When they first arrived at the shop, the enthusiastic Fausto had placed Loche before the web of research. Pictures of each character of the drama were tacked up and connected by yellow yarn, described with Post-It notes and arrayed much like Loche remembers his cabin walls not two weeks ago. Fausto spoke excitedly and waved his arms—occasionally saying, “You see? You see?” Loche managed to learn much despite the limited English of his new Italian friend: Albion Ravistelle is to hold a masquerade ball this evening; the paintings of Basil Fenn will be displayed to a host of high profile, important guests; a Professor from America has discovered the ruins of Wyn Avuqua, and she is here, in Venice. But the information that brought Fausto’s chattering to a halt was when he shared that psychologist Marcus Rearden was currently across the water at Albion’s house. Loche cannot be sure why Fausto fell silent at the mention of Rearden, his old mentor, but he can imagine that the expression on his face was conjured by the name.
Loche was given coffee, bread, cheese and fruit, and then shown upstairs to a bedroom. Not long after he had seated himself beside the window looking into the dreary day, Fausto knocked on the door and called, “Dr. Newirth, tu hai un visitatore.”
The door opened and standing there, tall, lanky, wearing an overcoat coat of green with grey lapels, and a weird, thin-lipped grin was George Eversman.
Loche did not rise. George did not speak. The immortal entered, nodded to Fausto to leave them alone, closed the door and moved to an easy chair across from Loche.
The two have not yet spoken.
A clock keeps its steady cadence just beneath the prattle of raindrops bursting on the roof. The mask seems to pull Loche’s eyes to it again.
“They…” Loche tries. “They killed Edwin, George.” Anguish and grief floods over him. Blind with tears, Loche weeps. His fingers trace the mask’s chin, mouth and cheeks.
George does not interfere but simply watches Loche. Concern haunts his eyes. A few minutes pass. Finally George says softly, “Loche, have a good cry.”
A good cry.
And amid the chaos, the fantastic circumstances and the horror of losing his son, with his tears comes his professional point of view. A voice somewhere inside his head whispers, A good cry. Crying is good. Emotional tears contain stress hormones that get excreted from the body through crying. It produces endorphins. Crying is a path to health—a clearing of grief—enables the heart and mind to re calibrate. You have shifted from a sympathetic to a parasympathetic state—Let go…let go. A good cry.
The sorrow comes in heaves and waves. Between each his chest tries to control the pulsing tempo of sobbing. He squints to see through his veiled sight.
Bethany Winship, his client, Rearden’s late mistress, enters into the office of his memory. She is both crying and laughing. “Oh my word,” she says, her eyes glinting and wet, “I know that I get up and I get down, but this is ridiculous.” Her face is pale blue. Upon her cheek is a red painted tear. Her throat is welted and bruised—pink shadows of gripping fingers stain her skin.
The wonder of it. The horror.
Loche’s mind then shifts to a beloved quote from Washington Irving. “There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”
The tips of Loche’s fingers hover over the solemn countenance of the mask. Through his blurry vision he again searches for Edwin.
“He not there,” George says finally. “Your boy not there. Won’t find him there.”
“They…they killed him…”
“I know,” George says, piteously.
Loche raises his focus to George. His eyes flash clear, “How do you know?”
“Not figured it out yet?”
“Figured out what?”
“No. Not yet, eh?” George shakes his head slowly. “What is my name?”
“Your name?”
“Yes.”
“George.”
“True, dat. What other name?”
“George Eversman.”
“Yes.” The immortal waits.
“What?” Loche asks wiping his nose.
“My given Elliqui name means same as Eversman.”
Loche nods, “So?”
“Loche, I am Iteav. I am the only son of Yafarra, Queen of Wyn Avuqua.”
A billion electrical impulses spark and burn within the chassis of Loche’s skull. His eyelids slip shut. There in the firelight of his memory he sees the young boy Iteav sitting upon his mother’s lap. He sees Iteav and Edwin playing in a far room. He sees the immortal little boy lifting up a toy horse and handing it to his son.
