Ezra wove a path through the throng of families and schoolchildren, hesitating only to admire the mummies of ancient Egypt and the Rosetta Stone. Not far from this, a nostalgia-inducing display of Ottoman relics urged him closer.
Ezra sighed and leaned against the exhibit’s brass railing. The cacophony of visitors had softened, bathing him in sweet serenity. Every sketch of the Hagia Sophia, every piece of pottery and tools of Turkish origin sparked an aching desire to return home.
To where it all began.
His eyes skimmed across a painting of the Shahmaran, prompting a flutter in his heart.
That hadn’t been there before.
Had it?
Eyes widening, Ezra shifted his attention to the picture beside it and gripped the railing lest he fall over in shock. There, as vivid as the morning sun: A glossy photograph of a cavern held up by rocky pillars.
The world of his dreams.
A low hum simmered in his ears, luring him away from the discovery. Annoyed, Ezra shook his head, hoping the motion would rid him of the sound. But no matter how much he rubbed his ears, no matter how hard he tried to redirect his focus, it continued. Relentless and aching.
Unsteady feet guided him in his search for a place to sit down, even for a moment. He had to rest. He had to get a hold of himself before he went completely mad. Ezra stumbled to a bench and bent forward, grasping at his hair.
What was going on?
Prickling white sparks ate away at the scene around him, leaving him grappling for consciousness.
The adhan echoed across the courtyard.
Gripping Ezra’s young hand in his, Ibrahim pulled him along in his sprint toward the mosque.
“Come, canım,” he said. “The Call to Prayer has begun.”
But five-year-old Ezra’s attention was everywhere but his father. Or prayer, for that matter. Instead, his eyes traced the grand heights of the Hagia Sophia’s minarets, its layered domes, and the way the entire edifice sparkled in the midday summer sun.
“Baba, I don’t want to go inside,” young Ezra complained. He dragged his feet in retaliation. “I want to stay out here.”
When they reached the entry, Ibrahim knelt to Ezra’s level and held him firmly by the shoulders. “If you stay, you must not move from this spot,” he instructed, gesturing inside the threshold of the sacred building. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Baba,” Ezra answered.
“Good boy.” He ruffled Ezra’s hair before disappearing inside.
For what seemed like an eternity, Ezra kept his promise. But restlessness was a difficult beast to tame, and he found himself on a trek across the courtyard. He chased every whim: first a songbird, then a blowing newspaper on the breeze, and next a stray cat.
“Come here, kitty,” Ezra commanded. His little voice hadn’t the power to instill obedience in the animal, so he dashed after it. “Kitty! Stop!”
The lithe creature raced over the cobblestones with young Ezra in pursuit. After bounding over barriers and zigzagging through a quaint garden, Ezra stood face to face with a sign he couldn’t read and a shack that appeared all too inviting.
Ezra snuck a glance over his shoulder at the mosque. Satisfied with the reassuring proximity of the building, he pried open the wooden door and descended into darkness.
A faint, purple glow lured him further along the rocky corridors. Damp, stale air made him scrunch up his nose in disgust; he’d never been one for peculiar smells. Or snakes. He prayed to Allah that he would not stumble across one.
The cat had long since vanished, but Ezra’s sense of adventure grew with every step into the unknown. It was not long before the corridor gave way to a world of wonder.
Ezra gasped. Colossal pillars extended as far as his eyes could see, illuminated by the source of the mysterious light. He found himself wading through knee-high water, disregarding the bitter chill.
Veering to the left, young Ezra examined a curious pillar, this one boasting a base unlike any other. He cocked his head sideways, giggling when he realised the pillar had been propped upon the stone likeness of a woman with snakes for hair.
“Merhaba, snake lady,” Ezra said in Turkish, running his fingers over the contours of the carving.
Hello, sweet boy.
A fierce tremble beneath his feet sent ripples through the water. He clutched the stone, wondering if the whole cave were about to collapse. Rocks fell from the arches in the ceiling and plunked into the water all around him. Fear seized his heart. Perhaps Allah did not want him to be here. Perhaps he was angry at his disobedience.
