“What are you talking about?” Astrid says.
“The Prophecy,” Rearden demands, ignoring her question and extending his hand to receive it.
“She will not let it go,” Astrid says.
Far back through the preceding tunnel, a booming shudders and crackles through the walls. A fine dust sifts down through the orange light. They’ve breeched the Eye, Astrid thinks.
“Oh, I believe she will hand it over,” Rearden insists. “She is Itonalya. Ancient Orathom Wis. It is in her blood to protect humankind. Can’t you see her struggling?”
Yafarra’s face is twisted with confusion and wrath. She clutches the Notebook tighter as her focus tacks from the gun against Astrid’s head, to Graham, to Rearden.
“She’s weighing her position. She’s trying to work out a solution. She’ll eventually choose your life as the most important part of this equation… just watch.”
Astrid nearly spits, “Or she might be reliving a thousand years trapped in a coffin, you sadistic fuck.”
“Tell her to give me the Prophecy,” Rearden dismisses Astrid’s response. “Tell her now.”
“If I don’t?”
Rearden’s thumb clicks the pistol’s hammer back. “Please, Professor Finnley, I’d prefer not to kill further. But if I am refused, you both die. You from a gunshot, Yafarra, I’ll shoot and dismember.” He waits. “Tell her.”
Astrid and Rearden lock eyes. Glassy tears magnify the gun, the Red Notebook, the body of Graham. A tornado of responses blow through her mind. Fuck you, do it, you won’t get out of here alive without us. And good luck taking Yafarra’s life, you idiot. Dying here is the best I could ever ask for.
Rearden sighs. “Should I count to three?”
“Fuck you.” She diverts to Graham’s seemingly sleeping face.
Rearden sighs again, only this time with an air of pity mixed with impatience. “If only you knew the depth of this document. You could be of some use to me.” He shakes his head. “One…”
Fear jolts through her nervous system. Her body trembles. Graham’s skin is cooling. She laces her fingers in his. Bitter gun smoke lingers in the air.
“Two… Don’t be a fool, Astrid. All your life you’ve sought this moment. To know the contents of the Prophecy. Do not throw your life away. Not now.”
She closes her eyes and braces herself. She feels the strength of her arms pull tight and her shoulders straighten.
“What resolve,” Rearden’s voice is tinged with marvel. “Pity,” he adds. “Three…”
As if in answer to Rearden, Yafarra’s voice says, “Nit! Ag!” When Astrid opens her eyes she sees the Queen extending the Red Notebook with her long arm.
Rearden reaches out and takes hold of it. For a moment the two remain gripping it between them.
From Yafarra’s lips comes a hissing string of words. It takes a moment for Astrid to register that the words are English. Broken, halting and laced with a haunting, indeterminable accent, but English, nonetheless. “You will fall, Marcus Rearden. Aethur will find you. He will cast you into the abyss.”
She pierces Rearden’s gaping expression with a calm, knowing smile.
A thread tugs at the corner of Rearden’s confidence. “So you can speak—” Rearden starts.
“Abyss,” she says, striking his words from the air. “You desire the writing of the Poet, but you do not yet know the power of his words. You do not know the power of your own words. You will fall. You will fall.”
Rearden studies her for a few moments before his incredulity passes. As he takes the notebook he growls, “My good Queen, I know much more than you give me credit for. If I am not mistaken, no one has read what is in that notebook. And doing so could potentially change everything. You, this place,” he pauses, “and maybe me…”
Yafarra does not respond.
Rearden tucks the Red Notebook into his coat. “Well, we shall soon see.”
“Not yet,” Yafarra says.
A kind of smile spreads across Rearden’s face. The expression bears no connection to happiness or fulfillment. Instead Rearden’s face looks as if some torture behind his eyes is forcing him to smile. He then raises his hand to his ear and taps his transmitter. The gun is still leveled to kill. “Eastman,” he says, “I have the Prophecy.”
Yafarra crawls to Astrid. The two sit together, staring at Dr. Marcus Rearden in the flaring light. Graham’s forehead is chilled. The clatter of boots can be heard running toward them from the black tunnel when Astrid feels Graham’s hand squeeze hers.
