The torches hiss to life.
Vincale leads down the stairs. At the bottom they rush through a pillared room. Open books upon tables and overturned chairs appear to have been quickly abandoned. Shadows unsnarl from the blackness and shift as the torchlight passes. Through another door, along another corridor, into another maze of pillars and bookshelves. Finally, Vincale halts at the top of yet another descending staircase. Far below an orange light flickers along the floor.
Vincale says, “Below is the tunnel to Omvide Dellithion.” He motions to the staircase. “By the time we enter, it is likely we will be trapped in between by the Enemy on both sides. We will not exit without a fight.”
William’s says half mockingly, “Why am I not surprised by this?”
“Let us hope by the grace of Thi our strength can match what we meet at the end.”
“Your Queen has killed Thi, Captain,” William growls. “Whatever we meet, our own grace will deliver us.” Vincale does not answer but starts down the stairs and into the tunnel. William’s eyes narrow following their guide. “And into Hell we go…”
Don’t Die
November 15, this year
Venice, Italy
11:01 pm CEST
“Don’t die,” Astrid says to the sleeping archeologist, Graham Cremo. “Please, don’t die. I have spent my life chasing the past—the dead—the gods, stories, ghosts, entire cultures—all dust—all gone. I chased after them because I was running from my own past. I don’t want to chase the dead anymore. But if you die—Graham Cremo—I will keep chasing. I will not stop. I will find you. And I will follow you. Because you have made me feel alive for the first time in my life. Don’t die.”
Astrid squeezes his hand. His skin is cool. Another ancient myth enters her mind, this time from the Itonalya tomes. The love story of the moon and the earth—when they finally touch. A single, enduring line from the tale slips from her lips, “I came for thee, for I heard you calling.” He would know that story, she thinks. He would, absolutely. She stares. “I don’t even know you. We shared just a few words—a short few hours together.” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand what is happening to me. But I heard you. I heard you.”
She raises up to the blinking patient monitor and squints at the readout. His oxygen level, his blood pressure, and his pulse all translated into numbers and electrical symbols. It says nothing about what he dreams. There is no measure for his character, his needs or desires. It cannot show his joy or sadness.
Graham’s expression is calm, almost blissful. She lets her fingertips touch his chin. She then moves to his lips. Before she knows what she is doing, she feels herself slowly bending to kiss him. She halts halfway between and memorizes his face. “You wouldn’t believe it, I think, if you knew how I feel. Is it Elliqui that connected us? Why can’t I stop thinking about you? Why are you eclipsing everything I’ve experienced over the last few days? I’ve sought after these revelations my whole life, and now, there’s only you.
“And I need your help, Graham. I can’t do this alone. I don’t understand why history is shifting. It seems as if everyone senses something—but I can actually watch it happening.” She begins to cry. “And even my own past is—is…” she breaks off, stands straight and looks to the monitor again. Graham’s heart rate has accelerated slightly. She wipes her eyes. “I’ve been alone for so long. I vowed I would never do this again. Not after what happened. Not after…the accident.” Again, she stops herself. “I said I would never do this again.
“Who are you? Why you? Why now? Why in the middle of all of this?” she motions to the enormity of Albion’s house, and to the discovery of Wyn Avuqua, the torture of Queen Yafarra, the writings of Loche Newirth, and the impending masquerade ball that will continue the storming of Heaven. “All of this.” Her arms lower to her sides. She sniffles.
“Jesus Christ, Graham. Don’t die. Don’t die because I love you—and I don’t care why or how. I just love you.”
The monitor shows his heart rate has increased again. Her eyes train to it. As she tries to work out the change, she hears Graham’s voice.
“You had me at don’t die.” He is smiling. His eyes are still closed.
The Space Between
1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
“I don’t think I can run all the way—” Leonaie cries—on the verge of hyperventilation. For the last five or ten minutes the company has been jogging. Her voice interrupts the sound of rattling armor, buckles against leather and clumsy footfalls. Loche staggers and stumbles. His eyes are half-lidded and he feels a thin line of saliva dangling from his lips. Awareness tips and sloshes between the long, poorly lit tunnel, and flashes of his son’s little severed head plopping down from a roughhewn table to a basket on the floor. Why didn’t Thi within Edwin blast the enemy with the oceanic power like on the omvide in the Azores? Loche wonders.