The world around him shuddered and groaned. Terrified, young Ezra trudged through the water toward the corridor but before he could make it, a boulder crashed down upon him.
He cried out in pain and fought to keep his head above water. No matter how furiously he pulled at his leg, all attempts at freeing himself from the boulder became more impossible by the second.
“Baba!” Ezra screamed. He sputtered on a mouthful of water. “Baba, help me!”
Almost as soon as it had begun, the shaking stopped. The water had become unbearably cold and still. Somewhere above the surface, sirens blared. Voices yelled. Terror reigned.
Not knowing what else to do, Ezra sobbed. Through the veil of tears, an amethyst glimmer sparkled in the Snake Lady’s eyes. A deep, throbbing pulsation caressed the atmosphere, lulling him to sleep.
He was only half conscious when they found him. Murmurs of conversation swirled about in his ears, but he couldn’t make sense of any of it.
“Ezra! My son! I am here.”
“Is the boy all right?”
“He is hurt, but he is alive. Praise be to Allah!”
“What was he doing in the cisterns?”
“That does not matter now. All that matters is that he is safe.”
“Unlike so many others. We’ve heard reports that many are dead because of that quake.”
Silence. Blackness. But this time, a woman’s voice rose from the depths, words tripping over one another in chaotic urgency:
“Sweet boy, you have survived more daunting things than this. You can do it again.”
“It is amazing how time erases even the most vivid things.”
“I think you already know the truth.”
“I am not a memory. I am an illusion.”
An illusion.
Ezra’s eyes snapped open. A wave of goosebumps washed over his clammy skin. Once the roaring in his ears had faded to a more manageable level, he bolted from the exhibit hall, sprinted down the staff corridor, and burst through the doors of the museum storage room.
“The Basilica Cisterns!” he yelled.
The Irish Chapter collectively halted their packing and stared at him in alarm.
“Er—what?” Oliver croaked in uncertainty.
Without answering, Ezra approached his father and grasped his shoulders. “The Basilica Cisterns. The 1894 Constantinople earthquake,” he explained, breathless and eager. “You were there; you must have seen it.”
“What are you talking about, son?” Ibrahim responded.
“I was five years old,” Ezra replied. “You found me in the cisterns near the Hagia Sophia after the quake. Don’t you remember?”
Reminiscence swam in his father’s eyes. “I do, canım. But what does that have to do with—”
“The Tablet of Destinies is there.”
Everyone froze in stunned silence.
“Are—are you certain?” Jonas managed.
“Call it an educated hunch,” Ezra answered the Magi Master. “Baba, tell me everything you remember from that day.”
“Well, I—” Ibrahim began. He exhaled and put a hand to his forehead. “I remember the heaviness of guilt for allowing you to traipse around by yourself.”
“Besides that.”
“It had to have been an hour after the earthquake when Taylan, a few men from the mosque, and I found you,” said Ibrahim. “I remember wondering how you found your way into t
he cisterns and our incredible luck locating you when we did.”
“How did you find me?” Ezra wondered.
“I want to say it was a miracle from Allah, but—”
“What does your subconscious say?”
Jonas flashed an approving grin at Ezra.
Ibrahim frowned and closed his eyes, searching his memories. “I remember a humming noise. The closer we got, the louder it became. The instinct to follow it was overwhelming. It must have drawn me to you.”
“I heard it, too,” Ezra confirmed. “What else?”
“To this day, I’ve wondered where the light came from,” his father replied. “There was no electricity in the cisterns at that time, and I don’t recall seeing any lanterns or torches.”
Ezra nodded. “And the eyes?”
“Oh, Lord,” Miss McLarney gasped. “The eyes of Medusa.”
Ibrahim met her gaze.
“I saw that in your memories,” she explained. “But I thought it was a trick of the light, or—”
“An illusion,” Ezra finished for her. “I believe the artifact is in that pillar.”
