by T L Greylock
Day 112
I have been betrayed. They are coming. My work is lost.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Well, I couldn’t allow my guests to be eaten by sharks.”
“I’m not sure how they’ve managed it,” Albus said, “but Onaxos is even more tedious now that I’m supposed to be dead.”
Keleut suppressed a laugh, which was precisely the reaction the librarian had been hoping for given that the pirate captain had, after pacing endlessly, begun to try to drag what was clearly a sacred altar across the floor. Her end destination was, Albus reasoned, the large ceremonial, sickle-shaped staff that rested—reverently, if any inanimate object could be said to possess such abilities—in a golden cradle on the wall behind the altar. What she intended, precisely, to do with said staff, well, Albus could not imagine given that he was the only other occupant of the space.
“We’ve only just won a reprieve. Do you think perhaps we could attempt not to destroy their sacred space?”
Keleut’s smile turned to a pained grimace. “I’d much rather hit something with that staff.”
“Not me, I hope.”
“Unfortunately, no. It turns out you’re even more useful than I hoped.”
“Nearly setting myself on fire and falling from a horrible height into the waiting jaws of sharks is useful?”
“Well, when you consider the fact that you were before me in the order of dying, had the smoke and the birds come a moment later, at least I would have been spared. Very useful.” Keleut laughed when she saw Albus’s expression, which he imagined was very similar to the face he might make when confronted with a particularly awful smell on a particularly hot day.
“Glad to help,” he said. And yet he was glad, oddly enough. Not because he had nearly died and not because he had been spared at the last moment—well, yes, because of that—but because there was a new tone between him and the Seycherran. Where once she had disdained him but for the information in his brain, he had begun to feel, since being whisked off the sea wall and back to the spire—to wait, again—that she had a burgeoning respect for him and the manner in which he had comported himself. Certainly they had reached some sort of silent agreement that being at odds with each other—though she had kidnapped him—was not to their mutual benefit.
And so they waited in what Albus assumed was a hall of worship. It was six-sided and blindingly white. The walls rose up to an astonishing height while tall, narrow windows angled slightly against the plane of the walls, sent sword-like shafts of light spilling in all directions. The altar, draped in a lacy cloth, dominated one of the six sides but the floor was empty—no chairs, no benches—and, but for the staff and a chalice on the altar, the hall was free from adornment.
“I’ve had a rather bad thought,” Albus heard himself say as he sat cross-legged on the floor and gazed up at the ceiling. He glanced down in time to see Keleut roll her eyes slightly, but she gave no indication he shouldn’t continue. “What if sparing us on the sea wall was all part of the plan? And now they’re preparing the true manner of execution.”
“Fortunately for you, creativity is not the strongest quality of the Wisdoms of Onaxos.”
The voice came from the only door to the hall and Albus shot up, trying to stand and turn at the same time. As a result, he went lurching sideways, his balance only restored by Keleut’s firm hand on his shoulder.
The new arrival stood just inside the door. She was dressed in white robes with a lace hood through which peeked a thin circlet of silver. It wasn’t until she approached, her feet silent on the floor, and pushed the hood off her head to reveal long, white-blonde hair, that Albus realized how young she was. Poised, confident—but young. Hardly more than a child. And she spoke perfect Bellaran.
“Are you here to bring us to them? Or whatever comes next in this farce?” There was steel in Keleut’s voice and Albus was very glad she hadn’t succeeded in removing the staff from the wall.
The girl smiled as she tucked her hands into her sleeves. “I am what’s next.” She walked in a tight circle around Albus and Keleut, eying them both.
“I don’t have time for this,” Keleut said. “If we are not meant to be executed, then I will be leaving. I never should have come here. Onaxos is full of liars and empty promises.”
Albus debated whether to attempt to discreetly reach out and touch the pirate’s forearm, a restraining gesture she would no doubt fail to appreciate. But the girl did not seem offended. The smile returned—polite, pleasant, and wholly unnerving, Albus decided, though he could not have said why.
“You are not wrong, I’m afraid. But my promises are not empty.”
“Speak plainly, girl,” Keleut demanded.
And she did. “You wrote to Wisdom Isopho one hundred and forty-eight days ago. You received an answer thirty-two days ago.” These were not, Albus realized, questions. “In that response, you were invited to Onaxos, to meet with the Wisdoms, and to discuss a matter of great importance to you. Unfortunately, I’m afraid a bit of deception was necessary. You see, I invited you to Onaxos, though I had to use the name and authority of a Wisdom to do so.”
Albus very nearly expected Keleut to walk out of the hall, but, though she radiated tension and frustration as tangibly as a flame does heat, she held her ground—and her tongue, which was most certainly the more remarkable of the two.
“Would you like me to explain myself?” the girl asked.
When there was no answer from Keleut, Albus decided he had earned the right to speak for her. “Tell us about the black smoke and the white birds.”
The girl laughed, a beautiful sound that filled the hall of worship more completely than the shards of light passing through the windows.