“Let’s walk now,” Vincale says. “We’re nearing the exit.” Far ahead a single indigo dot has appeared. With each step it grows.
Julia whispers, “Loche?”
Loche hears her, but he is in the middle of an impossible riddle—somewhere between what he knows about the will of God and the will of right and wrong. His head tilts. His eyebrows scrunch together.
“Loche, can you hear me?”
He glances at her and wonders briefly if he should ask her how they got there? And more important, if she knows where Edwin is.
Vincale stops abruptly. “Quiet,” he hisses. He ventures a few paces forward and listens. He kneels down, assessing the dark hole ahead. “They wait for us.”
William joins him. “That they do…” he agrees. He swivels to Corey at the rear. “Have we pursuers?”
“None that I can hear or see,” Corey answers. “If they come it will take them at least ten minutes to cross the distance.”
William says, “The tunnel is narrow enough for only two to fight side by side. We have a chance if we stay within the mouth.”
“Let us all draw our weapons and proceed,” Vincale says.
“If I am not mistaken, they are expecting us,” William adds, his sword flashing into the firelight. “My son, the Poet specifically.” Loche sees William’s eyes glitter. “Loche,” he says gently. “We will need your steel. Draw. Let us return to where we belong.”
Julia unsheathes Loche’s rapier and presses it into his grip. Tiny, tear-shaped flames reflect in the mirror-like steel. Down the long blade he can see hairline dints, and nicks in the razored edge. A measure of the blade’s life, he thinks. A measure of the defense of love.
“Let us go,” Vincale says.
Slowly, the company starts toward the exit and the pyramid beyond. The free air wafts in. Though it is cold, it is welcome. Both Julia and Leonaie remove their supporting arms from Loche’s waist and draw weapons.
Just outside, but within the dim light of the tunnel, are what looks like three posts driven into the ground. Atop the posts are gruesome heads. As they draw nearer, William is the first to speak, “The sign of eth is rising. O my broken heart. Willowdale shall grieve.”
Loche squints and immediately recognizes the tortured faces upon the poles—the three Orathom Wis escorts from the Giza plateau: Neil, Alexia and Gary.
As if in answer to William, a woman’s voice enters the tunnel, “Come out travelers from afar. Do not be afraid.”
Without hesitation, William passes Vincale and steps into the snowy night. The company follows.
“Ah…” William bellows, his arms stretched out as if to embrace the encircling horde of Godrethion. At their center stand Etheldred and Erinyes the Fate. “Behold, the Netherworld gathered in the glare,” William pronounces.
Torches burn. Maybe fifty points of flame wiggle in the still cold. Just beyond are the first blocks to the rising Pyramid of the Sun, Dellithion Omvide. Turning his eyes to Erinyes, Loche notices the two men from the Avu auditorium, almost shadows themselves in their black modern attire standing beside. On
e is the assassin, Emil Wishfeill.
“Where is your Summoner Cynthia?” William shouts. “Certainly she would like to bid us farewell.”
Erinyes replies, “She sees to Queen Yafarra’s torture.”
William smiles. Loche sees it. He knows the smile.
Vincale whispers to William, “Beware what you do here. Time will not forgive an act against it…”
William says simply, “God is dead, so why should any of us care, my lord?”
William then announces, “May I present Mr. Corey Thomas…”
To Loche, the speed of time overlaps.
Overhead, Loche thinks he sees four or five objects fly like flung stones. A second later, each of the objects emit a pupil piercing flash followed by a series of concussive explosions. Loche, Julia and Leonaie are hurled onto their backs by the shock wave. Godrethion bodies scatter into fragments. Some are thrown nearly twenty blocks up onto the pyramid behind them. William then tosses three more grenades to the astonished horde. Again, the night blinks white three times and the entire right flank of Godrethion bursts into grisly parts. The white landscape is splattered with red. In the center, Etheldred and Erinyes are now struggling to stand back up amid the massacre. The Godrethion at the rear turn eastward, drop their weapons and flee. Vincale and his sentinels rush into those that remain before the omvide and strike them down.
