But the Shadow didn’t spare a glance for me, or for any of the tourists; he just spoke briefly to the Grey in charge, then turned back to the arch and addressed . . . well, empty air. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a shadow that might or might not be in the shape of a man, but it disappeared as soon as I tried to look directly at it. A ghost, perhaps? The Shadowlord gestured toward the Gate, and I saw the wispy shape move toward the portal. All right, that made sense. Passage between the worlds required precise coordination, and since there was no cell phone service spanning the distance, someone had to carry messages back and forth. And since spirits of the dead were immune to the negative side effects of crossing, they were the obvious candidates. I was witnessing the very service that had made Shadowlords the undisputed masters of the multiverse. Without them, individual worlds like mine were isolated islands in a vast and angry sea, their wealth—raw materials, slave species, children with valuable Gifts—hopelessly out of reach. It was the Gift of the Shadows that allowed Terra Prime to rape all the other worlds of everything from dinosaurs to artwork to infant psychics in their cradles. Whatever other worlds had that was valuable, the Shadows enabled Terra Prime to claim it.
A gentle prod between my shoulder blades nudged me forward. Travelers were queuing up to go through the gate, their order dictated by a Grey reading names from a clipboard, and when my name—my fake name—was called, I took my place in line. I tried not to think about the realm of formless chaos that we were about to enter. This passage would be different than the others; the chaos of between was no threat to me.
But I remembered the terms of the waiver I had signed, and I shuddered.
A new pattern was beginning to take shape in the center of the Gate now, that reminded me of some of my dream designs, and also of the codex that Sebastian had given us, the symbolic map that had helped us find our way home. I concentrated on memorizing its twists and turns so that I could reproduce the pattern later. Then the line of travelers began to move, person after person stepping through the Gate and disappearing into darkness. As each one crossed the threshold, a different person emerged from the arch to take his place, similar to him in size and shape. The exchange was perfectly synchronized, a dance of almost-twins set to the music of the Gate. I knew enough about how portals worked to understand that these people were here to balance our passage, so that the delicate equilibrium of energy required to keep the Gate stable could be maintained. But given that the last such people I’d seen were wheeled across on morgue gurneys, I was startled to see these walking under their own power. I looked back at Seyer, a question in my eyes, but she just smiled that maddening smile of hers and nodded for me to move me forward.
Into the darkness between the worlds.
Passage lasted no more than a split second this time—apparently it was faster when proper procedures were followed—but that brief moment was almost more than I could handle. I understood the nature of the realm we were passing through in a way these other travelers never would, and even a split-second reminder of that formless chaos, and the visceral terror it inspired, was nearly more than I could handle. By the time I stepped out into Terra Prime my whole body was shaking, and after Rita and Seyer came through, we couldn’t get out of the building fast enough for my liking.
Outside there was sunlight: golden-bright, summer-warm, its heat carried to us by fresh mountain breezes. Gradually I relaxed, and my trembling subsided. Seyer arranged for a horse-drawn cab to take us to a nearby train. She’d booked a private cabin for us, she said. The trip to Luray would be long, so it might as well be comfortable. She and Samantha chatted on the way, but it was the kind of small talk that goes in one ear and out the other. Universal custom. I didn’t feel like talking to these people, or to anyone.
When we got to the train an attendant in uniform led us to our cabin, and I sank down gratefully onto one of the thickly padded benches. Now that the horror of the Gate was behind us, the exhaustion of the last few days was catching up with me. How long had it been since I’d had a good night’s sleep? I was so upset by the attack on Devon that sleep was impossible, and the nights before that had been filled with tossing and turning, as fear of the dream-wraith’s return possessed me each time I sank into a dreaming state. Now . . . the leather seats were soft and deep, the rhythm of the train was mesmerizing, and though I didn’t trust Seyer and her people worth a damn, I suspected the dream-wraith wouldn’t visit me while I was in her presence.
I did ask Seyer about the people who’d balanced our crossing. I didn’t expect her to answer, but to my surprise she did, explaining that there were many different ways of managing the exchange, and keeping bodies in stasis so they could be sent across was just one of them. It was more expensive to hire an unending stream of people to make the crossing, but this far from a major population center, harvesting local material was difficult. The big cities were full of people no one cared about, but in a small town, people tended to notice when their neighbors went missing.
Harvest. Material. Bodies in stasis. That’s all the people of my world were to Seyer and her kind. The unGifted had no value save to be used as tools, as commerce, as sport, or as servants. Hell, my world treated dogs better than her world treated people.
With a sigh I leaned back in the seat. My eyes began to slide shut of their own accord, and I lacked the strength—or the desire—to keep them open. I needed to be fresh for my meeting with Morgana, right? Surely it would be far worse to nod off in her presence than to do so now, when I was—in a relative sense, at least—safe.
My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was: God help me if I ever become as callous as these people.
9
SEER GUILDHOUSE IN LURAY
VIRGINIA PRIME
JESSE
IT FELT STRANGE entering the Seers’ estate through the front entrance, like a legitimate visitor. Strange to be waved in by the guards like a visiting dignitary and helped down from our coach by liveried servants who bowed to us, albeit more deeply to Seyer.