“You were there? You saw it?” Loche says.
“No,” George replies. “I was not. I did not see Edwin die.”
“You knew I was there, in Wyn Avuqua all along?”
George thinks a moment. “Foggy, Loche. But yes, maybe.”
“Do you remember Wyn Avuqua?”
“No,” George says again. “Or, little. What I know most is from stories—the tracing of my lineage. I do not remember my life there.”
“You do not remember playing with toys—you and Edwin?”
George looks away to the grey light outside. He searches, then answers, “Maybe. I somehow know your son. But I don’t know how. Long ago, Loche. A thousand years and more ago, Loche.” He explains further. He tells of dreams—of high towers —of a woman’s face, green eyes, gold hair—of a horrible Rathinalya caused by thousands of gods. There is little else he can share from his childhood. He shifts to the shores of the Agean Sea and his parents—growing up in near Rome—discovering his immortality in his late teens.
“You do not remember your mother?” Loche asks.
“Only stories. Only tales. Maybe I see her face in dreams. She calls me in dreams. She tells me she is sorry. She cries over me.”
“How long have you known? Known you are Yafarra’s son?”
“Long, long time,” he answers. “I am Angofal for that reason. I am Chal. I am King.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you and me have lost dear ones. Because across the water, in Albion’s house is the one that put to death my mother: Nicholas Cythe. And across the water, too, is the one that put your son to death: Marcus Rearden. Across the water, we have work to do.”
“Yafarra was killed then?” Loche asks. Remembering the dull clop of her axe causes his body to flinch. It was she that dealt Rearden’s blow, he thinks. In a dark chamber of his heart she has been paid. “How was she killed?”
George shakes his head, “No one knows truth… But tales tell that Devil took her life—Summoner of Godrethion, Cynthia. Cynthia now Nicholas Cythe.” He frowns, pointing west across the canal. “I missed my chance at Uffizi when we last meet. When we meet next, Cythe will be no more. Tonight. Tonight at the masquerade ball.” The immortal shifts in his chair. His fingers lace over his lips. He asks, “You were there? You were in the great city. Menkaure took you to Wyn Avuqua?”
Loche nods.
“You see my mother?”
“Yes.”
“You see how she die?”
“No.” Loche feels a stab of anger. He can still see her escorting young George and Edwin out of the Templar chamber from his place on the stone floor. The paralyzing stab of betrayal is still fresh. He wishes he knew how she was killed. He wishes he could have seen it. He shakes his head to master his fury. “No, I did not see her die. I crossed over as the city was falling.”
“Basil? Find Basil there?”
Again Loche nods. “Yes, within a painting. He found a way to close the doors. He is closing them one by one. Soon all of his paintings will be without Centers. But he fears that the damage his work has done cannot be mended.”
George’s head tilts as he listens.
“Julia and William and the others,” Loche says. “Will they make it across?”
; “Do not fear for them. I believe you will all meet again before this day is over.
“Why was I taken back to Wyn Avuqua, George? I don’t understand. I could have found my brother by looking into Leonaie’s painting here in this time, to learn what I needed to learn. Help me to understand.”
A smile widens on George’s lips like a stretching rubber band. “Why does it rain right now? Why do we learn what we learn when we learn it? I think answer is clear. Certain. Real. You made myth. Myth made you. You have now lived the story—no longer just words—pictures. You were there. I do not think Basil called you across Menkaure. Another force called you. Another took you there. Now all is real.”
“Another?”
George shrugs. “The world is full of angels and devils and undying travelers. None of us know how the next few pages will spell out our fates—none of us know what the next sentence will bring. We simply go forth. We go to learn. We go to see.” The rubbery smile pulls tighter. “And you, Aethur, Poet, you of all, made it all. The answer will come.”
George’s gaze lowers to the artifact in Loche’s hands. “And the mask that you have chosen, you shall wear.” Loche looks down at the Ithicsazj. “I give Fausto that mask, you know. It from Wyn Avuqua—so I was told.”