The Garden of Evil
Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
“Hold your breath. Breathe not. Do not speak a word. I know your story, for it is mine also…”
Cynthia speaks slowly with crystalline elegance, each syllable sharp and cutting, each word weighted with its full meaning.
“We the Banished. And now we are returned.” There is a longing in her timbre—a cello-bowed fullness and want in her pace.
“I am the Summoner, but it was not I who called you to this distant land. It was the voice of Thi.” Her long hair glimmers in the flickering light. She stands motionless and waits as if to allow the roaring fires a moment to speak. “It was not I who made you. It was the word of Thi,” Again the fire hisses and crackles in answer. Her glittering eyes track from uplifted face to face, but it seems to Loche that she is staring at him alone. “It was not I who filled your hearts with vengeance and a thirst for blood. It was the tale of Thi that kindled you, that lit you, that burns in you now.”
Her arms open outward and spread, “And behold, we have each awakened. Each of us gods! Your blindness is healed, and you find yourselves within the paradise you have pined for. Though it was not made for you. A fleeting moment within the glory and joy of Thi’s work. Though we have been starved of it and long ago banished from its shores. Thi has granted you entry to Its most prized garden—Its beloved jewel—Its masterwork. Though only to perform a single, bloody task. You are gods! You walk upon Thi’s Earth, among his children. And for this brief season, Thi grants our will in this place. All for the price of obedience.”
She raises her hand in a gesture of warning, “And what does our Lord command? For It did not open Its gates idly. He has given us a purpose, has He not? A valiant and noble task, yes? He has bred within us a fury toward his disobedient subjects: the guardians of this coveted place in existence—the rebellious, treacherous, Immortal race. They who have hunted and slain our kind since the beginning.” Her long arm gestures to the northwest—a finger pointing like the tip of a blade, “The Itonalya’s city of Wyn Avuqua will be destroyed. We shall grind its walls to dust! We shall put to flame its houses, its temples, its words! We will fill the lake waters with heads and build a bridge across Thi’s sight!”
The roar of furious approval rattles Loche’s ribcage as if his heart is raging against the bars of a cell. Cynthia watches and listens for a moment and then raises her hand against the din. The voices quiet. The fires crackle.
“It was not I who summoned you hither to kill. It was Thi.” The woman lowers her arm and appears to consider a sudden thought.
Her sparkling green eyes widen and an overdramatic expression of round-mouthed wonder appears on her face. “But something eludes me, my dear brothers and sisters. Something so very confounding. Tell me, if you can, why does the mighty Lord God, Thi call upon… us? Have we not been banished from this place? Am I the only one here that is confused by this? Has He no other way to shepherd and punish His flock of undying guardians than to call upon… us? And now, after refusing to share paradise, to capture it back for himself, he uses us?” Her incredulity recedes and a look of grace and thoughtful piety forms. “Shall I show you how I feel about this hypocrisy? This injustice?”
The fires snap and breathe. The throng is silent. Loche turns his head to learn if their faces are answering her question. Those he can make out seem pained and empathetic, as if they are being injured by some hidden
weapon and then asked to worship both the weapon and the hand that wields it.
“Shall I show you my pain? For I know it is yours also.”
A collective agreement begins with nods, quiet mutters of, “Aye,” and the stamping of feet.
“Very well.” The armored woman smiles and turns her face in Loche’s direction. Loche flinches as her focus pierces through the shadows and brooding atmosphere of the host—through to his very soul. A violent chill slides down his back and he feels his disguise has been compromised. His hand raises to steady himself in the doorway.
Cynthia points, “I shall also share our pain of exile with our Maker, our Lord God! Behold, Soldiers of the Void, the mighty Thi has come to us! And I shall place Him before you!”
Loche turns to see Edwin’s bier now being hoisted just behind him. The hooded priests lead the procession bearing tall poles with suspended oil lamps. The throng obediently provides a narrow aisle as they pass into the enclosure.
Loche falls in and takes a position following just behind Edwin’s sleeping face. His boy is an arm’s reach away.