Loche’s ears ring. Julia and Leonaie assist him to his feet.
Etheldred and Erinyes draw weapons.
“Come again,” Etheldred hisses at William. “Let us finish what we have begun.”
William sheaths his sword. “Lay down your sword, knave,” he says quietly.
Etheldred closes the distance to William in a blink. The quickness is uncanny. He raises his sword as Adam Talansman, steps between and extends his arm. The tip of the immortal’s sword finds an open slot below the High Captain’s gorget and it slides through the soft flesh of his throat. As he falls back and Adam pulls the blade free, Then Vincale, without expression or anger, begins a slow trot toward Erinyes. The trot becomes a full run. His opponent raises his blade in defense as Vincale leaps into the air. With his left hand he throws his palm downward to the rising sword tip. The blade punctures his hand. When Vincale lands upon his feet, he clamps his hand into a fist and maneuvers his arm to force the trapped blade down. He then pivots, whirls his sword and cleaves through the top half of Erinyes’ head.
Fate falls.
But just as the cut hemisphere splashes to the snow and mud, an automatic weapon opens fire. Vincale’s torso erupts a dotted line of bloody holes. From the ground, concealed by two dead bodies, Emil Wishfeill empties the clip into the captain. He then rolls to his side and raises a pistol.
Time, again, flips forward onto itself with ferocious speed. Loche feels his eyes bat five times.
One.
Emil squeezes the trigger four times. Two shots for each of the Wyn Avuquain sentinels. They drop. Simultaneously, Emil’s companion rolls from out of the carnage beside him and with his handgun fires into both of Adam Talansman’s knees.
Two.
Adam tips to his right and buckles. Three more shots report before William manages to lunge toward him, sword out. Three.
Just as the extended blade punctures through the assassin’s skull, a final shot explodes through William’s chest. The immortal falters and lowers himself onto his side cursing and spitting blood.
Four.
Loche hears Talan growling obscenities. Behind, Corey is struggling to stand, but he cannot. Turning to find Julia, he finds her crumpled like a rag in the dirty snow beside him. He crouches and reaches for her. “Julia,” he says. The sound in his voice is strangely clear, “Julia?”
Her head rotates toward him. Blood splashes from her abdomen. A white halo of foam is already rising from the wound. “I’m alright,” she whispers. “I can’t move.” His eyes search for Corey and Leonaie. Both are down. Corey is struggling to move. Leonaie is motionless. Her left shoulder is a blister of blackish red.
“Loche,” Corey’s weak voice calls, “run! You must run!”
Five.
The icy ring of the pistol barrel presses against Loche’s temple. “Just you and me now, Poet. And no time to waste. Across the pyramid we go. Move!”
Loche stands. His feet anchor. Emil slaps the side of the gun against the back of Loche’s head. The blow flashes a band of electricity across his vision. “Move. Now.”
Loche starts toward the white pyramid blocks. He passes through the moaning of mangled Godrethion, severed arms and legs, dropped weapons—the dead.
From the ground, William calls, “We will find you, Son. Stay alive.”
“Hurry,” Emil’s voice says. “Before long this area will be filled with both Godrethion and Itonalya, and I have no more patience for either. I’ve done my job, Poet. Now it’s time to finish it.”
Loche considers the man’s words as he climbs the first four stones. “What do you want with me?” Loche asks.
The waist-high stones are smooth. Snow still falls.
“Me? Nothing. I couldn’t care less about you Dr. Newirth. However, I can’t help but feel some satisfaction from the—if you’ll permit me—from the poetic justice.”
“Poetic justice?”
“Oh come, come,” Emil says. His breathing is now heavier. “You were there. Venice. Remember? In a way, you were the cause of my father’s death.”
Loche lowers his head and glances back. The firearm is pointed at his back. Emil pauses in his climb. “Eyes forward,” he says, “and do hurry.”
Looking up and ahead Loche guesses they are nearly halfway up. He does remember. Samuel Lifeson killed Felix Wishfeill in order to protect Loche. “I was there,” he admits. “I’m sorry for your father’s death.”
