by Dyrk Ashton
“Can’t Peter just break it?” Fi says. “Pull Zeke away before it hurts him?”
“I’m afraid not,” says Myrddin. “It would pierce the lad’s heart in an instant, front, back and through the sides.” Fi grimaces.
“You are certain?” Mrs. Mirskaya asks.
“Yes, I am certain,” says Myrddin, becoming surly.
Fi says, “Could Pratha put a spell on it? Freeze it or something?”
“It is made from the sprigs of a child of Yggdrasil,” Myrddin explains, “far older than Pratha and entirely immune to her enchantments.”
“Which is why it would also work on a Firstborn,” Fi says, “like Baphomet.”
“Exactly.”
Fi isn’t giving up yet. “Can’t you turn it off?”
“I...” Myrddin mutters. “No.”
Edgar can barely contain his anger. “You made the infernal thing.”
Myrddin gapes. “I made it for Arthur. He wanted it foolproof.”
Mrs. Mirskaya says, “In that, you have succeeded.” Myrddin glowers.
The humor doesn’t appease Edgar either. “How many good men did it murder, Madman?” Fi can’t believe the venom in her uncle’s voice. She’s never seen him like this.
“It was for the good of the kingdom,” says Myrddin, defeated. “My king made a direct request. I am not entirely without honor.”
“So you say.”
“Calm down, all of you,” says Pratha. “This accomplishes nothing.” Her voice has an immediate effect. Edgar and Myrddin stop glaring at each other and look away.
“Hey,” Fi says to Zeke, loud enough to get his attention. She smiles and waves, hoping to ease his anxiety. “You’re going to be okay, got it?” He forces a smile in return and wiggles his fingers back at her, as much as he can with the vines embracing his wrist. Fi’s amazed at how strong he’s being. If it was her in that thing, she’d be completely freaking out. “Okay,” she says, turning back to Myrddin and dropping the smile, “why did you make it? What does it do?”
Myrddin’s flustered and obviously feeling ill-treated, so Peter replies, “This is the first I’ve seen it, but according to the legends, it could tell if a man was true of heart and therefore worthy of a place at Arthur’s Round Table. They stopped using it because few were brave enough to attempt it, and those who did perished due to their own hubris. All except one.” He places a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, who appears uncomfortable with the distinction.
Fi sees Myrddin looking at Edgar. The anger is gone and there’s admiration written on his face, even love, but also regret. She says to Edgar, “Then you can help him.”
“I will do everything in my power,” he replies, “but in the end, it will be entirely up to Zeke’s honesty and strength of character.”
“What do we have to do?”
“We have to complete the process,” says Myrddin.
“What process?”
“The questioning.”
* * *
Pratha instructs Baphomet, who’s still chained, to sit on the floor against the shelves on the opposite side of the aisle from the Chair. Arms draped over his knees, he scrutinizes Zeke and his unfortunate seat.
Fi and Peter talk to Zeke in an effort to comfort him. Fi wants with all her heart to touch him. Myrddin tells her as long as she doesn’t touch the chair, he’ll be okay, so she takes Zeke’s hand. Peter steps up on the shelf and gently places a palm on Zeke’s head. Between the two of them, it helps keep him centered, or at least from completely losing his mind.
Edgar’s on his knees away from them, palms pressed together before his lips, praying under his breath in Latin. Myrddin walks tentatively to him. Edgar hears him and looks up, discontinuing his prayer, a hint of annoyance on his face.
Myrddin fidgets. “Would you... I mean... do you mind...” Finally he spits it out. “May I join you?”
Edgar’s countenance softens and he appears confused, then ashamed of himself. “Of course.” Myrddin lowers to his knees next to his grandson. Edgar begins again. Myrddin joins in, and together they pray.
* * *
Corporal Aadhira Patel of the Royal Engineers crouches to inspect a motion sensor, then next to it, one of the laser emitters. She raises her eyes to the intersecting green beams that bounce off relays along slim telescoping towers within the perimeter that help create the domed polygonal grid that encloses their camp. She radios in that the checkpoint is secure, then rises, shoving thumb behind rifle strap, and marches through the fog to the next.
