Quain moved forward. “Where is it?”
“Where is what, Quain?” Adalbert said. “Do sit down.”
Ignoring him, Quain moved even closer. “You don’t have the plaque here. And how stupid of you to divert me. Never mind. I have time now that I’ve managed to dispose of your second team, no better than the first you sent after me. Quite practically, I’ll kill you and move to the plaque’s true location.”
“Oh, my boy. You’ve arrived at the correct place. It most certainly is here,” Adalbert said.
Quain laughed, the sound strained and hoarse. “Don’t think me a fool! If it were, where are all the spells? The guards? All your loyal people? How could I have come without cracking through a hundred curses?”
Miranda hugged herself, watching Quain closely. His mind was whirring, ideas flowing in his head, thoughts hissing like steam even at the edges where she hovered.
“You are being rather rude,” Adalbert said. “Do you want to introduce your guest?”
“Silence, old man!” Quain roared, moving closer, his arms wide. “Don’t condescend to me. Where is the plaque?”
Adalbert held open his palms and shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Alas, I’m afraid I can’t quite divulge that information.”
With a shudder, Quain released a sound, a movement that Miranda could only liken to a sonic boom. She felt it in her feet first, the waves moving up her body, into her chest, throat, head. She felt all her organs, her blood, her bones seem to split apart atom by atom. Miranda could feel herself pulling away from herself, the only thing holding her together something thick in the middle of her, something elastic, and she closed her eyes, focused on that. And there was something else, something giving her strength from outside, something holding her skin together like a gentle hand.
As the entire house shook, frames and pictures dropped to the floor, glass in the kitchen cracked and splintered on the tile, and the thick, ancient walls rumbled and groaned. On the floor, the dog howled.
Shaken and tossed at the same time, Miranda was thrown back hard against the wall and then thudded to the wood floor, her tendril of thought near Quain’s mind tearing away. Adalbert fell with a moan, and she breathed in, wanting to help him.
Quain leaned over Adalbert and then roared, shaking the room again. Again, Miranda felt as though her body were being pummeled from the inside out, her heart and stomach ready to punch out of her body. But then the room stilled, and she tried to find her breath.
“You may be old,” he said to Adalbert. “But your mind is strong. I’ll tear into you and get what I need.”
But instead of hurting Adalbert, Quain paced, talking to himself. Exhausted, Miranda stayed sitting on the floor, but brought her tendril of thought back to his mind, resting on the edges, cringing at the hate and anger inside the man. If he was still a man. Something about him seemed metallic, hard, cold, as if his soul had been converted to lead by the alchemy of revenge.
Slowly, she moved the tendril in, letting it slip through his thoughts. But she was scared, knowing what had happened when she’d gone too far into Kallisto. The last thing she wanted was to be trapped in Quain’s mind, following him around forever, swirling in his hate and fear and ugliness.
But she had to. For Sariel. For her fallen angel on the floor of the Fortress Kendall. For him, she would do all that she hadn’t been able to do in her life. Here, with her new magic, she would create something good before she died. Something that would last longer than words.
You are brave, came Adalbert’s thought. And you will succeed. Keep going, and I will help you.
Not wanting to attract Quain’s attention, Miranda didn’t answer Adalbert, but moved on, past Quain’s wild diatribes, searching for the place to unload the pictures and thoughts and feelings about Hadrian.
Adalbert struggled to his feet, smoothing his robe. “The truth is, Quain, that I will never tell you where the plaque is. You could shake this whole house down to stone and mortar and dust, but I wouldn’t tell.”
Miranda gasped, Quain’s hate flushing red and black in his mind. She lost her place in his thoughts, almost pulled out, but then felt something strong guiding her, holding her firm.
“You will tell me!” Quain yelled. “Now!”
“Now is a good time,” Adalbert said, and Miranda heard it from Quain’s ear.
