by Dyrk Ashton
Mrs. Mirskaya wrinkles her nose at Fi’s behavior and description, but Sekhmet smiles. Akhu watches Fi with her large black eyes, with apparent interest more than anything else.
Sekhmet says, “Fi, have you met Akhu?”
“No, not really,” Fi replies.
Akhu gestures gracefully with her hands. Fi has never studied sign language, but she knows it means, “May we speak?”
“Yes, of course,” Fi says.
Though the whole telepathic thing has been explained to her, Fi blinks hard and takes a step back when Akhu’s voice sounds in her head. “It is wonderful to meet you, Sister.”
“Oh. That’s... different,” Fi says. She tries using only her thoughts. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Apparently it worked, because Akhu takes her by the hands and says, “Thank you. I look forward to getting to know you better.”
“And I you.”
Akhu smiles, bows her head, and backs away. She turns to Sekhmet and Mrs. Mirskaya, continuing whatever conversation they were having before they met Fi.
Fi catches movement across the meadow. Peter, climbing steps carved into the bare stone face of a cliff to a natural terrace above. She still hasn’t gotten used to how much better her eyesight seems to be than it was before she was “awakened” to being Firstborn. Like she had astigmatism her whole life and finally got a pair of prescription glasses. Everything is sharper, more vivid, near and far. Peter sits on the terrace grass, several stories above the valley, and leans back on his elbows to watch the clouds in the baby-blue sky.
All this talk about forgiveness. Maybe Edgar was right. Maybe she should practice what she preaches. In her own head she catches herself trying to justify why she shouldn’t. At least not now. Hypocrite, she scolds herself. Maybe she can at least make a start.
She excuses herself from the others and starts across the meadow toward the stairs.
* * *
At the side of the bathhouse, Mol wakes from dozing at the sound of footsteps in the grass. He blinks into the sun as the shadow of a man falls over him, then another. Mol sniffs the air, cocking his head, ears raised, and whines faintly in confusion.
“Hullo, Molossus,” says the first man quietly. “There’s a good lad.” The voice is gruff and the accent rough, but it’s all too familiar. Mol watches, befuddled, as the man draws a sword.
* * *
Edgar is on his knees next to the fire, fully clothed and praying aloud. He looks up upon hearing an appalling sound he recognizes immediately, one he’s heard many times before. A sword striking flesh and bone. And it’s accompanied by a grunt and a whimper.
He calls out, “Molossus?” snatching his sword from its scabbard and moving to stand—but he’s struck immobile and dumb at the sight of two men coming around the corner. His eyes flit from one to the other, his jaw going slack.
Before him are two Edgars, each dressed differently, one with his hair cropped close to his scalp and a jagged scar through his eye, the other with hair to his shoulders. Both gaze at him with the same flint-gray eyes, but in them is reflected none of Edgar’s kindness.
Edgar utters, “It can’t be...”
The one with the scar steps closer. “Good greetings, Sir Galahad.”
Edgar leaps to his feet, but a third man lurks behind him—another Edgar, grinning madly, his long hair a matted mess, gray eyes wild. Edgar hears him and spins as the man dives. They meld together, the other two lunge, and all become one.
* * *
A howl shatters the peace of the valley, stopping Fi in her tracks at the foot of the stone stairs to the terrace, freezing her to the core and filling her with dread. The howl of a Cerberus. The cry of Cù Sìth. But this is nothing like the roars of rage or victory she’s heard him loose in combat. High and drawn out, it’s a cry of anguish and pain.
The ghastly sound carries throughout the castle grounds. Livestock bleat and flee. The Deva hear it too, even in the great hall and every room of the castle.
Peter lands in a crouch nearby, having leapt from above. He and Fi exchange looks of alarm and together sprint toward the baths, where Fi only minutes ago had the most cherished conversation of her life with her Uncle Edgar.
* * *
The Deva hurry through the gardens, faster than any human, some carrying weapons. Fi and Peter dash into the steaming fog of the springs, around trees and rocks, and enter the clearing behind the bathhouse opposite from where Fi entered earlier.
Beyond the awning on the open ground, Edgar lies on his back in a spreading pool of blood. Fi freezes at the sight. She can’t breathe. Her legs won’t move. Her heart shrivels in her chest. At least that’s how it feels. The walls of reality splinter around her and tumble away, leaving nothing but her uncle lying in a void of despair, gagging and spitting blood.
