The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  Charles stepped forward and took Timothy by the shoulders, curling his fingers against the edges of the veil. “I will find them, Timothy. I will find every last piece, and I will bring them to you.”

  “I do not want them!” Timothy cried. “I do not want them anymore! I hate them!” His face twisted with fury. “Magic! Magic and mystics—foolishness! I have seen them, and they are everything I hate! The good ones are fools. The bad ones—” He broke off, and his expression was so pained it broke Charles’s heart. “I am a monster, Charles. I am not what you think I am. If you knew me, if you knew the parts of me I can see, of what I have become, of what I must be to be alive again—” He let his head fall forward, his shoulders rounding in defeat.

  Charles kissed the top of his head, then let go of one shoulder and pushed his face back up. “I will find them, Timothy, and I will love them, and I will bring them home to you. I will love them no matter what they are or what they have done. I will love them, because they are you, and by our love I will reconcile you each to one another. I will bring you back to yourself, and I will rend each layer of the veil that binds you, and I will set you free.” He stroked Timothy’s cheek, feeling the membrane shiver beneath his touch. “I came back to life to be with you, beloved. There is no life for me any other way.”

  “I am afraid,” Timothy whispered. “I cannot bear to wait for you again.”

  Charles fingered the edge of the veil, measuring the thickness between his fingers. The vision of his dream came back again, the nightmare he had relived for Smith so many times, but here, now, he saw it for what it was. He saw the woman running through the garden, the children he had made with her nipping at her heels, and he knew it was not the past he saw but the future. The garden was the place where they would live one day, together. He had seen it. It was true. And one day it would be.

  But not this day. He had to face the wraiths again. And again. And he had to hunt her, hunt Timothy. Again.

  He felt a veil, thin as gossamer, but it was layered, and he fumbled through three, four, five times—every one he lifted, there was another. He was just beginning to despair, and then, suddenly, when the seventh was brushed aside, there were no more.

  “Seven.” Charles rubbed the silken barrier again between his fingers and stared at it. “There are seven veils between us.” He looked at Timothy. “Seven times I will pursue you and lose you. This is the first.” He tugged hard, and Timothy gasped, withdrawing, but when Charles lifted his hand, a thin shred of membrane remained, and he smiled. “Now there are only six.”

  Timothy began to back away, flickering between the Catalian concubine and the dark-haired woman as he moved. Charles could see the war within him now, could see more clearly for the loss of the first veil. The Lady was lost and afraid. She wanted him, and she wanted him to find her, but she was afraid. She would run. She would not stay with him until he pulled the last barrier away, and she would make each one more impossible to reach than the last.

  But he could see Timothy now too. Timothy, who wanted to stay.

  “You have life,” Charles said to him—to her, to them both—gently, but then his voice broke, and his words were raw and vulnerable and aching. “You are my Timothy, Lady, and I love you.”

  The flickering stopped. Timothy appeared and clutched his arms across his chest.

  “Oh, Charles,” he whispered. “Charles, I feel so strange!” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “She is trying to make me run. I don’t want to run, not from you! But I can’t—I can’t—” He opened his eyes again, and they were full of pain.

  Charles’s heart was breaking, but he did not move forward lest he scare them away. “I will find you,” he whispered back. “I will find you, and you will run away again, but I will keep coming. I will wander the earth, and I will find your shards, and I will find you, and I will claim each veil until they are gone. And then you will see, beloved, that you can trust me. That you can trust yourself. And then we will be together. Forever.”

  “You ran from me before.” Timothy was starting to shake. It was clear he was fighting very hard to stay where he was. “You ran from me before, when I was only part of myself. Every time I reached for you, you ran. You would not let me help you. I had to fight simply to stay beside you!”

  “I wasn’t whole yet, and I was afraid,” Charles replied, but as soon as he spoke the words, he knew they were the wrong ones. “For you, beloved—I feared what I would to do you!”

  But this was even worse. “Ah!” Timothy held up a hand and backed farther away. “Ah, you see? You knew you were dangerous—and you were shattered, only a fraction of what I am!”

  “I thought I was dangerous!” Charles shot back. “Do not throw my own weakness back at me, Timothy! I am not weak anymore!”

  “But you will be. You will fall back to earth as you are, and fall you must, but you will forget. It will be too much for your human mind to bear, and most of this, even this conversation, all your devotion, you will forget. It will be an ache for a while, but then it will fade, and you will find a new life. And you will be safe, away from me.” Timothy’s eyes were glistening with tears, but they fell no longer, and his face hardened as he shook his head. “Charles, my shards are dangerous, especially to you. They can kill you. Nothing else on earth can kill you, but they can. You must be careful—that much, I beg of you, to remember. And the androghenie… Mathdu, Charles, you will restore them when you go back, and you must or they will be even worse, but though you will save them, they will be a danger too. There are so many ways, so many ways for you to fail—a’, ghr’a! Quiera, non, it is too much! Do not seek me!” He was breathing hard now, and his expression was angry. “No! I will not let you seek me. I will not let you find me.” Timothy lifted his head and looked all the way into Charles’s soul. “I love you, quiera. I will love you forever.”