A boulder against the wall of the canyon materializes out of the fog, and Patel sees what looks like a thick white string waving in the breeze, one end stuck to the rock. As she moves closer, she sees the boulder, which rises over her head, is split down the center, the crack open several feet wide. More thread is attached to the inside edges, but the nearest camp light strikes at such an angle it makes the interior pitch black.
Patel slows, taking a flashlight from her belt, and trains it on the threads. She approaches cautiously to see they’re woven in a way that looks like one end of a tube, angled back into the rock. As she grows closer, cautiously rounding the front, it reminds her of a funnel web.
She nearly gags as a putrid stench assaults her nostrils, then hears a softly hummed lullaby. She instinctively aims her flashlight deeper into the funnel. Staring back at her are eight yellow eyes, rimmed in red.
* * *
Edgar and Myrddin recite the final words of their prayer. With a lump in his throat, Myrddin says, “Thank you, lad.” He pushes slowly to his feet and shuffles back to Zeke.
Edgar slouches back on his calves and studies the palms of his hands before rising and joining the others.
“The Chair doesn’t exactly sense the true of heart,” Myrddin explains, “but it can distinguish between honesty and falsehood.
Fi says, “Like a lie detector.”
Myrddin thinks about it, accessing the term. “Why yes. Yes it is.”
Edgar says, “There is more to it than that.”
Myrddin continues, “It is animate, obviously, but not exactly alive, and conscious, like all things, but a little more, and perhaps in a different way. The Chair’s roots have entrenched themselves deep in the earth, and it is sensitive, like Yggdrasil, to World Memory. Already the Chair is tapped into Zeke’s memories, which are naught but thoughts and feelings from his past. This is how it knows truth from lies, good and evil intent, purity of character.”
“And if it senses incongruity in his answers,” Edgar adds, “even of thought or intention, it metes out punishment in the form of pain and death.”
“Galahad,” Pratha admonishes. “You’ll scare the boy to death before we even start.”
“You wanted my help. I am giving it,” Edgar responds. “He needs to know how grave the peril is, the absolute seriousness of this situation.”
“I could calm him with words,” says Pratha.
“I wouldn’t,” Myrddin replies. “I don’t know the consequences should it perceive that kind of outside interference.”
“Then let’s get this over with,” says Peter. “What do we do?”
“There was a ceremony,” Myrddin replies. “Speaking in Latin, candles, drums and chanting. It wasn’t necessary, but it did set quite the mood.”
Edgar says, “It took hours.”
“Arthur liked it that way.”
Fi’s getting impatient. “What does Zeke have to do?”
“It’s quite simple, really,” says Edgar. “He must answer three questions. But for each that he answers, he must ask one of his inquisitor in return. There must be one primary inquisitor, whom we present to the Perilous. They must answer truthfully as well, or Zeke suffers the same consequences.”
“Not the person asking?” Fi says.
“No. There is a level of trust required, you see. The Chair was never sat accidentally or out of haste, and the inquisitor was always Arthur. Anyone who sat the Siege Perilous had to not only believe in themselves, t
hey had to believe in Arthur as well. They all knew this.” He pauses. “We all knew it.”
“I will do it,” says Peter.
“Father is the natural choice,” says Pratha.
“The questions must be asked with honorable intent, and the answers given complete,” says Edgar. “No half-truths, no omissions.”
Peter says, “It will be done.” He approaches the Chair, his voice tender as he asks, “Does that sound all right with you, Zeke?” Zeke swallows and nods. “I’ll recuse myself if you’d rather it be someone else.”
Zeke looks over the group. His eyes linger on Edgar, whom he trusts implicitly, even though he’s only known him a few days. Then on Fi, whom he trusts more than anyone, but if anything should happen to him, he can’t bear the thought of her living with that for the rest of her life. He won’t put her in that position. They say Peter doesn’t lie, and Zeke believes him when he says he will be sincere. And even with his life at stake, Zeke has the idea that, among them all, Peter knows things about him Zeke would like to know himself. He shakes his head no—he doesn’t want Peter to recuse himself.