Expressions
November 11, this year
Upper Priest Lake, Idaho
5:15 pm PST
It is impossible for Astrid to read Yafarra’s expression as they emerge into the cold gloaming. High work lights prick the dusk. Yafarra squints looking up. She searches the sky, then to the perimeter lamps, to a passing mud splattered utility truck, to a toppled stone column half uncovered from centuries of sediment and the world’s turning soil. Sorrow marks her eyes. Wonder glitters in her tears. Anger is stretched across her trembling cheeks and lips. Her wrists are bound by a zip tie. Astrid can only guess at the fury, confusion and focus Yafarra must be balancing with every step out of her newly departed grave.
Astrid senses the look on her own face now. Her wrists are also bound, and she feels tears as she scans for Graham’s body.
As soon as Eastman and her teams stormed the Queen’s chamber, Astrid screamed for them to help. “He’s still alive!” She kept shouting. With a nod, Eastman singled out three of her people to lift his body and evacuate him. That was a half hour ago. Yafarra and Astrid were then bound and forced to kneel beside an ancient, chest-like cabinet. A preliminary search of the chamber was conducted. Eastman did not speak a word. Dr. Marcus Rearden stood beside her, expressionless, his unnerving, creepy peeks straying to Astrid from time to time.
The November air diffuses in Astrid’s lungs, and clarity, hope and needed energy pumps through her circulatory system.
Eastman leads the small procession of guards, Marcus Rearden, and the two women into what Astrid guesses is the site’s security area, which is nothing more than a huge wall tent with a perimeter fence. Several security-styled vehicles crowd a muddied lot a stone’s throw away. Just beyond the lamps is the dark tree-line and the edge of the dig-site itself. Inside the tent are a computer bay, a few desks, munitions and a small break area.
Another burst of oxygenated blood explodes through Astrid upon seeing Graham’s body on a stretcher at the far end of the enclosure. He has been bandaged. Intravenous fluid drips from a hanging bottle through a catheter in his arm. A clear mask fogs over his nose and mouth. It looks to Astrid as if the bullet hit him just below his left shoulder—a red blotch in the white dressing, dangerously close to his heart.
“He’ll live,” Eastman says quietly, “maybe. For your sake, I hope he does. At least for now. It’s pretty bad.” From a shelf, she takes a small document case and opens it. The black rectangular case is metal and fitted with a complex locking apparatus.
“Dr. Rearden,” Eastman says, “please place the Red Notebook within.” Astrid notes that this is the first time Eastman has addressed Rearden since her team broke their way into the Queen’s chamber. “The contents are not to be perused until the Board decides.”
“Understood,” Rearden agrees.
Eastman watches Rearden place the book inside. She shuts the lid and presses the latch closed. A dim, red light appears on a black square beneath the leather handle.
“Travel arrangements have been made. Arrangements I think you’ll find preferable to a transcontinental flight. You’ll be in Venice faster than you can imagine.”
Rearden laughs. It is the first seemingly genuine sound Rearden has made. “Oh. I can imagine.” Then he whispers to himself, “Forgotten memories. Forgotten memories.”
“We have sent word to The Board and Mr. Ravistelle,” Eastman says. Rearden nods.
Astrid recalls Ravistelle’s face projected onto the screen earlier that morning. An image from nineteenth century London, and another from this century.
“Shame about Graham.” Eastman sighs without raising her eyes from the locked case. “He is important to the operation. We still have some need of him, for now…”
Astrid feels the wind knocked out of her when her voice cries, “This son of a bitch shot him!”
“You’ll have to carry him across,” Eastman continues as if she did not hear Astrid, “You’ll have assistance when you arrive.” Eastman leans toward Rearden. Her voice hushes, “Ravistelle and the Board want all of this kept quiet, as I’m sure you’re fully aware.” She pauses and glances over at Graham’s body. “Obviously, given your actions.”
Rearden’s face remains stoic.
“All potential leaks are to be silenced. No loose ends.” She nods toward Astrid. “But let’s get the necessary information we need from them before we—”
Rearden suddenly raises his hand. The gesture is easily understood and Eastman changes the subject away from business best left private. With a subtle smirk, Eastman says, “Take Dr. Finnley to the vehicle. Secure her inside and return for orders.”