Breathing in, she opened her mind, flooded Quain’s with all that Sariel had given her. First there was a portrait of Hadrian, so exactly like Sariel, his long black hair tied behind his neck, his dark eyes full of love for the person who took the photo. Zosime. Then there was Hadrian with his three boys, teaching them how to conjure matter, the four of them laughing as they moved through the gray. There was Hadrian kissing Zosime, holding her close, telling her that he loved her as Quain stood in the next room.
“Does he have to stay?” Zosime was saying, her voice an irritated whisper.
Hadrian shrugged. “I can’t just send him home. But I’ll figure a way to get rid of him. Don’t worry. He’s not going to be my partner for that much longer. Adalbert’s promised.”
Quick flashes of story pressed through Miranda into Quain: Hadrian’s irritation over the way Quain dealt with a prisoner. A secret meeting with the Council about Quain’s methods of punishment. A dinner party, where no one wanted to listen to his stories. Zosime and Hadrian leaving a meeting early to avoid Quain altogether.
No, Quain thought.
Yes, Miranda thought back, giving him more. Retold stories of Hadrian’s youth, the girls he kept secret from Quain so Quain wouldn’t scare them away. Meeting Zosime and disappearing, wanting to avoid Quain. Miranda left him the feelings: guilt, annoyance, irritation, anger, despair, and finally boredom.
Quain howled, twisting his head. You lie!
No, she said, and she began to pull out, away, but then she knew something was wrong. The firm guidance she’d felt from Adalbert disappeared. She felt heavy, stuck, the same way she’d felt in Kallisto’s mind. All around her, Quain’s reactions and thoughts swirled, pressing her closer and closer to his center, his dark, nasty center, black and full of greed and fear and violence.
Say you lie!
No, she thought weakly. She couldn’t leave, and she wouldn’t. Miranda knew that everything that had been important to Sariel was dependent on her staying, giving Quain these thoughts. So she repeated them, and even though they now came from her slowly, she felt Quain’s renewed anger.
With her last bit of energy, she thought some more, letting out the final images, the last words Hadrian said, retold to Zosime by Laelia.
“I love her,” Hadrian had said, gripping Laelia’s arm as she knelt over him on the metro track. “Tell her that. Tell the boys. I love nothing as I love them all.”
Quain moaned, his No the sound of a train whistle in a long dark tunnel. But Miranda held on, thinking. She thought through the sound of something coming into the room, a whack and whir of magic. She thought through the sound of three strong male voices crying out together, “Cesser!”
Miranda thought as she imagined that Quain’s mind was drifting away from her, his anger lighter, lessened, gone. She thought until she couldn’t think, until her thoughts were filled with static darkness. And her last thought, when she could feel the electricity from her body flickering and fading away, was of Sariel. Sariel on the floor of the room, Sariel holding her in his arms in the dark, warm room of the house. Sariel’s face above hers, his arms around her shoulders. As her mind shut down, she breathed in oranges, musk, the salt of his lovely skin.
She was floating in pure light, comforted by arms that weren’t there. Miranda couldn’t open her eyes, but she saw the brightness from behind her eyelids, felt the warmth of the space on her skin.
Where was she? This wasn’t like the near-death scenarios on Oprah. There wasn’t a pinprick of light at the end of a dark tunnel. Her father, Steve, wasn’t waving from the opening, beckoning her, calling for her. No Jesus or Buddha or Mohammed
in white robes, welcoming her back to the source. No chorus of angels. No soul mate waiting with anticipation for her return. No view of herself on the floor of Adalbert’s house, sprawled out dead.
This was like cotton. Like being asleep and awake at the same time. She was alone here, but not lonely. Her body was so free and lithe, and she twisted and twirled, flying high as she’d always imagined she could, the warm buoyant air holding her like… holding her like…
“Miranda?” a woman said in her ear.
Turning to the strangely familiar voice, Miranda tried to pull open her eyes. But she couldn’t. She remembered dreams where she tried to read, her lids stuck together as if with glue, the images of words fuzzy and dark when she managed to lift a lid for a second. She was dreaming. This white cotton world was a dream, as was the voice she recognized but couldn’t remember.
“Yes?” Miranda said to the voice.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m dreaming.” Miranda spun in the white, breathing in the pure air. “I’m dreaming and spinning.”