Peter skids to his knees at Edgar’s side, holding his quivering hands over him, as if afraid to touch him for fear of making it worse, but as Fi finds the courage to come closer, she sees it couldn’t be much worse. There are deep furrows in his torso, at an angle from hip to collar bone, ribs sheared, exposed organs quivering in a lake of blood.
Fi’s legs give out and she falls to her hands and knees, but with a great force of will she crawls toward him.
There’s an animalistic moan, and her darkened world opens enough to see Cù Sìth, in Trueface, dragging himself toward the opposite corner of the bathhouse. He lifts himself enough to pull Edgar’s sword from where it’s buried in his guts, groaning as it slides out, slick with his dark red blood.
Léon is the first of the Deva to arrive, carrying a huge double-bladed axe. Upon seeing Edgar’s state, he roars at Cù Sìth, “Treacherous fiend!” He kicks Cù in the mouth, sending him sprawling on his back. Léon stands over Cù, eyes gleaming red with vengeance, gripping the thick handle of his axe. More Deva stream in to gasp and cry out at the sight of Edgar, and snarl with loathing at Cù Sìth.
Cù’s breath comes in gulps. “Do it, Brother,” he says, without defensiveness or rancor. Léon pauses, then growls and raises his axe.
“Don’t!” croaks Edgar. Léon stays the swing of his axe. “He saved me.”
At hearing Edgar’s voice, the void disappears for Fi and reality crashes back together. She whispers, “Edgar.” Gruesome as his wounds are, she puts her hands on them in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood.
Edgar’s features distort as he fights pain and death—but he’s fighting something else as well. He laughs a laugh not his own. Through gritted teeth, he grunts and cries out, “No!” driving the other away. Himself again, his eyes find Fi and light with affection. “Cù Sìth saved you.” He coughs.
“He’s making no sense,” says Léon.
Fi ignores The Nemean Lion, all her attention focused on her uncle. “No, no. Shh,” she says, taking his hand. “It’s going to be all right.” Tears stream from her eyes as she looks up to find Mrs. Mirskaya, also with tears on her cheeks. Pratha is there too, and Freyja, Sekhmet and Akhu. Others have crowded in and all around.
“We can save him,” Fi says to the women—but the look on their faces... “Yes we can!” Fi cries desperately. “Just like with Asterion. We can do it!” Mrs. Mirskaya shakes her head, torment in her eyes. “Yes we can. We have to.”
Mrs. Mirskaya swallows, barely able to speak. “Fiona.” She stoops to take Fi’s arm, to lift her to her feet, but Fi pulls away.
“No!” Fi shouts.
Edgar says, “Fiona, it’s all right. It is my time. My choice.”
More softly, Fi says, “No.”
Mrs. Mirskaya gets to her knees close to Fi and holds her around the shoulders. Fi looks up again, desperate and pleading. “Pratha, please.” Pratha lowers herself at Edgar’s feet. Her eyes are damp as well, and in them hopelessness and despair.
Edgar groans, fighting again, shaking his head, spitting blood. He glares at Pratha. “You!” Then his eyes find Fi, and with a feral growl he grabs for her neck. But he’s slow and weak. Peter takes one hand by the wris
t, and Fi the other. Together they press them back to his chest.
“Uncle,” Fi sobs.
Edgar jerks and snorts, and again his mind is his own. Calling up his waning strength, he says to Peter, “Cù Sìth heard me struggling and came. I asked him to do it. Begged him.” A gasp of pain. “There were three of them, milord. Three... of me.” He coughs, then looks to Fi. “They—I—would have slain The Prathamaja Nandana, then come to you as your loving uncle. I would not have been able to control myself. I would have cut you down with my own hands.” He grimaces, tormented by the thought. “I would rather die than allow that to happen, so death I have chosen. Honor my choice, dear. My... choice...”
Another voice takes over. It’s Edgar’s, but with a coarser English accent. “We would have succeeded if it weren’t for that quisling Cerberus!”
Edgar clenches his bloodied teeth, groaning until he gains control. “I, Galahad, has’t chosen to die this day.”
Fi presses his palm to her face. “Edgar, no...”
“My choice,” he says, his voice fading. “My choice...” He gazes skyward and his eyes widen as if he sees something in the clouds. “Swing low, sweet chariot…” His eyes go even wider. “Fiona...” And with a sigh, the light and life leave him.
