy mess, and stuffed it back into his pouch. Then he placed the same germ–sodden hand on Asher’s shoulder. The younger monk resisted the urge to brush it off. Instead, he stood, and walked to the window.
“Asher, I said to sit down,” said the abbot. “The Magistrate is on his way. Do as you’re told.”
Asher looked out into the garden, ignoring her shrill inflection. What was she going to do, drag him back by the ear? The scrolls were gone. Three million souls were nothing but Life Sands now. They would stay that way forever, if not for what slept inside of his head. Every brick, every pane of glass, every hair, eye, and toenail. All of their love, hate, art, ideas, science, books, creativity, songs, hopes, and fears — everything that could never be replaced — they were all inside of Asher’s mind, and his alone. Neither the abbot, nor the Magistrate and his cardinals could change that, maybe not even the Ingegno, or the Ophanim Herself.
Jacob reached around him, and closed the heavy shade. Asher refused to look at him. He had had his fill of blubbering. Tears would not help him, they would not help the people of his city, and they certainly would not help Brother Leo.
Three ascending bells chimed in quick succession. “Come now,” Jacob said, his voice like gravel. “We must take our places.”
Asher could not lie to himself, the thought of meeting the Magistrate filled him with excitement and curiosity. After all, he was the Chosen Prince of the Church, the born–of–man consort of the Ophanim, and part of the Trinity. Very few below the eighth or ninth circles had ever been allowed in his presence.
He returned to his assigned seat, and stood in front of it. The abbot glared at him, her hands on her hips like a defied schoolmarm. He met her eyes, his gaze free of emotion. Let her see nothing, he decided, and choke on it.
He knelt, and bowed his head. Everyone in the monastery, save the three of them, had been confined to their cells. A pebble dug into his kneecap. He leaned to one side, and brushed it away.
The door to the office opened. A flickering, violet light danced on the gray slabs before them. The smell of sizzling fat, sweet, like pork, filled his nostrils. He heard the sound of footsteps upon the stone floor, followed by the slam of the door. Then, there was silence. Trying to hide his gaze, he snuck a peek through his lashes.
Pain shot through his skull, as if someone had clamped his temples between the spiked jaws of a vise. He darted his eyes back down, and the pain subsided, leaving a dull throb in its wake. In that instance, he had caught a glimpse of a figure with skin the color of night. Deep furrows gashed his muscular, velvety arms and shoulders from his fingers to his neck. They shone with a lilac incandescence that flickered like smoke. His face…
“Abbot, Brothers,” sang the Magistrate, “I will come to the point.” His voice was deep, smooth and melodic, like the tones of a cello. It resonated from every pane of glass and scrap of wood. Asher could even feel it buzzing within his chest. “This situation is dangerous and unacceptable. What are your plans to correct it?”
The abbot took a deep breath. “Chosen Prince,” she said, “when Brother Asher received his assignment, I immediately instructed him to memorize the scrolls of San Domenico. We are all blessed that he took to his task with such devotion. Under the right guidance, I have no doubt that he can still perform the resurrection.”
“Indeed.” Asher could not tell if the supreme pontiff was fooled by this stream of bullshit or not. He did not really care. Let her assert her meaningless authority. His aching head felt dull and swollen.
“Brother Asher,” the Magistrate sang,
turning his glow upon him, “how do you feel?”
“Angry,” he heard himself answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the abbot’s penitent head twitch to the side. Jacob put his snotty hand on his shoulder again. He just let it lay there.
“Was Brother Leo your friend?”
Asher stared at the stone floor, watching the flickering dance of purple shadows. He could feel a tiny rivulet of blood trickle from the inside of his nose. He resisted the urge to sniff and wipe it away. The Magistrate was just a man who had been vested with the Ophanim’s silver crown. Yes, he was Her human vessel. Yes, he had the power to illuminate a room by burning his own body fat and the ability to give headaches for the crime of gazing upon his face, but still, he was just a man. All of them, including the Chosen Prince, were just human. All born the same: squirted out of a mother, followed by a bloody splat of afterbirth.