  “No!” Charles cried, reaching for him. “No, Timothy, no!”

  But Timothy had already turned away. A silver door appeared behind him, and he stepped inside it. Charles followed him, shouting, calling him, begging him, trying to catch him, but even as he did this, he knew it was too late. The door shimmered and vanished as he reached it, and he stood there in the darkness once again, alone. He looked down at the shredded veil in his hand, so soft, so light, and yet so heavy. He clutched it to his chest, holding it tightly, letting it catch his tears.

  “I will find you,” he whispered. “I will find you, beloved. And after the seventh veil, you will not fear me or yourself anymore.”

  Charles Elliott Perry, Lord of all Creation, lifted the shredded remains of his lover’s veil to his lips and kissed it. Then he pressed it to his heart, shut his eyes, and fell, weeping, back to earth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ê’gir Shiral’a

  The Seven Veils

  One is the root, the spark of life.

  In two the self knows sex and strife.

  Three is ego, the thirst for power.

  Four is the heart, where love may flower.

  Five has a mouth; here seeds are sown.

  Six is the eye, where all is known.

  And seven is the crown, where love comes home.

  Far below, in a different darkness, Emily Elliott moved slowly away from the shining edges of the closed door and turned into Stephen’s waiting arms. They stood there for a long time, holding one another, but soon Emily pushed gently against him, and he let her go. The light from the edges of the door began to swell, and they saw, at last, that they were not alone. The ghosts were everywhere around them, but they did not glow. They were thin and pale and gaunt, and they stared at the sparkling door with dead and haunted eyes.

  “Mother,” one of them whispered. There was pain in the word, and it whispered throughout the great underground chamber, over and over again until it was a wave. They were weeping, Emily realized, but they had nothing left in them with which to grieve. They could only say her name.

  Then as one they turned to Emily. “Mot
her,” they said again.

  For a moment, Emily faltered. Like the wind, the power filled her, moved through her. It stunned her both by the force of it and the knowledge of what her receiving it meant. Gone. Timothy was gone. The Lady, the Goddess, was gone.

  Emily turned to Stephen, confused and terrified, but even as she turned to him, she realized he could not help her. No one, not he, not anyone, could help her with this. She shut her eyes and let the strange sorrow fill her, the pain of knowledge, of loss, as the myths she had known all her life blew away like leaves in the wind. For Emily saw: she saw everything. She saw the “garden,” which was no garden at all but vast, empty darkness. She felt the weight, which was not the pleasant rustle of skirts in her vision but the weight of earth. She felt the power, the hugeness of it, but she saw that it was not a freedom but a prison. All the power in the universe centered in her breast, but she was helpless to access it or to use it. Not without shattering. Not without cost. Emily fell to her knees, clutching her chest. So heavy! And so lonely—oh so, so lonely! Like Charles, she saw the womb of Life, but she saw it from the inside, and it was not a wonder but a jail. Her jail. And inside it she would wait…and wait…and wait.

  “Mother,” the androghenie cried again, their voices plaintive, pleading. “Mother, we are afraid!”

  Emily shut her eyes tight, and if she had possessed the strength to lift her hands, she would have covered her ears. Oh, and this! The prayers! “Goddess save me.” “Goddess bless.” “Please, Lady, spare my child.” “Lady, bless my crops.” Endless! Endless, endless pleas, most of them no more than whining, but she was bound, despite her sorrow, despite her pain, to answer every one. Every. One. Some would give her offerings, but most would not. But nothing would matter, because she was always alone. Always, forever alone.

  And these. These before her, her own children. She had given them life like no other. She had given them him! And they had repaid her with his death. Oh, them! She loved them, yes, because she was their mother.

  But she hated them too. Oh, she hated them most of all.

  So lonely. The androghenie continued to whine, to plead and cry, and Emily’s hands remained heavy, and she heard them all, and she began to weep too. So lonely. I never knew the Goddess was so lonely.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and it was like a ripple on the water; it caught the tide of her misery and sent it out, freeing her just a little, but it was enough. The vision of the Goddess faded, and Emily looked up at Stephen, who was full of love and question and concern.

  And she saw the great god bend down to the womb, his spirit so bright and shining, so strong against the darkness that held her still and quiet and alone, and she opened to him—

  Emily let out a shuddered breath, then fought against the weight and reached up to catch Stephen’s hand. She let him help her rise, and she clung to him, using his strength to buoy her, letting it ground her and free her as it also helped her find the words to speak.

  She turned to the androghenie. “I am not your mother. But I am here for you in her place until she can return.”

  “We are so cold, Mother,” the ghosts whispered. First one, then the others. Over and over again.

  Emily shivered as she felt the power rising inside her again, building higher. It was great, and it was terrible. It was so strong, so huge, and with it, with Stephen at her side, supporting her, she could do anything. And yet still, it was so heavy. It seemed such work only to move. She knew everything, everyone, everything—she saw Charles and Timothy at the Veil, saw the Lord and the Lady, saw them become the Lord and the Lady, and as the locum, she felt herself become more as well…

  She saw Timothy go, running through the door, and pain shot through her heart as she realized he did not intend, now or ever, to return. She saw the shards, and she felt their confusion and their pain, and she felt them rising.