“The smoke is a conduit between the Wisdoms and the Twins. A fire burns eternally at the top of the spire and the smoke is always white,” she said. “Except when the Twins speak. If a Wisdom receives a divine message, the smoke turns black.” The girl was smiling as though she were party to a great secret she wasn’t quite ready to share. “At least, this is how the city of Onaxos understands it.” She didn’t elaborate.
“And the birds?”
“Ah, that was the crucial touch, you see. Black smoke, while it signals celestial communication, can mean any number of things. But a flock of white ravens means something else entirely.” The smile grew wider. “White ravens are most precious to Taalo, who is our beacon of justice. Seeing the sky above the city, above the sea wall, fill with the white wings of ravens would be the equivalent of,” she paused, searching for a comparison, and fixed her gaze sharply on Keleut, “of seeing the mother spider descend from the stars of her web.”
Though Seycherran in origin, the meaning and enormity of the comparison was not lost on Albus. He studied the girl in front of him. She seemed to welcome the examination. “You manufactured a divine intervention on our behalf.”
“Well, I couldn’t allow my guests to be eaten by sharks.”
Albus stole a moment to digest this revelation by glancing at Keleut, who returned the look. He could see no course plotted in the pirate’s eyes. They were both treading water in the wide open sea of this girl’s scheme. He turned his attention back to the girl.
“And the acolyte? Could not the ravens have flown a moment earlier?” Albus asked.
“Her death was a shame,” the girl said, her tone implying it was anything but, “but surely letting one of the faithful die and interceding only on behalf of the strangers is far more convincing.”
The coolness of the reply chilled Albus’s skin. Whoever she was, no matter her age, he began to understand this girl was not to be underestimated.
The girl continued, her smile as sweet as ever. “If it’s acceptable to you, I’d like to introduce you to my brother.”
***
Logically, he should have been anticipating a boy a short span of years either younger or older than the girl. And yet Albus, as he and Keleut followed the girl f
rom the hall of worship and further up into the spire, was so shaken by the initial encounter, he was entertaining the notion that the brother would certainly be much older, a fully grown man, surely, who had charged his much younger sister with conducting the first part of his plan.
He was entirely wrong, as it turned out, both in terms of his logic and his speculation. The brother was neither younger nor older, but an exact copy of the girl.
Twins.
Not an exact copy. His hair was shorter. Albus looked again, searching for further differentiation in size or lip shape or eye color and finding none.
The girl had led them to a set of chambers. They were richly furnished and comfortable, but the lack of windows was so unlike the rest of the spire Albus had seen, he found it remarkable. The brother, dressed in a short tunic and leggings, had been removing a set of greaves from his shins when the sister had opened the door and ushered Keleut and Albus inside. He wore a plain leather cuirass, made dull by the brightness of his hair and his fine features. The smile with which he greeted them was identical to his sister’s.
“I think introductions are in order,” the girl said. “I am Aurelia nox Macedonos. This is my brother Aurelian.” She looked at Keleut. “You are Keleut of Seycherra, daughter of Nestor.” Her gaze shifted to Albus. “But you I don’t know.”
“Tristan,” Albus blurted. He could feel the heat of the lie in his cheeks and he was quite certain Keleut, visible in the corner of his vision, was desperately trying to restrain a sigh of exasperation. “Tristan Tarvonos, her interpreter.”
“We apologize,” Aurelian said from behind his sister, “for the reception you endured. This is not how we would have visitors treated.”
Keleut looked to Albus. For all her prowess at sea and ferocity when faced with intimidation, she seemed uncertain how to proceed.
“We welcome your courtesy,” Albus said. “But there is a great deal we do not understand. What is your position here? How is it that the Wisdoms are allowing this?”
The twins exchanged a glance, and then Aurelian spoke again. “The Wisdoms are unaware of this conversation, just as they are unaware of the fact that you did not fall from the sea wall a short time ago.”
“What do you mean?” Albus asked. “Surely they know.”
“All six of the Wisdoms are in communion with the Twins,” Aurelia said. “They will not emerge until sunset tomorrow. I changed the color of the smoke. I loosed the ravens from the top of the spire. My brother, in the name of the Wisdoms, saw that you were escorted to the Chamber of Dying. I met you there under the pretense of taking you to see Wisdom Isopho, who had received a message from the Twins reversing the order of execution—and with strict orders that under no circumstances should your meeting with Wisdom Isopho be disturbed.”
Albus looked from one face to the other. Their composure was frightening. “And you are allowed to speak for the Wisdoms?”
“It is a privilege we have cultivated with care,” Aurelian said. “And our name has some meaning here in the spire and in the city.”
If Albus were ensconced in the safety of the Lordican, perhaps with a cup of tea at his elbow and a familiar book on his lap, he would have eagerly delved into the meaning behind the boy’s words. But he was not in the Lordican and there was no familiarity or comfort to be had here. He sensed that despite the twins’ equanimity, they had limited time at their disposal before the careful deception the twins had built suffered a fatal crack.
Keleut seemed to sense the same. She stirred next to Albus. “What do you want? Why did you answer my letter when clearly the Wisdoms had no intention of doing so? You know what I asked, what it means.” Albus was left in the dark, but the pirate’s last words were heavy with meaning.
“That is a long story,” Aurelia said. “We do not have the time to share it with you now.”