“You’re certain?” Peter asks.
Zeke nods again.
Peter smiles, sad but earnest. “So be it.” At those words, the chair sends out a tentacle of vine to hover in front of Peter at waist height. Peter holds his hand out to it, out of curiosity as much as anything else. The vine coils around his palm, then up his arm to the elbow. Peter backs away a step, testing it, and it lengthens to the distance. He takes another step, to give Zeke more room to breathe. The vine accommodates again.
“That was quick,” Myrddin says. “Usually you would have to be presented to it. In Latin, of course.
“Perhaps it senses that he is The Pater,” says Pratha.
“Perhaps,” says Myrddin.
Mrs. Mirskaya says, “This could be good thing.”
“Perhaps,” Myrdin says again.
Edgar bristles. “Do you know anything about this bloody monstrosity of yours?”
Myrddin scowls.
Edgar says to Peter, “As the inquisitor, you will ask the first question. It cannot be simple, like what is your name, what is your quest, or what is your favorite color. It must come from the heart, be a question you truly want answered. However, Arthur would ask things like, ‘Will you devote all your heart and soul to the service of all my subjects, rich and poor, for the rest of your natural life?’ and, ‘Do you love your king and God above all else?’ To answer in the negative would mean being rejected or removed from the Round Table, shamed and dishonored. The only knights who dared the test were prideful and self-assured, and that was their undoing.”
Mrs. Mirskaya says, “It is no wonder no one but you survived.”
“Yes, well,” says Edgar, “I would be careful not to ask such questions today.”
Peter contemplates. Fi catches herself biting her nails, yanks her fingers out of her mouth and shoves her hands in her pockets. She smiles at Zeke nervously, trying to offer any support she can. “You can do this,” she says. “You know you can.” Zeke tries to smile back, but it looks more like a grimace.
Peter notices the interaction between them, and after a moment’s thought, asks the first question. “Zeke Prisco, are you in love with my daughter, Fiona Megan Patterson?”
Fi gasps, “Peter!” She expects Zeke to be shocked, but his sigh is one of nervous relief.
Edgar says, “It is an honest question and well asked. Zeke, you must answer as fully as possible, and truthfully.”
Zeke’s sure of the answer, though anxious about saying it out loud. The Chair tightens its grip in anticipation, perhaps sensing his apprehension. He swallows hard, and says, “Yes. I am in love with your daughter, Fiona Megan Patterson.” The vines tighten, sharp prongs pressing the skin of his chest.
The others tense immediately. Peter appears ready to tear the vine out of his hand and leap on the Chair at any moment.
Zeke’s eyes go to Fi, whose mouth hangs open. She looks like she’s going to cry. “I have been since I first met her,” Zeke continues. “I think even before I met her.” After a taut moment, the Chair relaxes its grip.
An audible sigh of relief escapes the group.
Fi nearly sobs as a maelstrom of emotions spins in her mind. She’s confused, flattered, happy, and terribly afraid, of so many things, all at the same time.
“Well done, lad,” says Edgar. “Well done, indeed,” and Zeke thinks Edgar’s smile might be the warmest and most genuine he has ever seen, and that Edgar’s happy for more than the fact Zeke survived the first question.
Zeke notices Pratha, farthest back of the group, gazing at the Chair, holding her chin in thought. She sees him watching her, and winks. This time he doesn’t freak out or flush with lust because it’s not mocking or flirtatious, but a gesture of support that comforts him, even makes him glad. He turns his attention back to Peter.
Edgar says, “Now Zeke, you ask a question of Peter. Remember, nothing too simple, and nothing you already know as a fact.”
Zeke knows what he’s going to ask, but he’s afraid of what he’s going to hear. “What do you know about me that you’ve kept secret?”
All eyes turn to Peter, who looks almost sad. After a moment of careful deliberation, he shifts position to address the whole group, the tether of vine from the chair adjusting to the change.