Viewed from the front walk (as opposed to my previous experience of peering through a hedge), the Guildhouse seemed twice as imposing as before. On my first visit I’d taken note of the Egyptian frieze over the doorway and statues of Bast, the cat god, flanking the staircase, but now that I was closer I could see just how pervasive that ancient cultural influence was. Decorative carvings surrounding the base of each column might have looked like simple geometric designs to most people, but I recognized them as stylized lotus blossoms, a common Egyptian motif. The sconces flanking the front doors were in the form of papyrus stalks, and a matching pattern was carved into each door. Was there an actual connection between the Guild of Seers and the ancient Egyptians, or had the architect who designed this place just liked the style?
There was one element that wasn’t Egyptian, a geometric symbol etched into a bronze plaque, right over the door. I remembered seeing it on a banner at the fair we’d visited the first time we came to this world. A small circle nestled inside an oblong shape, framed by an equilateral triangle: the sigil of the Guild of Seers. Now that I had a chance to look at it in a calmer setting, without the ruckus of the fair distracting me, it seemed oddly familiar, as if I knew the design from somewhere before. Maybe in my own world? Try though I might, I couldn’t place it.
Inside the building, a shadowy entrance foyer with a high vaulted ceiling offered relief from the summer heat. The polished marble floor was inlaid with an intricate mandala-like pattern, at the center of which the Guild sigil was repeated. Our footsteps echoed eerily in the chamber as we crossed it, like footsteps in a tomb, and an abbie stepped forward to meet us. The small slave hominid was dressed in a loose white shift with a gold-and-silver belt, and her hair had been neatly braided and coiled around her head. She was the first abbie I’d ever seen who was nicely dressed. Maybe her species was treated better here.
Seyer told us, “I’ll need to brief he
r Grace before I introduce you. Meanwhile, Sarai will bring you whatever refreshments you would like.” She indicated the abbie, who bowed her head submissively and did not look up again until Seyer was gone. In truth I was too distracted to care about eating, but the day was hot and a cold drink would be pleasant, so I asked if she had iced tea. Rita said that any cold drink would do. The abbie bowed again, then left us alone in the echo chamber. I don’t think either Rita or I was really thirsty, but I wanted to send the hominid away so we could talk freely.
Suddenly I realized that we’d never heard any of the abbies speak. They’d made animal-like sounds when we spied on them in the woods, but every other time we’d seen them, they were submissively silent. Did they lack the physical capacity for human speech, or had they just decided that silence was the best mode for a slave to operate in? At what point in human evolution did language first appear?
When she was finally gone I looked at Rita. “Does it seem strange to you that Seyer would be briefing Morgana?” I whispered.
She raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Well, she knew for a whole day that would be coming here. Wouldn’t you expect her to have contacted Morgana before this? So everything was prepared for our arrival?” I was turning puzzle pieces over in my mind, trying to see how they all fit together. “But that would have required a messenger, either living or dead . . . and the Shadows control the dead.”
“She could have just sent a normal person with a message.” Rita rolled her eyes slightly. “Assuming anyone could be considered ‘normal’ here.”
“But that messenger would still have to go through a Gate to get to Morgana, and the Shadows control the Gates.” I paused. “Maybe Seyer was afraid they would ask too many questions about her business. Or about us.”
“Jeez, Jesse.” Rita shook her head in mock dismay. “You’re seriously overthinking this stuff.”
“Says the girl who doesn’t have a Gift that people would kill you for,” I pointed out. How did the old saying go? It’s not paranoia if people are really out to get you.
I returned my attention to the pattern at my feet, trying to place where I’d seen it before. I didn’t even hear when the abbie came back, and Rita had to nudge my shoulder to get my attention.
The iced tea was good, if a little too sweet for my taste. Sipping it, I suddenly realized why the pattern looked so familiar. Resting my portfolio against my legs, I handed my drink to Rita, then slid my bag from my shoulder and rummaged inside it. My wallet was in a zippered compartment at the bottom, not easy to open without emptying the whole bag. But eventually my questing fingers found the wallet, and I pulled a single bill out of it. One American dollar. I studied it, turned it over, and felt my heart skip a beat as I saw it. Right there. Just like I’d remembered it.
“What?” Rita demanded. “What is it?”
I held it over the symbol on the floor and invited Rita to compare the two. She did, and her eyes went wide. “Holy crap.”
On the back of the bill was an unfinished pyramid glowing with light, with a human eye above it. If you reduced that image to a simple line drawing, it would look similar to the design on the floor.
No. Not similar. It would look exactly like the design on the floor.
So what did that mean? That the Guild of Seers had designed our currency? My head was spinning from trying to make sense of it all.
Footsteps could be heard now, coming toward us. Probably Seyer returning. I stuffed the bill into my pocket so she wouldn’t see it, shouldered my bag again, and took my drink back from Rita.
