“‘Please, death, do not forget me!
You bid all to dance and all pay heed.
As the people of the world join in your dance,
you lay claim to their attention and receive their prayers.
While you listen to their lament, each dance to my tune.
But I beg of you to give me what I am due.
For without my pipe, there is no dance,
and I shall take my credit.
As my pay, I ask only to keep playing in favor of dancing.’”
Vincenzo looked at the raven, and the bird urged him to go on with a flick of its beak.
“‘Oh minstrel, you have not been forgotten
and I will give you what you are due.
But hear my premonition.
I shall let you stand by while others dance.
To play your pipe for all those who join.
Alas, in the end, your fingers will be worn through,
and you will come to ask me to dance before the end.
And I will take what is mine then.’”
Vincenzo turned to the raven. “Do you remember?” he asked. It cawed and nodded. “Then go! And inform Khaleel that I will remain behind to reclaim my honor or to face my undoing.” He sent the raven away with a jerk of his shoulder, and at the sound of its fluttering wings, Vincenzo rose to his feet and turned around. Keeping his eyes on the setting sun beyond the doors, he straightened his belt and drew his sword halfway out of it sheath before easing it back, making sure that it was as ready as he was.
IV
Bahij sat in his study memorizing the words and gestures from the Voynich manuscript and preparing for the ritual he would conduct later that night when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Yes?” Bahij called out, annoyed by the disturbance. His house servant opened the door.
“I am sorry, master, but mistress Ammon is here to see you and expressly bade me ask you for a moment’s time.”
“Mistress Ammon is here?”
“Yes, master. She is waiting for you on the south terrace.”
“Tell her that I will be but a moment.”
“I will do that, master,” the servant said, leaving Bahij to the company of his books. As hard as Bahij tried to finish memorizing the words he was reviewing when the servant entered, he found that no words or gestures would stick. There were too many questions filling his mind to leave room for anything else. Finding no use of his efforts, he got up and walked to the mirror that hung on the wall, and he looked at himself. He poured water from a pitcher into the porcelain bowl standing on a table beneath the mirror, washing his face quickly and making sure that he looked presentable. He straightened his robe and consulted the mirror one last time before walking out to face Teresa. He found her standing on the south terrace that overlooked the Arabian quarter of the city. She heard him approach by the sound of his footsteps, but refrained from turning to face him.
“Teresa. I did not expect you to come here,” Bahij said as he walked onto the terrace.
“Neither did I,” she replied as much to herself as to Bahij. She trailed her hand across the sandstone railing. “But I found that I had to. I hope that you are not disappointed.”
“Not at all, but I cannot help asking myself why you have come?” He walked slowly towards her as he spoke.
“Perhaps you should ask me rather than continue to ponder?” she said in a tone that made Bahij uncertain whether she meant the words as an endearment or an insult.
“Then why have you?”
“Is it not obvious to you? I have been given to you, should you choose to take me,” she said, still standing with her back to him. He halted his advance. As he stood and looked at her, the shape of her body shielded his eyes from the setting sun that blazed like a mocking halo around her head. She was flooded and filled by light, but the shadow she cast towards him cut a dark, fanged silhouette across the length of sandstone floor that kept them apart. He thought all the way through the silence that followed, locked in a battle between his longing for her caress and his own ideals.
“I should not then,” he finally said, forcing her to turn around.
“You should NOT?” she asked.
“No.”
“I come here and degrade myself. I offer myself up to you, and you turn me down?” she yelled.
“Yes. I shall not take you if your reason for coming here is that you have been given away. I will not once again seek your love if there is none to be found. I shall not take you, lest your reason for coming is that you choose to by your own inclination.” As he spoke, he stepped into her shadow and slowly approached her, like a shepherd nearing a stray.
“But . . .”
“Mistress Ammon. You say that you degrade yourself by coming here. You present yourself as a common whore who has been cast out from one bed, used and discarded, and who now finds herself compelled to seek out another. If that is true, then I will not have you.”
“You . . .” He could see that she was on the brink of crying as she took the final step toward him and slapped his face to relieve her anger and fear. “Fiend! How dare you?” With a hand on her shoulder, he halted any further outbursts.
“Teresa. Please do not say or do anything that you will come to regret, for you will have eternity to lament. I have said nothing but what would be found in your own words. I would claim you as my companion in an instant had your words offered me a different reason for your visit. But I will not take you as a whore. I would take you should you want me to.” As he spoke, her tears broke through and she leaned into him, seeking relief in his embrace. But rather than put his arms around her, he kept her from his chest and took her by the shoulders, insisting on looking into her eyes. “I will not take you by pity, order, or spite, or because that bastard Earl would not have you. I would take you only if you desire me to.”