Or resurrected.
“He was never kind to me,” Asher said. “He never acted like a friend. Destroying my scrolls definitely wasn’t friendly.”
“Your scrolls?” The question rolled like thunder.
Asher’s sinuses throbbed against his cheekbones. He could taste iron trickling down the back of his throat. Something inside of his head had definitely ruptured, just because he had looked upon another man. And that man, knowing the situation, did not care if he had risked the souls of millions. “Forgive me, Chosen Prince,” he said, “I meant the scrolls of San Domenico that were in my charge.” There was no reply.
“He never acted like a friend,” Asher repeated, “but I think he thought that he had. I think he thought that what he did was an act of friendship, though I can’t imagine why.” He closed his eyes. He saw it all again: The innocent girl’s identity being scoured away over and over until she was nothing more than a rubber effigy, the filthy, old monk turning the pistol on himself, and squeezing the trigger.
“What more did he say?” the glowing figure asked. “What seditious lies did he pour into your ear?”
“He kept saying that he wanted to heal,” said Asher, “but all he did was cause more pain.”
“And was that all?”
Asher reviewed the conversation in his mind. Brother Leo had certainly been trying to get some message across to him, but what it was, he had no idea. Another jolt of pain traversed his skull, and it fed his desire for rebellion. Let Leo’s ghost keep his secrets. He would mull them over, and try to understand them in his own time. He owed this glowing bringer of pain nothing. He slowly turned his head from side to side.
“Chosen Prince,” Abbot Dinah said, “we believe that Brother Leo had been suffering from dementia, a growing inability to distinguish between his nightmares and reality. That is why we dissolved his ability to perform the holy sacrament of resurrection years ago.”
Asher could physically feel the Magistrate’s gaze upon him. It felt as if he were being smothered by a nest of greasy worms. The sweet smell of burning fat increased, and the flickering, wine–colored glow intensified. “I see,” he said at last. “Very well. You may leave us.”
“Return to your cell, and meditate,” Abbot Dinah chirped in.
Asher stood, keeping his head bowed, and his eyes closed. He felt along the wall until he reached the door, and left.
“She said meditate, not sleep.”
Asher did not lift his head. He had draped a damp cloth across his eyes. “You can’t do either with an icicle through your sinuses,” he said. He wiped at the caked blood in his nostrils with the rag’s corner.
“Let me change that for you,” said Jacob.
“No.” Asher swatted his hand away, remembering the monk’s snot. “I don’t want to get an eye infection too.”
“Try it,” Jacob said, “maybe it would infect some sense into you. What kind of idiot tries to look upon the forbidden face of the Magistrate, especially just before receiving the sacrament of children? That’s going to be pain enough. You like pain?”
Asher groaned. He really did not feel like putting up with the old man’s bullshit right now. “I love it.”
“Good, then here’s some more. Sister Theresa will be going with you. That’s a cardinal decree, bubbala. Don’t whine about it, there’s nothing you can do.”
“They can’t do that,” said Asher. He almost shook his head, and thought better of it. “Is it because I looked?”
“Pride, my boy, that’s what the abbot told him. Your act of defiance cinched it. She told him that you like what’s happened. You always liked that you were the only one who could handle San Domenico on their own, and you like the fact that now, that can’t ever be changed.”
Asher felt something tighten within his chest. “I don’t like that Leo killed himself.”
“Nice try. I never said that, and you know it’s not what I meant. Be happy you’re still in command of the mission, even though Theresa has age and experience over you.”
“Well, that should make it even easier.”
Jacob smacked him on the forehead. “Hey, she’s professional enough to handle it. Are you telling me that you’re not?”
Asher squeezed his hand into a fist. “Don’t do that again,” he said.
“Tough titty,” said Jacob. “Get yourself together, and make friends with her. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
Asher snorted. “I’m surprised Abbot Dinah didn’t insist on coming along herself.”