“This? This is the…”
George blinks his heavy lids. “Yes. Very old. I did not know its history until a few years ago. But I have had it since I was a boy. It come with me to Europe when I was young.”
George stands. He extends an envelope filagreed with gold leaves and vines to Loche. “You and me have official invitations.” He grins, “We still have Orathom Wis inside Albion’s house. But two is all we got. Julia and William will come in through back door. But you and me enter in like all the others. We will wear masks, we shall drink, and we shall avenge our fallen dear ones with steel.” The immortal’s voice shouts, “Come, Aethur! We go to the next page!”
Champagne Breakfast
November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
6:15 am CEST
“What I’d give for some champagne,” Astrid says. Marcel watches Astrid’s index finger as she directs his attention to the delicate pages of Albion Ravistelle’s Toele. “You’re seeing that, right? I’m not losing my mind?”
The two stare at a kind of optical illusion—or bona fide supernatural occurrence. The Elliqui characters in several places on the page change—entire lines reorder and shift—stories alter —unbeknown additions appear. The anomalous editing is slow and ghostlike.
Marcel looks at Astrid, “What the hell happened while I was asleep?”
Astrid shrugs. “Much, apparently.”
“Are these changes happening in your book?” he asks.
“No—or maybe. I’m not sure yet. These changes here tell of Yafarra’s last stand in the Avu.”
“How she was entombed?”
“So it seems.”
Marcel lifts and opens Astrid’s book and flips to the chapter, “The Fall of Wyn Avuqua”. He mutters to himself, “So I guess history is no longer written by the winners but something else altogether.” Astrid can see that he has found the section on the killing of the innocent.
“So, Marcel?” She says latching her eyes to his. “You know the tale of the Wyn Avuquain innocent, right?”
Incredulity rises into Marcel’s expression. “You want me to answer that question, seriously?” He sees that she is indeed serious. “Um, yeah. Of course I know. It is one of the oldest—” He breaks off. He scratches his head. “I mean, you discovered documents about it years ago…” His red eyebrows furrow. “Why does my stomach hurt suddenly? I have this weird feeling we talked about this before—like, yesterday. But…” He lowers the book and stares at his teacher. “What the fuck? We’ve always known that story.”
“We have?” She asks. Astrid studies him and tries to connect some kind of cypher to the impossibility. Her stomach growls.
“Yeah. Right?”
“You slept last night?”
Marcel nods. “Yes. But what does that have to do with anything?”
Astrid shrugs. “I’m not sure. It’s all I can figure. Maybe these shifts in history insert into our memories after we distance ourselves a bit. Maybe sleep.”
“Haven’t you slept?”
“Barely.” The weight of fatigue is heavy, but somehow easily ignored. Breakfast would be good, she thinks. And champagne. She gestures to her book, “Tell me, is there anything in there about Yafarra’s last stand?”
Marcel scans. Pages flip. A few moments pass. He thumbs to the index and searches. “Well,” he says standing, “I’m not too sure how to answer you. What’s written here—the tale I know—is the same as it ever was.”
“And what tale is that?”
“The story you pieced together from several sources—”
“Yes—and?”
“That Yafarra was slain—her head was taken—and she was entombed by Templar—with the prophecy, and hidden.” He reads from the book: “—the author of this German account leaves no clues to Yafarra’s remains save this: Her Majesty shall always remain within the Heron’s talon.”
She turns back to the Toele. “There is perhaps one other surviving Itonalya tome like this—it is only rumored, of course. And now with Wyn Avuqua discovered, I’m sure there are hundreds. But Albion’s Toele is now—right now—changing.”
“What does that mean? Like, lines of history run side by side—and the change is happening right now—in real time?” Marcel’s excitement and wonder makes her smile. But the smile is laced with more pain than joy.
“Real time? No damn idea what that might mean.”
Marcel shrugs, “Me either, at this point.”