“But I do,” she said, her eyes pleading for mercy.
“Why have you come here?” he asked.
“I have come here to be with you, Bahij.” Then she moved to kiss him, and his ideals could no longer overcome his desires. As their lips met, Bahij felt the warmth of the sun for the first time in centuries. Sadly, even in this moment, Teresa could not forget the image of the Earl, and it tore at her heart.
V
Accompanied by the light of the waning moon high in the night sky, a procession of two-dozen souls walked slowly through the streets of Aquraa. Some carried torches with flames flickering wildly in the autumn winds, while others played medieval bladder pipes, filling the night with a sharp, wailing tune. As they walked on, the flickering lights cast shadow upon shadow of the robe-clad figures onto the timber framed houses that lined the otherwise empty street, leaving the procession to be accompanied by an endless army of dancing shadows. From behind curtains, from darkened passageways, through withered shutters and from wooden doors that had been edged open, countless undead spirits peered out at the spectacle, feeling the sorrowful tune cut through the heart of their souls. The procession continued, each figure clad in dark silken robes, and all but three of the figures were disguised by gilded half-masks that allowed them to play their pipes as they walked. In front of the procession, Mr. Ferre walked unmasked, leading his people through the night and into the new dawn of their kind. Right behind him walked Bahij, unmasked and wearing the sermon master’s robe that was embroidered with signs and sigils in silver thread as prescribed by the ritual. Then came Teresa leading two masked figures carrying a heavy chest containing the ritual artifacts. Walking about halfway down through the procession, the Earl looked out from behind his mask at the stage he had set. He wore a slight smile, holding the reed of his bladder pipe between his lips and playing with little conviction, as he knew it would make no difference now.
“How fortuitous that misconception takes such mercy upon those of little talent and slow minds, and that their deficiencies do not resign them to ruin the play as they take the stage. It saves them from having to endure the sco
rn of those freed from said same faults,” the Earl thought to himself. “As misconception takes its mercy upon them, they need naught but their convictions to be able to play their role far more convincingly than any actor playing solely by talent. Before my eyes I see them walking with the stride and certainty of cattle going to the field, so touched by mercy that they find no rhyme nor reason in questioning their herdsman, let alone themselves, and at my eyes’ report I smile. I smile at the mercy they have been shown by their own deficiencies, dreading that said same mercy ever be shown to me, knowing that it may well be as painfully short-lived as a syphilitic erection.” The Earl looked ahead and saw the eastern gate with braziers of oil burning all the way along the parapets like a string of beads illuminating the night. In the light of the fires, he saw the guards standing in awe as they looked down to the procession that neared the gates. “Lest one among them possesses talents far beyond those of which I give them credit, I would wager that my eyes and mind report naught but the truth. Namely, that they can see themselves walking towards nothing but victory. Now how can I but marvel at the awe to be found in every gaze that falls upon us? Even as I search for a mere shred of tension or doubt, I find nothing but joyful anticipation of that which they believe will follow from the inevitable conclusion of this evening's play. I see eyes peering out from the darkness, and as they look at us, I swear that they see only a procession of extras filling the stage to set the final scene for the unmasked actors to play – blatantly ignorant that the director of said same play is walking onto the stage right in front of them. So sure are they, that their eyes refuse to see that the director’s eyes betray him by unveiling the feeling of excitement that he harbors: the excitement of knowing that the stage is set, yet the end of the play remains unwritten. Of knowing that he has, in secret, chosen to withhold any further direction, bent on leaving the actors to choose an ending at their own accord to his amusement.” As the gates opened and the procession was about to pass through the gateway, Teresa Ammon stepped aside to let the procession pass. As the lady of the house, it was her duty to close the gates behind Him on this momentous occasion. The Earl neared her and caught her eyes, and by the icy look that crept across her face, he found that she had realized it was the Earl who was approaching in the gilded half-mask.
“Lovely Teresa! By your unbending allegiance and unwary, credulous mind, I had deemed you merely the cow leading the herd. Yet looking into your eyes as I pass you by again, I see the change in you. As you stand waiting to close the door behind me, I see your heart broken, spilling its anguish and anger out before me and betraying a mind that has vowed never again to let down its guard, let alone be led blindly on. Only now do you give me a glimpse of a talent worth regarding, perhaps even worth respecting, as I see doubt and wonder in your eyes. You and you alone see my smile, not as that of a jester or a fool, but as that of the conductor reveling in the beauty conjured by the tip of his baton. In your eyes, I can finally mirror myself, and in this moment, I know that you share my suspense. Albeit in your mind’s eye I see it take on the abominable form of fear rather than that of golden excitement.” He smiled at her as he walked past, knowing that she would understand.