All my life I’d disdained conspiracy theorists, especially when they talked about secret organizations that manipulated human history for shadowy purposes. But maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss them. I remembered how easily the Domitor had convinced my family to do what she wanted, in a way that no observer would remark upon. A powerful woman like Morgana, with all the Gifts of this world at her disposal, could easily nudge human history in whatever direction she wanted it to go, and no one would be the wiser. Doubtless there were Shadows and the Greys who could do the same. Psychics and undead and aliens, secretly guiding our world. Maybe the conspiracy junkies weren’t so crazy after all.
Seyer looked calm and collected as she rejoined us; clearly her meeting with Morgana had gone well. She called for the abbie to take away our glasses, and Rita took one last sip before handing hers over. This time I noted that the hominid kept her eyes averted while she interacted with Seyer, though whether that was from fear of her, or simply ritual submission, it was impossible to say.
“Come,” Seyer told us. “Her Grace will see you now.”
The library where Alia Morgana received us was a traditional Victorian style study, with dark wooden bookshelves, thickly upholstered chairs, and a polished mahogany reading table. Positioned between the bookshelves were narrow glass-fronted cabinets that contained mixed assortments of small artifacts, all of which looked ancient. Music was playing softly in the background—something classical—and Rita and I both looked around for speakers, wondering what manner of non-electronic device was broadcasting it. But nothing was visible.
“Beethoven’s Eleventh.” The voice came from behind us: smooth, sophisticated, emotionless. I turned and found myself facing the woman I’d seen with Seyer at the assessment fair. She was still wearing white, and the sculpted curls of her golden hair were arranged around her head like a halo. In the midst of all the dark Victorian wood she glowed with light, like an angel. Or perhaps like something darker, that wanted to pass for an angel.
“A bit reminiscent of the Fourth Symphony,” she continued. “Although I find his later works more mature.”
I had promised myself that no matter what Morgana said or did I wouldn’t act surprised. I knew that I needed to exude confidence if I was going to negotiate with her, and gaping like a backwater rube every time she made some reference to Terra Prime technology was not the way to accomplish that. But for all our talk about visiting parallel worlds, I’d never really considered all the artistic implications of that. What masterpieces might Van Gogh have produced if he hadn’t died young? Or Mozart? Or John Lennon? Somewhere there were worlds where those people had survived. Where they had continued creating works of genius until they died of old age, resulting in a wealth of art and music that my world would never see. Morgana and her kind harvested those works for their private pleasure, while the rest of us were left in the dark. They’re vultures, I thought. Fashionable, well-spoken vultures, feeding off the carrion of other worlds.
Speaking of vultures, there was a tall birdcage in one corner of the room, with a creature inside that was both like and unlike a bird. It had colorful feathers arranged in clusters at the ends of its wings and tail, but the body was lizard-like in shape, and when it squawked at me I saw rows of needle-sharp teeth in its mouth.
“Your Grace.” Seyer bowed her head respectfully to her mistress. “Allow me to introduce Miss Jessica Drake and Miss Rita Morales, of Terra Colonna.”
“Of Terra Prime,” Morgana corrected her gently. “They do acknowledge their birthright, do they not?”
Seyer flushed. “Of course, your Grace. My apologies.”
The Guildmistress smiled at us. Her expression was polished and perfect, and so clearly rehearsed that it lacked even a hint of sincerity. If she’d been holding a knife behind her back and thinking about how to stab us, she probably wouldn’t have looked any different.
“I’m glad to have a chance to finally meet you,” she said, “though I admit, the last thing I expected was for you to return to Terra Prime.” She looked me over as she spoke, and suddenly I felt very exposed. Was she able to read my thoughts? My emotions? What did a Seer’s Gift do, exactly?
She noted the portfolio tucked under my arm. “I understand you have something for me?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said to Morgana, “the price for this painting includes an audience with her Grace, then safe passage home for both of us. Safe passage. You agreed to that, right?”
It was Seyer who responded. “Her Grace is aware of the terms of our bargain,” she said acidly. “All the conditions we discussed will be honored.”
Rita continued staring at Morgana; clearly Seyer’s assurance was not enough for her. After a moment Morgana chuckled softly and said, “All your terms are acceptable, Miss Morales. I shall see you delivered home like royalty.”
Rita let go of my arm. I unzipped the portfolio and spread it open on the table so that my painting was exposed. As I stood back and tried to see my work through Morgana’s eyes, I realized that the bright colors that had seemed so harmonious at the brightly lit mill looked a bit garish in this dark setting. But that was okay; the goal had been to create a work rich in meaning, not subtlety.
Morgana studied the painting in silence for a minute and then reached out to touch it. When her finger made contact with the canvas I felt a faint cold prickling along my skin, as if she were touching me instead of my work. As she ran her fingers along the ridges of my paint strokes I had to fight the urge to cross my arms in front of my body, to cover myself.
“Not as complex as some of your earlier work,” she murmured. Finally her hand fell away from the piece. “The emotional energy is a bit . . . erratic. Had you devoted more time to it, the resonance probably would have been more stable. But the composition is interesting.”
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