“Oh, Leo told you about that?” Asher propped himself up on one elbow at this, and pulled off the rag. “She might have gotten away with that before, but the poor bastard created a major scandal. The Magistrate said that under the circumstances, her place was here.”
Asher winced, his squint bringing the older monk into focus. “Jacob, what was Leo trying to do back there? Not just trying to heal the girl, but the rest of it. His delusions, and all that talk about pulling back the curtain. Why did he say that we’re living in a nightmare? I get that he was crazy, but he seemed to think that you understood.”
Jacob blew air out from between his lips. “He had confided in me, yes, about his dementia. Some people get funny in the head once they reach a certain age. It happens. He had hallucinations now and then that he couldn’t tell weren’t real. It’s very sad, but that’s all it was.”
“He kept trying to tell me something. I just… I need to understand what happened. I can’t let it go.”
Jacob ran his veined hand over his rubbery, wrinkled face. “There are mysteries I’m not supposed to know, or ask about,” he said. “The will of the Ophanim will be done. That’s good enough for me, and if you don’t want more babysitters on your trip, that had better be good enough for you. Zip it and think, for once. You wouldn’t have been chosen in the first place without the cardinals’ approval, and the Magistrate wouldn’t be sending Sister Theresa along for the ride if he didn’t think it was necessary. Now stop whining, and deal with it.”
“I know,” said Asher. He stood, went to the sink, and wrung out his towel. He stared into the mirror at bloodshot eyes that were ringed with dark circles. He took a corner of the cloth, and rubbed at the caked rust that lined his nostrils. “But I’m sick of all their accusations and insinuations. I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why Leo stunned me, kidnapped me, and dragged me out to kill me.”
“Except that’s not what happened.”
Asher cringed as a jolt of pain drilled its way across his temples. “All I know is that I hurt, and I’m tired of being played by her, by Leo, by the Magistrate, by all of them.”
Jacob brushed off his cloak. “Sometimes,” he said, “we just say all that we can, or all that we mean to.”
Asher ran cold water over his hands, and splashed his face. “So much is at stake,” he said. “Why do they want me to fail?”
“Now you’re sounding paranoid,” said Jacob. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yes.”
The old man walked to the door, and opened it. “Then I have said all that I meant to, and
all that I can.”
Asher splashed another handful of water on his face as he heard the door close. So, it was true, it was not just his imagination. But who would want him to fail, and why? Besides Brother Leo, obviously.
The thought hung in his mind for a moment. Brother Leo had not wanted him to fail. In fact, he had ensured that no one else would be able to resurrect the city. He had kidnapped him to make sure that he saw the twisted nightmare that the Church wanted to sweep under the carpet. He had wanted Asher to understand.
I wanted to heal, but you wouldn’t let me.
Had Brother Leo planned on suicide all along? He had to have known that there was no fifth circle waiting for him. No chance at youth, at health, at ever being more than the filthy, old failure that he was.
We have to pull back the curtain.
Asher searched the database for the works of Leonard Dvorkin. He had been an acclaimed artist, but not a financially successful one. The majority of his creations had been on display in Manhattan and Philadelphia, but those cities were in NorMec, and therefore lost. A few art dealers claimed to own anonymous paintings that matched his style and brushstrokes, but only one of Brother Leo’s legitimate works hung within the galleries of WesMec. It was one he had sold mere days before the Shadows fell, titled The Forgotten Cathedral. There was no image of it on file, because the city it resided in had not been resurrected yet. That city was San Domenico.
Asher knocked on Sister Theresa’s door, and waited. He could hear her moving about inside. He counted backward in his head from one thousand. When he reached eight hundred, the door opened.
She blinked at him. Her eyes, wide and set far apart, were streaked with red. She was fairer than most in the monastery. Her skin was so pale, it seemed almost silver. He met her gaze, and opened his mouth to speak.
Her eyes were a more vibrant shade of blue than he had ever seen. He realized that he had never really looked at them. They seemed to shine as if lit from behind, as if her irises were infused with shards of sapphire. He found himself lost in them. They almost seemed as if —