As the great eastern gate of the city was closed behind them, the procession walked on along the cobblestone road. The lament of the bladder pipes filled the night, and as the procession turned off the road and onto a lone path leading across the wild, uncultivated fields, the torchbearers began to sing. A low, wordless keen carried the sharp wailing of the pipes through the night. In the distance, the path ended at the foot of the grave mound where Hel's tomb lay empty and abandoned. He had raised her barren tomb on the very field where she had fallen in battle centuries before as an eternal testament to her undeath and fall, and as a vow of revenge. At the foot of the mound, a cobbled walkway carved its way into the grass-covered hill leading to a massive stone portal fashioned from rough slabs of granite. A huge block of granite that had been placed in the portal blocked the entrance to the tomb entirely. Chiseled into the lintel stone above the entrance, Futhark runes read “Here the fires of Hel were quenched and here they will be rekindled.” As the procession reached the mound, He raised his hand to halt the advance and walked down the cobbled path alone until he reached the expressionless granite face. To Bahij, who stood only a few yards behind Him, it seemed that He commanded the stone to move with the mere gesture of his hand. As He placed his hand on the cold stone surface, the stone trembled. It cracked and crumbled as if it had been touched by time itself, and finally drifted away like fine desert sand at the mercy of the night winds. Accompanied by the cold, silvery moonlight, Mr. Ferre walked into the empty grave chamber beneath the mound, leaving the others to follow behind. The chamber was cold and still, kept in a constant chill by the surrounding earth. Coarse stone pillars lined the walls of the elongated chamber and supported the bare granite arches that kept the surrounding earth from caving in. As He walked through the chamber to the far end, the nobles took their place along the wall and Bahij took his stand in the middle of the chamber. The pipers silenced their pipes and joined in the low chant that spread like a blanket over the cold stone floor. Teresa signaled for the heavy wooden chest that held the ritual artifacts to be carried forth and placed in front of Bahij. Then she walked out into the chamber herself and opened the chest before taking a few steps back. As Bahij spread out his arms, the chanting subsided, leaving the chamber completely bereft of sound. Then Bahij spoke, his voice calm and clear as it filled the tomb.
“We gather here on this night to ask for summons. In earnest, beseeching the one lost to offer up the will to return. With right, we claim the power to grant passage between the worlds, and by a sacrifice of song, we bid Death honor his promise to stay his hand as long as our pipes beckon others to join his dance.”
VI
Approaching the Emperor's Tomb, Blake and Astrid could see a warm, fiery glow shooting from the half open doors. The light cut into the night like a sword, trying to fend off the shadows that draped the mausoleum. Blake and Astrid were certain that they were neither alone nor in time. Blake pulled back his reins, rearing his horse and turning it around to face Astrid. The horse panted after the long ride.
“Astrid, you stay here,” Blake said.
“Do you think it's in there?” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice.
“Yes. And like I said, I won't promise to protect you. So the best thing is for you to stay here. You will be safe here for now.”
“But . . .”
“No! But nothing, Astrid. Stay here and let me do what I do.”
“Are you going to fight it?”
“Yeah.”
“But what if you can't win?”
“Listen, I've fought this one before and I can beat him.”
“But what if you don't?”
“If I'm not back here by sunrise, I want you to make your way back to the Entrance. You can hole up in my house if you like – just find the woman who welcomed you to Shades and ask for Virgil. He'll know what to do. If I'm not here to take you back, I won't have much use for it myself.”
“Blake,” Astrid started, but Blake had already ended the conversation by pulling the reins to one side to turn his horse before spurring it forward.
When he saw Blake's silhouette drawn in the doorway against the sparse moonlight, Vincenzo stood waiting with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“So, Beck. You finally made it,” Vincenzo called.
“Yes. If for nothing else, then just to put you down,” Blake said, unbuttoning his cape and letting it fall to the ground before drawing his katana.
“I'm glad that you're not without intent, for I feared for you that your aim was but to rescue the old man and keep his secrets safe. Had that been your sole aspiration, you would already have failed!” Vincenzo’s tone was mocking and Blake could almost hear the laughter that filled Vincenzo's mind.
“Then let tonight be ours and let our masters worry about their own
affairs!” Blake yelled and started down towards Vincenzo, rightly expecting Vincenzo to meet him halfway.
Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck Page 22