“When Fi’s mother discovered she was pregnant, we went to the local university medical center.” Fi listens with rapt attention, shocked her mother has come into this. “Of course I knew the child would be fine, and Katlyn—Fi’s mother—was perfectly healthy, but it’s something people do, go to the doctor, and she wanted it done. And when Katlyn wanted something done, it was done.
“As I waited in the lobby, a young boy was brought in with a dislocated shoulder and sprained wrist. He had tear stains on bruised cheeks but he made no sound, never spoke or complained. The man who brought him smelled of sour beer and the woman with them stayed outside to smoke almost the entire time. There was a glassy look in the man’s eyes, but he wasn’t at all nervous. I knew at once what happened to the boy was not an accident. I’ve seen this kind of man too many times.”
Zeke stares in disbelief. He doesn’t remember that far back, but the man and woman are the people from his nightmares. Did it really happen? Has he suppressed it all these years?
The whine, whir and squeak rise in his mind, but he squeezes his eyes shut and forces it into silence.
“I have some knowledge of medicine and the operation of medical facilities,” Peter continues, “having gone through medical school myself a number of times, though the last was in the 1960s. I left the lobby and stole into a supply room, from which I took a white lab coat and stethoscope. People are easily fooled in hospitals.
“Snatching a clipboard from the busy counter, I approached and began examining the boy while I had the man fill out the information sheets. Of course I checked the boy’s eyes and inspected him for head trauma first. Luckily there was none. The little lad never looked at me or said a word. When I asked him what had happened, the man mumbled that the boy had fallen down the stairs. He didn’t even have the imagination for better than that.”
They can see Peter suppressing his rising anger as he speaks. “I took the clipboard, told him someone would be with them soon, and went to wait outside the door where Fi’s mother was having her appointment.
“But that night, I went to the house the man had written as his address. It was in a nice neighborhood, and the houses stood far apart. That day, using the considerable resources I could bring to bear even on short notice, I’d learned the man and woman were foster parents and he the degenerate son of a wealthy family, not lacking in funds or influence. The city system for child welfare was crooked, inept, and prone to bribery.
“From the shadows outside the house, I heard things inside no one else would be able to hear. I peered into windows and saw things no one else could see.
“
The couple preferred their boys older than Zeke, but not much. Only the physical abuse had begun for him at that time. But it wouldn’t be long, I knew. I could have confronted them, threatened them. I could have reported them to the police or Children Services, but I did not. This... situation, I took care of the old way.” There’s a tone of menace in his voice and a gleam in his eye, as if he’s hearkening back to a bygone age when he, and he alone, was the law.
“After they’d all gone to bed, I stole into the home, upstairs to the master bedroom. A simple blow to the man’s spine, a twist of the woman’s neck, and they were paralyzed, yet awake. I went downstairs, started a fire in the kitchen, untraceable as to its source, and got the boys out of the house. There were four at the time. Zeke was the youngest. I sent them to the neighbors and went back in—to rescue the foster parents, the boys thought.
“I stood by their bed. Watched while they burned, conscious and entirely aware. And they saw me watching. I looked them in the eyes while their skin darkened and peeled, while they twitched in agony, soundless other than their gasping breath, until the light of life left their eyes. And still I watched while they burned.”
The room is absolutely silent. Fi’s astounded and horrified. She scans for reactions from the others. Edgar is the only one who looks surprised at Peter’s confession, but she can’t tell if it’s because of what Peter did to those people, or that this is about Zeke. The others are inscrutable, no look of disgust or revelation, as if they’re not affected in the least by what Peter has said.
Zeke looks on, conflicted between horror and appreciation. He has a flash of memory, murky and smeared.
Peter holding little Zeke, looking him in the eyes, smiling and rubbing his head. Telling him he’ll be all right, then giving him to one of the older boys and sending them off to the neighbors.
Zeke remembers, but also doesn’t. It’s conflicting. Two truths, both and neither real. But one thing is real. He’s getting a pounding headache.
Memories of another life, one of misery, drug abuse and violence, try to intrude with the sounds of channels being changed on an old-fashioned radio, but once again he’s able to hold them at bay, which makes his head hurt even more.