* * *
Zeke runs to the back of the bathhouse, Asterion with his staff close behind. Zeke awoke when he heard Cù Sìth howl, but had no idea where it had come from. It was Asterion, also awakened, who sniffed them out.
Zeke peers frantically through the crowd. First he sees Edgar’s sword on the ground, sullied red, then Léon and Kabir crouched over Cù Sìth, who has a grisly wound in his gut, and though his scarlet eyes are open, they’re dim and devoid of life.
Kabir closes Cù’s eyelids. “Be at peace, Brother.”
“Make way!” Freyja elbows through the press, smacking people with her cane. She nearly bowls Zeke over, but stops and waves Brygun past her. “Get him to the infirmary. Quickly now.”
Zeke’s breath catches at the sight of Mol hanging limp and bleeding in Brygun’s arms. Before he can ask what’s happened, Brygun and Freyja are gone.
In a daze, Zeke moves closer, and there’s Edgar, lying on the flagstones. His chest torn open. Blood everywhere. Fi and Mrs. Mirskaya bawling, shaking with grief in each other’s arms.
Zeke tries to speak, to move, to understand. His legs give out. Strong arms catch him. Anubis and Sekhmet, holding him close between them.
Peter is still as stone, eyes frozen wide, churning with color. They settle on red. “Pointless.” He spits the word like bitter poison, then thrusts to his feet. “A meaningless waste.” None question him and all in his path step aside as he strides to snatch up Edgar’s sword. “To choose death so he wouldn’t slay The Prathamaja Nandana, with this?!”
Peter stalks to Pratha, who still kneels at Edgar’s feet. She doesn’t look up. A tear slides down her cheek and drips to the ground.
Peter says, “Even the Sword of David could not harm her.”
“It is the highest class of Astra blade, Pater,” say Léon. “How could it not—
“Because she made it!” Gripping the handle in both hands, Peter raises it high. Gasps and shouts erupt from the crowd. Some move in an attempt to stop him, but he’s too fast. He swings the sword down, straight at Pratha’s head.
As the blade touches Pratha’s skin, it shatters into a thousand glittering fragments, which float up to hang in the air like a mist of tiny sparkling diamonds.
Trejgun comes shoving in from the back, his eyes scanning the bodies of Cù Sìth and Edgar in disbelief. He’s frozen for a moment, then Peter lets the haft of Edgar’s sword clatter to the ground. “Begging your pardon, Father,” Trejgun says, but Peter just stares at Edgar with his eyes of red.
Asterion lays a massive hand on Peter’s shoulder and calls him by an eldritch name, “Ptah.”
Peter blinks and looks up at him. “Asterion.”
Trejgun continues, “Baphomet has escaped.” He raises a hand to calm the crowd. “I found Horus unconscious outside the cell, but he is awake now, and unharmed.” He looks to Pratha. “Pratha’s Athamé has been taken from him.” Groans of dismay rise from the Deva. “After seeing the manner in which the cell bars were cut, I checked the keep. The Sudarshana Chakra is missing, and so is Pan’s flute.” The shock amongst them is palpable.
“Baphomet must have had an accomplice,” says Anubis. “But who?”
Trejgun swallows at the weight of his words to come. “Tanuki is gone as well. I can’t find him anywhere.” The Deva are speechless.
Anguish twists further on Peter’s face. He feels it all. Not only his own sadness and anger, but that of the Deva as well, and worst of all, Fi’s utter despair. All the horror and betrayal, agony and rage. He raises his fists and releases it the only way he knows how, with a roar.
From the very depths of his preternatural being it comes. Stone cracks beneath his feet. The air itself flees from his fists. Flowers droop on the vines. Gloom rolls over the valley like fog. Sheep and cattle bow their heads. The grief of The Father rises to the clouds above. The sky whimpers, dismal gray, and weeps.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
NORWAY
JINN
The time is late, the sky over New Vanaheim a dark and raging tempest.
Lightning blinks through the frosted skylights of Freyja’s laboratory, where two tables have been cleared. On one lies the body of Cù Sìth, his wounds stitched and fur cleaned of blood. Akhu brushes him while Mac Gallus, uncharacteristically subdued, scrubs his nails.