“But know this,” her brother said. “We can bring Onaxos to stand at your side.”
Keleut let out a harsh laugh of disbelief. “Preposterous.” She threw up her hands and began to pace back and forth behind Albus, muttering a few words in Seycherran before coming to stand directly in front of the twins. “This is no game. This is no place for children playing at power.”
“We do not play.” Aurelian offered no further explanation, no reason to trust his word, but Albus could feel the conviction in him. It was terrifying.
“You have seen something of what we can do,” his sister said. “We can show you more. If you wish to see.”
Albus answered for them, feeling a deep need to understand the unsettling, precocious pair. “Then show us.”
The twins smiled.
***
Albus tugged at the white robe, its unfamiliar seams sitting in all the wrong places. He felt quite certain it made him look short.
Keleut snorted, her own robe resting easily on her shoulders and draping just so. “I never thought you were one for appearances. Tristan.” She threw out the false name acerbically. Albus had already apologized for that slip up the moment they were left in private, but then, he had not truly expected Keleut to let it go.
“I panicked,” he said again, feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment once more.
“Come on,” Keleut said. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can leave.”
She walked to the door of the chamber, but Albus hesitated to follow.
“Keleut,” he said, then faltered. She turned to look back at him, one hand on the door. There was an unexpected softness in her features. “What brought you to Onaxos? What did you write in that letter one hundred and forty-eight days ago?”
The last time he had asked a question about her plans and purpose, they had been in the middle of the Anerrean Sea and the most difficult part of Albus’s day was deciding how many spoonfuls of broth his stomach could tolerate. The last time had become the last time because she had rebuffed every question and Albus had decided to put his breath to more useful tasks—like breathing. It seemed an age ago.
“You will hate me if I tell you,” she said at last. “But I suppose you have earned the right to know.” She sighed and retraced her steps toward Albus. “The day we met. Do you remember the final question I asked you?”
“I will remember that question and that moment until the day I die.” Albus tried to laugh. “Maybe even beyond and you know now I don’t believe in a beyond.”
Keleut nodded, his attempt at humor lost. He had seen the pirate captain look fierce and determined. He had seen her look confused and even show the faintest hint of uncertainty. He had seen her laugh uproariously and he had seen her kill with ease. But Albus understood, as her deep brown eyes stared at him, that he had not, until that moment, seen the true Keleut of Seycherra. The words she was about to speak lay at the very heart of her.
“Your Alescuan kings and queens seized my country. They raped it, land and people. They stripped it of treasure, yes, but of dignity and its sense of self, too. And then they left it, like a predator, having gorged itself, leaves a carcass to rot in the sun. They moved on to the next prize, and my country has never been the same since.” Keleut hesitated, but not for a lack of conviction. For his sake, Albus realized. But there was no subtlety to the blow that followed. “I mean to make your Seven Cities bleed the way they made my country and my people bleed. I mean to have vengeance.”
It was with those words in his head that Albus followed the twins out of the spire. He walked in a daze, hardly noting the movement of his own feet. Destroy the Seven Cities. The pirate had gone on to say that she knew it was unlikely she could truly achieve her goal. The Seven Cities were wealthy and powerful and not without friends—and she would likely have only one chance to strike a devastating blow, one chance before retaliation came for her. But, she had said, if she could bring just one of the Seven to its knees before she went to join her ancestors in the stars, she could rest well.
Albus had not had the will to ask which of the Seven she was aiming for first.
The twins took t
hem down through the city—not using the water route, but by simply walking the streets, Keleut and Albus in tow and dressed as attendants.
As soon as they left the uppermost level, an old man spotted the twins and rushed forward to bow before them. His action attracted more eyes and soon they had drawn a crowd. Some citizens reached out to touch their robes, others simply knelt as they walked by. Some shouted out praise and prayers to Taalo and Toora, others invoked the Wisdoms, and still others looked at the twins’ young, beautiful faces in adoring silence.
By the time they had reached the third level below the spire, curving around to face the sea wall once more, their progress was impeded by the number of Onaxians following them, joining them, offering them flowers and prayers and well wishes, and Albus, jostled from the stupor of Keleut’s words, had to work to keep up.
Aurelia and Aurelian came to a halt on the fourth terrace of the city. They waved to the assembled crowd, spoke a few words of thanks, and then asked to be allowed to pray to the Twins in peace. The crowd melted away slowly and at last brother and sister entered a small garden at the edge of the terrace. The garden was walled off from the street but open to the sea view, and two small, neat shrines to the Twins flanked the path that led to the white stone balustrade that separated the garden from empty air. Aurelian and Aurelia, hand in hand, walked to the balustrade and turned to face Albus and Keleut. Their white robes and pale blonde hair glowed in the bright sunlight, and their youthful features seemed to radiate with the light of something that wasn’t mortal.
The prayer garden was no chance stopping point. For in that moment, as no doubt they intended, Albus saw behind them, like a shadow, the colossal statue of the divine Twins in the harbor, the right half, Toora with her spear and her armor, matching up behind Aurelian, the left half, Taalo and his raven, behind Aurelia.