“What has me disturbed is who or what is holding the pen.”
Marcel recoils. “Ugh. Brain hurts.”
“Noted,” Astrid agrees. A warble from her stomach seems to agree.
“What is the author saying.”
The pads of her fingers touch the parchment. They slide gently across the runes, over the words, through veils of meaning. She reads in silence.
“I don’t know how to answer you. I could pour over this book for months—years. One page seems to contain more than I’ve been able to gather in my entire career.” She sighs. “It would take too much time to locate anything on Yafarra’s last stand. If my book hasn’t changed on that subject, maybe this one won’t either.”
“Seems to me that Yafarra’s entombment was meant to be a secret. How, after all, could anyone tell of it?”
“You’re right,” she nods. “It is said that what few Itonalya escaped were not aware of the inner dealings of Yafarra’s court. Therefore, like us, their accounts are a matter of conjecture.”
Astrid closes the Toele. “Another time, my love,” she says to it as she rubs her hand over the cover. “Another time.”
She tells Marcel about her evening. Everything from her visit with Howard Fenn to her encounter with Graham and Rearden to the surreal experience within Basil Fenn’s artwork.
“Busy as usual,” Marcel says when she finishes. “So you’re the lucky one that gets the first read of the Red Notebook. Swell. After the Journal, I don’t think it wise to keep up on Newirth’s work. Have we decided yet that these things are above our pay grade and its time to get out of here?”
“You read my mind—but I’m not leaving without Graham.”
Marcel narrows his eyes, “Sounds like Rearden has you stuck. What? Did he say, ‘You read this and tell me what it says and then I’ll let you go’?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“It’s what he didn’t say that troubles me.”
Marcel says, “What do you mean?”
Astrid thinks for a second. “If Rearden succeeds with either bringing Loche to some kind of murderous state and gets him to write—the outcome could be catastrophic. If he fails with that he’ll figure a way to kill the man. Jesus, he’s designed the
death of Loche’s son already.” A sharp stab of pain presses into her temple at the thought. “The Red Notebook is his last wild card—his remaining unknown. It will either benefit him, destroy him or do nothing at all. One thing is for sure, though—no matter what it says, I will know. I will have read the secret. And it’s damn certain he won’t let me live knowing it.”
Marcel’s chest puffs up. “Then we won’t let that happen. He can’t just kill you openly.”
“No. But there’s a reason he wants me to read it at a Masque. Tomorrow’s event, despite its high-class crowd, will be dangerous. I’ve been through Albion’s House. There are a lot of shadowy nooks—a lot of places where a killing could take place.” She shivers. Pages from Edgar Allan Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death flutter in from eighth grade—the colored rooms, the chiming clock, the pursuit of Death into the last black chamber.
“I won’t let it happen. I’ll shadow you everywhere you go. I’ll get some kind of weapon.” His sentiment seems outlandish, yet his ferocity provides some comfort.
“Whatever happens,” she says, “He can’t know what it says—and he can’t be allowed to possess it.”
“Maybe Fausto can help,” Marcel says.
“Maybe. But I think we may need Albion and his sort in the end.” Astrid puts her hand on his shoulder, “If you lose me, I’ll find you. Don’t go risking your skin to find me. These people are dangerous. If you lose me, find us a way to escape.”
“Speaking of Fausto, I’ve already had some ideas about that,” he says with a mischievous grin.
There is a knock on Astrid’s door.
“Professor Finnley?” a voice says from outside. “Delivery.”
Astrid opens to see two smartly dressed attendants with two carts. “Albion Ravistelle sends his compliments to both you and Marcel Hruska.” His open palm directs their attention to the hanging garments and boxes stacked on the higher of the two carts. “I bring a wide range of attire—gowns and doublets, cloaks and cowls.” He bows his head. “And from Fausto Boldrin—masks. The most beautiful masks in all the world.” The attendant behind with the other, lower cart then announces, “And I bring breakfast and champagne.”
The Shape of Rain Page 40