  Emily felt the power of Death biting hard and sharp inside her.

  “I can give you death to end your suffering,” Emily said to the androghenie, “but you must then submit to the Lord when he returns and let him give you life. And this time you must not fear his gift.”

  “We understand,” they said as one. “We have learned there are greater miseries than the suffering and pain of life.”

  “There are greater joys as well,” Emily said. “You would do well to carry that lesson with you.”

  “We carry it, Mother.”

  But they still looked afraid as they drifted toward Emily. They looked like children, but children starved and hollowed out.

  “Do not be afraid,” Emily told them. But she added only to herself, Oh, be afraid. Be afraid of the shards of the Goddess if they find you.

  “We are afraid,” they said. “We do not like what we have become, but we are still afraid of life. They will hurt us. We are afraid to go.”

  It was beginning to overwhelm Emily. The words came so easily, and the Lady kept trying to overtake her, but beneath it all she was still Emily, still the bastard girl who lived on the moor and who had fallen prey too many times to her soft and tender heart. She felt the fire of what had been lent to her, but she felt herself as well. And in the face of the androghenie, her own heart overrode the other, and she did not know what to do.

  Stephen squeezed her hand. “Let them come to us,” he said. “Let them come to us here if they are frightened.” She turned and looked at him. His red hair was glowing in the strange light, and he did not look any different than he ever had. And yet there was a change in him too. Something deeper. Something stronger.

  He smiled sheepishly. “We could stay here and wait for them. We won’t let them hide, but we can give them a garden again. A place to rest.”

  Emily looked out at the androghenie. “They were given this before, and they imprisoned the Lord and Lady.” She felt a trickle of cold fear as she added, “That would be us now.”

  But Stephen is only a consort, a dark voice whispered. He will pass away with time. You, Lady, will go on in the darkness forever.

  “I don’t think they will do that this time.” Stephen was almost cheerful, and there was no censure in his face as he looked at the wraiths, only love. “I would like to help them.”

  And will they take him too, as they took the other? Emily shut her eyes and turned her head away.

  The ground around them began to shake.

  “It is time,” the children said. “The Lord comes.” They turned to Emily with hollow eyes pleading. “Please, Mother. Give us death, so he may give us life.”

  Stephen took her hand. Emily felt the darkness of Death rise within her, felt the bitter bile coat her throat and rise out of the top of her head. She gasped, then lost her breath as she heard the beating of heavy wings, and for a moment she felt herself pass into a shade and spread far and wide over the vast underground chamber.

  In the span of her quiet heartbeat, ten thousand souls passed through.

  She came back to her body in a rush, gasping, falling against Stephen, who looked a little ill. But he said nothing, only took her hand and led her on through the darkness, away from the glowing door.

  “Hurry,” he said, pulling her faster. “We must leave this place and go back above the ground.”

  Emily followed, still half possessed by the vision of darkness, and she could not speak; she could, in fact, barely walk, but she stumbled on behind him anyway. She didn’t know how he knew the way out, or if he even did. All she knew was that one moment they were running through the darkness, and the next they were running through the halls, then out the front door and out, finally, into the light.

  The abbey was falling down, tumbling in great lumps of stone to the earth, all but the tower, which stood fast. The ground was shaking, making even the trees tremble. But though debris and dust fell all around them, none of it touched Emily or Stephen. For a moment they watched, simply stunned by the destruction coming down around them.

  Then the fire began building anew in Emily, but it was a different sensat
ion this time. She felt her blood begin to hum, and her spirit begin to rise. She held fast to Stephen’s hand, because as the energy built inside her, she felt herself rising quite literally from the ground. Stephen came with her, his eyes wide, but he said nothing as he floated beside her into the air.

  “Fire.”

  The word erupted from her, and as she said it, fire appeared. The trees, the rocks, the earth itself became a roaring blaze, heat swelling around them, pushing them up higher and higher on the wind it made.

  Stephen held tightly to her hand.

  “Water.”

  Behind them on the moor, the haunted lake began to rise. It rose like a cloud and rolled over the moor like a wave, but it did not touch the ground, not until it came to the abbey. There it split, rising into the sky as a cloud and falling as a great, soaking rain as the rest of it rushed across the scorched and ruptured earth.

  “Air.”

  The wind rushed around them, whipping through the trees, streaking across the last of the fire. Only one blaze remained, burning deep and bright in the center of the place where the abbey had been. Emily watched it now as it burst back into life, this time glowing a strange, beautiful blue-green. It raced across the floor and up the ruined walls, across the melted abbey stone and up, up, up into the air, racing higher and higher until the entirety of the remaining abbey was caught up in the brilliant flame. Emily lifted her hands higher, and Stephen joined her, and together they felt the rush of joy as they saw something bright and shining streaking slowly across the sky.