“But what if it ain’t?” Zaire broke in. “What if all those things have a scientific explanation?”
“All I know is that something of immense power resides in that cistern,” Ezra responded. “Something that can generate light and sound. Something that can disrupt the atmosphere, much like what the Celestial Lifeforce can do. Something that could possibly distort memories. And if it is not the Tablet of Destinies, perhaps it’s something even stronger.”
Possibility stirred beneath the expressions in his company. Sideways glances communicated conflicting emotions of fear and hope. Of foreboding and opportunity.
“And you’re confident in this, Ezra?” asked Jonas, placing his hands in his trouser pockets.
In his mind’s eye, Ezra pictured a smile edging over the weary face of the Shahmaran. He had never been so sure of something in his entire life.
“Someone wise once told me to never discredit my intuition,” Ezra remarked, recalling his first meeting with the Magi Master. “And in this moment, my defences have never felt so strong.”
Jonas returned his eager assurance with a twinkle in his eyes. “Very well. Tomorrow morning, we shall be en route to Constantinople.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
An Altered Course
Jonas thought it ironic that to secure an artifact of historical wonder, they had to leave the very place that housed thousands of them.
After issuing warm-hearted thanks to Edison for his hospitality, Jonas and the Irish Chapter—along with the Newports—left London behind. The dreary skies had given way to rare April sunshine, which lightened the mood of his traveling companions. Despite this, his nerves still prickled when he reviewed the scenario in his mind.
The plan was straightforward enough: Now that they had a strong inkling of the Tablet’s location, they would retrieve it from the Basilica Cisterns and deliver it to the Magi Administration, where it could be placed in the Council’s hands for safekeeping. It sounded so simple. So effortless. But the gravity of his heart spoke where words could not.
Of course, the Administration’s disapproval on the bold approach weighed on his mind, but they were racing against time and tragedy. As long as Edison stayed quiet about their travel plans, as long as Diederik and Symon did not force the information out of him, their quest would succeed. The Magi would prevail. At this point, they had to.
With every transfer, the bustle of passengers and frequent exchange of boarding passes distracted Jonas from even the simplest things. He could not remember the last time he ate. Several times, he almost left his luggage on the train. If it had not been for Mum and Kierra keeping tabs on everyone and their belongings, he would have been lost to the whims of his mind.
While waiting to board in Brussels, Jonas looked on as Aja, Oliver, Zaire, and Ezra played a round of cards over the platform tile. Kierra had buried her attention in her book again, and Ibrahim and Annabelle chatted about his former life in Constantinople. After a quick headcount, Jonas’ heart fluttered when he realised they were missing one.
Diego.
“Have any of you seen Diego?” Jonas asked.
“Darling, he just told you he was going to the station’s telegraph office,” Mum answered. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, fine,” said Jonas hastily. “Why the devil does he need to do that?”
“Oh, you know,” Aja said with a wink. “Young love.” The way she drew out the vowels grated on his nerves.
“Good Lord,” Jonas grumbled. “How many telegrams has he sent to Stella since we left London?”
“Why is it any of your business?” Kierra asked from behind the pages of her novel.
Jonas scoffed and found interest in examining his pocket watch.
For some reason, Zaire thought it appropriate to chuckle at his perturbation. “Well, I think he’s going on three telegrams now?”
“One in London, one in Dunkirk, now here,” Oliver listed off, jabbing his cards in the air for dramatic effect. “Oh wait! And Dover, too. That makes four.”
When Diego reappeared, Jonas avoided eye contact at all costs. He bit his tongue, holding back the words he so desperately wished to release. Words of disdain for Diego’s flippant stance on their situation. Words of caution, to not be traipsing around the station alone with a head injury. Words tinged in bitterness. Begrudging, pharisaic words.
Curse love. And curse the dreadful repercussions of it.