Miranda felt the woman move closer, resting a cool, smooth hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t a dream.”
She stopped moving, feeling the woman’s hand on her body, light and weightless. “Am I dead? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’ve read a lot, and this is not what I’m supposed to get.”
“No, you aren’t dead. But you have to make a choice. And it’s an important one.” The woman sat next to her, and Miranda could feel her heat and energy, a current known and unknown at the same time.
“Who are you?” Miranda asked.
“My name’s Laelia,” the woman said.
Resting back on the air, Miranda thought she knew that name, something in her mind registering it. But all her memories seemed to be leaving her, nothing as important as the next moment of air and movement.
“Oh. Hello,” Miranda said. “Why are you here?”
“I needed to talk with you,” Laelia said. “Before you go on.”
“Go on where?” Miranda asked. “Go to what?”
But as soon as she asked the questions, she didn’t care, knowing that she could stay here in this warm protection forever. She wouldn’t have to do anything here but float and think her thoughts that were so light and unconcerned. Maybe she couldn’t open her eyes. But did she need to? She could feel everything with her body, spin unclothed and unconcerned, all of this like a warm bath that never gets cold. All of this feeling, the light twists and turns her body made in the air, was like sailing through the best poem she’d ever written. Better.
“Miranda!” Laelia shouted.
“What? God, what? You sound like my mother.” As she said the word mother, the idea of mother, the idea of June, began to fade as well.
Laelia grabbed her by the shoulders and leaned close. Her breath smelled like spring.
“Were you ready to leave? Were you ready to say goodbye to Sariel?”
At the sound of his name, Miranda suddenly felt heavier, fuller of body and blood. Breathing in, she smelled oranges.
“Sariel,” Miranda said. “No. No, I wasn’t ready to leave him.”
Laelia gripped her harder. “He’s trying to save you right now. Can’t you feel him? Can’t you hear him?”
Trying to find a strand of thought, Miranda concentrated, worked against the pull of her body to the smooth air all around her. Sariel. Was he there? Could she feel him? What was he saying? Was he hiding somewhere in the brightness? Wait. She felt something, but it was so light it took all her concentration. At first, it felt as tiny as a dust mote flitting across her cheek, but the pressure grew, and she recognized a feeling. Warmth. Not like here with its white buoyancy. But rich and warm like melted butter, like caramel, like the color of Sariel’s amber eyes.
The heat radiated up her body, filled her with dense flesh, with blood that moved through all her veins and arteries, with harsh air she pulled into her lungs. His hands were on her, his voice at the edges of her mind. Wake up, he said, his voice full of sound and feeling. Come back to me.
“You can hear him now,” Laelia said, shaking Miranda’s shoulders harder. “You must go to him. Wake up, Miranda. Wake up.”
Miranda pulled open her eyes and looked up at the woman, her figure framed by the fading light. She breathed in, stunned. Looking back at Miranda was herself, capacious red hair, freckles, light blue eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked, but Laelia said nothing, bending down to kiss Miranda’s forehead.
“Do as I did not. Go into life,” Laelia said, and she faded away with the light, leaving Miranda heavy and sad and limp as unfolded laundry.
Sariel’s voice was louder now, telling her to stay with him.
“I’m here,” she said, reaching up and feeling his long, smooth hair under her hand. “I’ve come back.”
When she opened her eyes again, Miranda was in a bedroom drawn dim with thick velvet curtains, and her body did not feel light and buoyant and free as it had in the buoyant light world. She felt sore and stiff and achy, as if she’d had the flu for weeks. On the table beside the bed was the same tray of healing herbs and the strange triangle she’d seen at Sariel’s house when he’d healed her ankle. Obviously, she was in need of healing again. This wasn’t just the flu or a terrible fever she was recovering from. In fact, she felt like she’d been beaten with a chair or maybe a couch, her neck and back so painful, she dropped her head back on the pillow.
“How are you, my dear?” Adalbert said, looking down at her kindly. He was smiling, but she could see that he was tired, too, and a large purple welt gleamed on his cheek.