Emil laughs. “I’m sorry for your father’s death,” he repeats mockingly. “Always the psychologist… What a perfect, empathetic answer. So kind. So void of responsibility.” His laugh intensifies. “One would think by now,” he coughs, breathes, and laughs again, “that the wise, wise Poet of the events that are now unfolding before us might somehow understand the idea of revenge. Even at this very moment you are still so…” he coughs again, “so—even. So psychologically correct. What, Doctor? Are you waiting for me to grow a conscience? Are you waiting for those unhealthy minds, the greedy, the murderous, the ambitious to find your version of well-being?”
Another stone block higher—and then another. Loche’s heart batters against the bones of his rib cage. He feels confused. He glances around suddenly to find his little boy.
“Samuel Lifeson may have killed my father—but it was due to you, your work and your presence—therefore, I’ve taken great pleasure in my appointed task.”
In monotone, Loche says, “I am sorry for you—sorry that you’re taking pleasure in the pain of others.”
Emil laughs again. “Do you not have a single trigger, Doctor? You behave as if you’re wanting to guide me to some version of health. Your version.” His tone slides into thoughtful revelation, “Or maybe you’re missing the entire purpose. You’re no good to anyone mentally stable, Poet.”
“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” Loche asks between gasps.
“Well, from my limited point of view, if a poet isn’t tortured, what is his work worth? And my appointed task is your torture. You are feeling the bite of torture—are you not, Dr. Newirth.”
Numbness. Bleakness. Helplessness. Loche freezes. He slowly rotates and looks down upon Emil and the still aimed firearm. Distant Wyn Avuqua burns white and orange. Loche imagines streaks of light bombarding the city from the nothingness of sky.
He is numb. No tears. No quavering. No emotion. He says, “I have watched my six-year-old son hacked apart before my eyes. My baby son. My beautiful boy—murdered. I do not know this word torture. There is no word—there are no words—”
A faint smile dangles on the edges of Emil’s lips. “I know.”
“Have you
come to kill me?” Loche asks—begs.
“Oh, no,” Emil answers. “Too easy.”
“Then why have you come?”
“You still don’t know? I was sent to kill your son—and to force you to watch. Something that has become my particular calling card. Of course, I don’t think I will ever match the experience of two armies witnessing a father fall to pieces while his son is sacrificed. Quite messianic. Quite biblical, if you ask me.” He takes a breath. “That was the first task. Now it is complete, and I am to return you to Venice—if such a thing is possible.”
Loche’s eyes glass.
“Who sent you to do this?” Loche’s fists ball at his side. “Who would want such a thing?”
Emil’s smile and triumph fades. “You still have no idea?” He waits. “Why, Dr. Newirth, your old friend Marcus Rearden has authored this. Despite his professional ethics, I believe he would call the act retribution.” He laughs, “Revenge, Loche. It is Rearden’s vengeance for the death of his wife. For what you have done. For what your hand has written.”
From out of the shadows, a gleaming broadsword blade appears. “For what your hand has written, motherfucker!” Catching the light of the burning city, the silver blade flickers like a tongue of fire, and slices through the air, and through the wrist of Emil’s outstretched hand. The gun rattles to the stone, followed by a wail of agony. He drops to his knees and hugs the mangled limb to his abdomen.
“My beloved Samuel warned your father! Warned him not to tangle in the affair.” Leonaie hisses, stepping before the cowering assassin. “Your father did not listen. Your father was a fool!” Her shoulder is wet with blood and white foam. The sword is heavy in her hands, and clearly she has little or no experience in wielding such a thing. But strangely, with uncanny grace, she whirls the blade away from Emil and punches the pommel into his lower jaw. Teeth crackle. Emil slumps onto his side and curls into a ball. “This is going to hurt,” she tells him. “A lot.” She stoops over, searches the flat stone for a moment and then lifts Emil’s severed hand. “Look here, motherfucker,” she says calmly. “Look here. Remember how you made me watch?” Crimping the fingers of the hand closed, she molds it into a fist. “Watch this. Look here,” she says, this time to herself. Nudging her thumb beneath the middle finger of the hand, she flips the dead finger up and dangles it before Emil’s pleading face, “Long bone, motherfucker. Samuel Lifeson says hello.” She then says over her shoulder, “Loche, a bag! A bag!”
The Shape of Rain Page 38