At the other table, Pratha finishes sewing up Edgar’s chest. Mrs. Mirskaya bathes his feet with rose water. Myrddin Wyllt wipes his skin with fragrant oils. Finished with her task, Mrs. Mirskaya gently places coins on his eyes. Hands clasped at his waist, Anubis watches over all. None say a word.
* * *
A fire burns in the hearth of Freyja’s study. Seated in comfortable chairs, Freyja, Peter, Sekhmet, and the Ibis scribe Thoth listen to the storm outside, holding teacups in solemn silence.
* * *
Light from gas lamps of antler chandeliers spreads no cheer to the Deva Firstborn who sit drinking or wander aimlessly about in Freyja’s great hall. Lightning flashes through the windows. Rain pounds the roof, filling the room with a dull rumbling roar.
Léon drains his tankard, sets it softly on the table where he sits. He looks over his shoulder at the sound of the outside doors being unlatched.
* * *
Fintán mac Bóchra swoops down through the driving rain and alights behind Brygun, Trejgun, and Ochosi, all sopping wet, as they open the doors to the great hall. Naga slithers out of the darkness and up the steps to follow them inside.
They shake their heads as they enter, not only to shed the rain, but also to indicate they’ve had no luck in their ongoing search for Tanuki and Baphomet.
Away from the others, sitting quietly, Asterion goes back to staring at the horned head of the Apis staff leaning in his lap. Not only is he hurting from his injuries, but also the loss of his two closest companions, his brothers, his friends. Arges is dead, and now there’s no doubt Tanuki has betrayed them all.
Fintán takes a seat next to Asterion. Earlier he’d explained it was Tanuki who tricked him into going to Baphomet’s cell, saying The Goat had something to tell him about Osiris and their old conflict in Fiodh-Inis. The last thing Fintán remembered after he’d arrived in the dungeon was the sound of Baphomet’s flute. When he’d awoken, Baphomet, Tanuki, and Pratha’s Athamé were gone.
Fintán feels a fool for it now, but what reason would any of them have to suspect Tanuki? Still, he blames himself for their escape. “I will make this right, Brother,” he says to Asterion. “I will find them, if it is the last thing I do.”
* * *
A long hallway on the first floor connects a row of bedchambers for guests. At one end, facing two doors on the inner wall, Kabir leans with his back between arched windows that run with ri
vulets rainwater, staring at the stone floor.
His senses tingle and he peers down the hall. Illumination from lightning outside and torches within play shadows across floor and walls, tapestries and gilded mirrors. He sniffs, but smells nothing out of the ordinary, hears no movement, only thunder and rain, and goes back to his somber contemplation.
At the opposite end of the hall, two pools of darkness flow along the edge of the floor like black oil. They climb the inner wall, following cracks in the stone, then ooze over the frame of a mirror and into its glass surface, disappearing as if sinking in a shimmering pool.
* * *
Fi hasn’t spoken to anyone since Edgar’s death. No comfort offered by Mrs. Mirskaya, Peter, or Zeke could appease her. She just wanted to be alone.
She was given a room next to Zeke’s, where she curled into a ball on the luxurious four-poster bed and wept for hours. She was certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but with the exhaustion of grief, she finally succumbed. Now she dreams...
* * *
Floating on her back in a clear night sky, storm clouds sparking below. Above, more stars than she’s ever seen twinkle brighter than she could have imagined, yellow, white, blue, red, and orange. The glows of Mars and Saturn steady in the far distance. Even further away but equally as vivid, shining eddies of dust litter the Milky Way. And right there, as if she could reach out and touch it, the moon looms white and full.
Then it blinks, and there are two moons. They both blink and a woman’s face takes form, vague and unknown to Fi, shaped of stars and space dust.
The moon-woman speaks. “Fiona Megan Patterson, wake up,” and all the stars supernova at once in a blinding flash of cosmic light—
* * *
Fi bolts upright, blinking away spots that still float in her vision. At first she doesn’t know where she is, but by the dim light of an oil lamp on a nightstand, realizes she’s in her room at Freyja’s.
A gentle voice whispers, “Fi, are you okay?”
She starts at an umbral figure emerging from the shadows in the corner by the door, behind it a tall dressing mirror. Zeke, in dark blue pajamas. For a split second Fi thinks she can’t see his reflection in the mirror, but he steps away from it. She blinks again and dispels the thought. He holds a finger to his lips.