Thankfully, the train whistle cut through the absolute monstrosity of his inner dialogue. The conductor’s call over the station loudspeaker had never sounded so inviting.
AFTER SEVERAL EXHAUSTING days of non-stop clacking of the train rattling his ear drums, Jonas lost himself in a daze of ever-changing scenery. From France to Belgium and Germany to Austria, their surroundings transformed before his eyes. Flowers and wild pasture grasses waved in the wind, mountains rose to glorious heights from sky blue lakes, and quaint European towns dotted the countryside in flecks of luminance and painted colour. But his surroundings could only deter his thoughts for so long.
As they got closer to Constantinople, disguising the inconceivable dread in his expressions became more difficult than ever. He knew the others felt it, too, but at least they were more tactful in hiding it. Kierra, especially. He envied how she took everything life threw at her with such grace and composure. Curious creatures, Cancerians.
Even frivolous distractions morphed into fodder for his anxiety. Every newspaper article transfigured into visions of what could become of the world if Diederik got his hands on the artifact. Every morsel of food seemed slimy and tasteless, slithering down his oesophagus like sludge. And whenever he’d skim a razor over his face for a much-needed trim, he could not go long without acknowledging the man in the dust-streaked mirror. He shared the same trembling fingers as the boy beaten by his father. The same eyes as the grief-stricken adolescent who fled Amsterdam. The same frown as the young man who hid in the shadows, hoping he’d never have to face his father ever again.
While fire was his specialty, the flame he fooled with would not be tamed so easily. If Diederik caught on to them, then—
Then what?
Exhaling, Jonas placed the razor on the sink’s edge and patted his face with a towel. He kept his sight trained on his reflection, clenching his jaw in defiance.
If Diederik catches on to what we know about the Tablet of Destinies, I will stand up to the despicable human that he is, Jonas thought to himself, confident and sure. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, he killed Felix. But I will go to hell and back before he kills our chances.
This was going to work.
Chapter Fifty
My Story Without You
Later that evening, after transferring to their final train bound for Constantinople, the weary crew retired to their appointed rooms. Diego found himself a soldier in a fruitless battle for comfort with his bunk ma
ttress. Every tick of his pocket watch sharpened his already electrified senses. Even the slightest movements sent bolts of pain tearing through his body. Running low on patience and medical ammunition, he decided to abandon sleep altogether.
Pocketing a pamphlet he had nicked from the British Museum, Diego tiptoed down the narrow corridor toward the outlook carriage. Ever since his mental escapade through Africa, Annabelle warned him not to push his luck again with his abilities. If he could not adventure through his dreams or through Time, then perhaps he could allow his mind to wander through the promise of learning instead.
Just as Diego manoeuvred through the sliding doorway of the carriage, he collided with Jonas.
“AHH!” Diego’s exclamation prompted stern looks from a band of grumpy gentlemen playing cards. He tried again, this time in a strained whisper. “Santa Madre de Dios, Jonas! That hurt!”
“Good God, I am so sorry,” Jonas apologised, ushering Diego to an empty seat. “Are you all right?”
Diego gritted his teeth and braced himself against the cushion. “I will be. Give me five minutes.” He closed his eyes and allowed the scent of Jonas’ after shave to tantalise his nostrils.
And his fancy.
Jonas frowned. “Did you take your medicine this evening?”
“Who are you, the Medicine Gendarmerie?” Diego groaned, not even bothering to open his eyes. “You try drinking that stuff. It is awful.” When the rumble of the locomotive served as the only response, Diego cracked open an eyelid to witness a smile had exploded across Jonas’ face.
“It’s refreshing to see your sarcastic spirit has returned.”
Diego flashed a sly grin. “You missed it, didn’t you?”
“One could say that.”
“One could also ask what you are doing up, aimlessly roaming a passenger train?”
“I could not sleep.” Jonas’ tired eyes, laced with red, wandered the carriage’s elegant interior, across the sconces, velvet curtains, and intricately carved woodwork. “I cannot seem to silence my brain.”
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