Miranda turned gingerly, her neck aching as she did. “I’m not sure,” she said.
“Quite understandable.” Adalbert smiled. “Though we already met under the most trying of circumstances, I’m afraid we’ve not been properly introduced. I’m Adalbert Baird.”
“Miranda Stead.” She tried to move her hand from underneath the blanket, but Adalbert waved her off.
“No, no. Don’t move. You need to rest.”
“I feel like I was run over by a lorry, or whatever it is you call them here.”
“Worse,” Adalbert said. “You were hit with a derangement du matiere spell, as was I. Never felt such a thing in my life.”
“You mean when Quain made that—that sonic boom thing?” she asked. “He messed up matter?”
Adalbert nodded. “And as we are created of matter, we were, as you say, messed up, too. All the atoms in the room pulled away from each other for an infinitesimal amount of time. And then slammed back together. Then Quain did it again. Bodies don’t take kindly to that.”
“But I saw you stand up afterward,” Miranda said. “I couldn’t get off the floor.”
He patted her knee gently. “I was trained to protect myself, and fortunately, I was given information quite recently on how to protect myself from just such a powerful spell. And if I recall correctly, you were busy working on Quain. You did a wonderful job, my dear.”
She looked at his cheek again and noticed that he was favoring one hand over the other.
“Minor injuries. Doesn’t hurt at all. Sariel will tend to me later,” he said. “I learned to fall in Aikido classes during a six-week class in the village with five-year-olds. I can somersault with the best of them, even though they laugh at me and call me ‘Grandpa.’”
His voice was soothing, deep, and calm, the voice she always imagined Santa Claus or God would have. For a moment as she listened to him speak, she drifted away into a light sleep, but then awoke minutes later, her body prickling with adrenaline.
“He didn’t get the plaque?” Miranda asked, opening her eyes.
“No, he didn’t. And while you were delivering Quain the message from Sariel, Phaedrus and his group were able to retrieve the other two plaques and save the remaining members of their group. They also found Kallisto and took her to a place even she will not escape from.”
Miranda nodded. “Are
you sure?”
“As sure as I can be, though Kallisto has proven an interesting case. But one thing at a time. We need to focus on healing and mending this rift in our world.”
“But how did you manage to get to Quain?” Miranda asked.
“Quain’s protective spells were weakened when you enraged him with the memories.” Adalbert sighed. “Unfortunately, Quain was still strong enough to elude us.”
“He’s out there still?” Miranda asked, feeling her body tense and ache.
Adalbert nodded. “But much less powerful.”
“Are we safe?”
Adalbert breathed in, bringing a finger briefly to his mouth. “For now, yes. It will take quite a while for him to recover, much less to return to power. And now we know his secrets.”
Closing her eyes for a minute, Miranda thought about all the time before the moment she met Sariel. She’d felt safe in the world, even though there were toxic agents held in dark caves by terrorists, earthquakes just under the skin of the earth, diseases growing in petri dishes in clandestine labs in the Ukraine, flash floods held in the clouds overhead. Quain was like these horrors now, devastating, but something she could ignore, at least for the time being.
Maybe later she and Sariel would do something about Quain, but not now. Not for a while.
Miranda opened her eyes and nodded slightly, trying not to move her body too much. “Sariel told me about the plaques. How they hold all the power. But are they religious? What do they mean?”
Adalbert fumbled in his pocket, and then glanced at Miranda as he held up his pipe. “Do you mind?”
She shrugged and said, “No.” Pipe tobacco always reminded her of her father. Even now, she could hear the tap tap of Steve’s pipe on the mantel in the family room as he dislodged tobacco, the silence that followed as he tamped fresh smoke into the bowl of the pipe with his thumb.
Adalbert lit his pipe, sucking down on the stem. “Three is an ancient number.”
“Like the Trinity.”
“Older. Much older. It represents the cycle of life. The ancients worshipped a woman’s body because it moves through three cycles, the maiden, the mother, and the crone.”
When You Believe Page 27