Rearden turns, and again Astrid grasps for some way to read a facial expression. A slight smile, or is it a deep regret seeking to be hidden beneath a smile? Is that insanity she sees, or a hardened resolve? Is there a caring, a sympathy in the way his head is slightly tilted, or is he pitying her ignorance? Is his face young or old?
Then a cold terror takes her breath. Down some black abyss within her abdomen, she translates his countenance. For an instant, it is completely unbelievable. But the exquisite duplicity, the elegant meaning, the flickering fire behind that masked half-smile are unmistakable. Her mind wriggles for a way out. If Graham could, he would likely say something about a gangster movie at this point. That indiscernible gesture from the Godfather that condones and orders a death. Almost Elliqui-like, Astrid sees Rearden’s meaning and intention as if Michael Corleone himself was sending the traitor, Carlo, to the death car.
Astrid locks eyes with Yafarra. “Graham shawis,” she cries to the Queen. “Graham shawis!” The Queen’s response comes as a barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes. And as two black-coated security guards shove Astrid roughly into the cold, she thinks she heard the word, or felt, “Courage. Courage, Astrid.”
A white van idles and its back windowless doors open to receive her.
Hold Your Breath
Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
Loche attends the procession to the stage, keeping his eyes forward. He senses a slight nudge of vertigo when the shadowed audience surrounding him bows and kneels. For a brief moment it feels as if he himself, the bearers of his son and the Fates with the bright lamps held aloft have all risen into the air and now glide a short distance above the ground. Loche chances a quick look to the side at what he can only describe as a religious rite: the riotous throng bowing in reverent submission as God passes through. God. However, there is something much more frightening and profound weighing in his senses. Not an agreed upon ritual or construct, but instead, it is as if each individual body in the enclosure cowers beneath an invisible axe angled just above them.
Loche keeps his head down as he passes Etheldred at the forefront of the aisle. The intoxicated monk is still comatose and splayed on the ground.
The procession steps onto the platform. The Fates
set the lighted poles at each corner and kneel at the bases. Edwin’s bier is laid upon a timbered x-shaped halter that suspends his sleeping body at the back of the stage. The guards with Loche descend from the stage and stand just beside the stair. Loche stands with them—Edwin on the far side—too far away.
Cynthia pronounces, “He hath come to us. Behold, our Lord God, Thi.”
Loche notes a reluctance and a mocking smirk as the woman turns her back to the audience and takes a knee before Edwin. She waits a few moments, stands and says to the congregation, “Rise.”
They obey. Bodies lean and heads tilt to get a glimpse of their Maker. Some begin to weep openly. Others tremble.
“Let Thi see the pain He hath caused.” Cynthia shouts. “Bring forth one of His guardians. Bring her!”
From between the fires, Julia Iris appears. Two large captors throw her to Cynthia’s feet. Loche takes an unconscious step toward her—the handle of his umbrella suddenly in his grip. He freezes. Waiting. Watching. His eyes flitting from his son to Julia.
“This one,” Cynthia points, her tone mocking, “is an innocent. Innocent Itonalya. Is there such a thing? But I have learned that this one has never killed—has not yet sought to ease the crawling in her skin that we—we holy people, cause her to feel. Can’t you see?” Cynthia picks at Julia’s jacket with curiosity. She lets her hand graze over the waterproof parka. She pauses at the touch of it, then her hand gathers a handful of Julia’s hair. She says, “Look how calm. Look how docile.”
Julia raises her face. There is no trace of fear. Her dark eyes squint slightly at the towering, armored woman but do not waiver. It appears to Loche that she is attempting to work out how to escape. But she cannot hide the effect of the Rathinalya. Her right hand clutches the key necklace under her shirt and her right leg trembles beneath her kneeling body. The series of Julia’s trials cascade across Loche’s memory. From Rearden’s gunshot wound to Helen’s vicious cruelty, Julia’s newly found immortality has brought little joy. But now what? Loche wonders. What more will she be forced to endure? Can I stop it?
The Shape of Rain Page 20