The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery

by G. D. Falksen

  She pressed her lips to his and pushed him back into the snow as her dark hair fell about them like smoke and concealed from them the light of the moon and stars.

  * * * *

  They did not sleep but still Iosef woke at the approach of dawn. As the first rays of the rising sun prickled his flesh in anticipation of the burning to come, he opened his eyes and quickly pulled his cowl up over his face. He reached for Sophio but found that she was no longer beside him. Frowning, he sat up and put on his sunglasses before looking about for her.

  After a moment’s searching, he saw Sophio some distance away, seated cross-legged in the snow with her open palms outstretched to greet the dawn. The wind was blowing hard off the sea, and Sophio’s hair wove a wreath around her face like a creature possessed of life.

  Iosef turned his face away from the sun and walked to her side. He knelt and placed a hand on Sophio’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed and she did not look at him, but still she smiled.

  “You are awake,” she said. “I had wondered if you would miss the dawn.”

  “I did not intend to rest so long,” Iosef replied, gently pushing aside her hair and kissing her ear. “Perhaps my body was weary from the road.”

  “You are hungry,” Sophio corrected. “It has been weeks since last you enjoyed proper sustenance. You are not used to such deprivations, my love. It must be hard on you.”

  “I shall manage,” Iosef said with a slight grin. “After all, I am now a stylite. I shall subsist on nothing but my prayers and morning dew.”

  “There is no morning dew,” Sophio said to him, her smile growing broader. “It has all frozen like the land.”

  “Snowflakes then,” Iosef told her.

  He reached out with one fingertip and touched a snowflake that had stuck against Sophio’s eyelashes. With great care, he drew it away and studied it. Sophio opened the eye in question and looked toward him, her smile growing so broad that she showed her ivory teeth. Having drawn her attention, Iosef placed the snowflake on the tip of his tongue and consumed it.

  “See?” he asked.

  Sophio closed her eye again and said, “I suspect that a single snowflake will not sustain you. Perhaps we should find you some cattle to devour. It would make a most pleasurable diversion.”

  “Nonsense,” Iosef replied.

  “Man does not live by snowflakes alone,” Sophio reminded him.

  “Is that not bread?” Iosef asked.

  “Bread is more substantial than snowflakes.”

  “This is true.” A thought occurred to Iosef, and jokingly he said, “What a pity that I cannot simply drink your blood, my love. I am certain that it is sweeter than ambrosia.”

  At this, Sophio’s eyes opened in alarm, and she slowly turned her head to look at him.

  “Do not say such things, Iosef,” she told him. “Our blood is poison to the Living as surely as to those in the Shadow of Death. If I could, I would feed you with every part of myself so that you would not have to suffer hunger upon this journey...but it cannot be so.”

  “I know, my love,” Iosef reassured her. “I spoke in jest, nothing more.”

  Sophio smiled quickly and nodded. Closing her eyes, she turned her face toward the sun again.

  “I could not bear to lose you, Iosef,” she said. “And if I were somehow the cause, the pain of it would be so much worse.”

  “Do not fear, my love,” Iosef answered, stroking Sophio’s hair. “I have no intention of dying, not now that I have found you to make my eternity whole.”

  He sat beside Sophio and watched her as the sun shone against her pale face, making her glow like the snow that surrounded them. She was so very beautiful, the most beautiful woman Iosef had ever known. And, Iosef realized, with giddy excitement, the cloud of madness that had weighed upon her in the valley was already lifting. She was more alive, more coherent, and since their leaving, she had never once mistaken a moment of the past for the present. It might still happen—indeed, he feared that it would at least once before their journey was out—but it would do no harm. The journey was what Iosef had hoped it would be: Sophio’s salvation.

  “A stranger approaches,” Sophio suddenly said, drawing Iosef from his contemplation.

  “Where?” Iosef asked, quickly standing and looking around as best he was able. When he turned toward the sun, the light stung his face and he was obliged to look away again. But no matter where he looked, he saw nothing but rock and snow.

  “At a distance,” Sophio replied, “but approaching. You will see. From the southeast.”

  Iosef looked to where Sophio had said and waited patiently, the rough sea wind blowing hard against his back. Presently, he saw a figure appear in the distance, crossing the vast expanse of rock and frost that led to where they waited on the shore. The figure approached slowly, seemingly without haste, but eventually Iosef saw that it was a woman. She was tall—as tall as Iosef, as he gauged at the distance—fair of complexion but rosy-cheeked. Her hair was flaxen in color and long, streaming out behind her in the wind, some of it braided, other strands left free. She was dressed in a long damask robe of what might have been blue and gold silk, but it had been so worn by wind and sun and dirt that the colors were drab and the patterns upon it were almost unrecognizable.

  The woman leaned on a staff of polished ebony as she walked, though Iosef suspected she had no true need of it. The woman was clearly among the Living, for she crossed the frozen landscape bareheaded but with no sign of cold. As she drew near, Iosef studied her carefully. The meeting might only have been chance, but it was very strange. The odds of encountering another Shashavani in such a barren place were slight indeed, and Iosef could not help but fear some untoward purpose behind the stranger’s arrival.

  And as he looked upon her countenance, Iosef found himself thinking back to his encounter with Edith the Saxon in the tunnels beneath Boston. He had not seen her face then, but truly her hair had been long and fair, and she had been of a certain height; and this stranger could be one of the English Saxons.

  As the stranger neared them, Sophio finished her meditation and stood. She turned and nodded to the newcomer, studying her intently. The stranger approached and did the same, no doubt recognizing Sophio as the elder of the two, and therefore, both the wiser and the more dangerous.

  “I know you,” Sophio said, narrowing her eyes, not so much with suspicion as with the struggle to remember.

  “And I know you, Sister Sophio,” the stranger said.

  “But I know not from where or when,” Sophio added, frowning slightly. “I see you clearly in my mind’s eye but not what is around you or what passed between us. That is all fog and shadow.”

  “It was a long time ago,” the stranger replied, smiling. “You will recall in time.”

  “How shall I call you?” Sophio asked.

  Again the stranger smiled and she answered, “Olga shall suffice for now.”

  “Olga,” Sophio repeated. She tilted her head and continued to study the stranger. “I know you Olga.”

  “Indeed you do,” Olga agreed, her tone pleasant and friendly, which only made Iosef all the more suspicious. “You will recall in time; I do not doubt it.”

  “Of course,” Sophio said.

  Olga looked at Iosef. “I do not know you.”

  “I am Iosef, son of Bagrat,” Iosef told her, bowing his head.

  Now it was Olga who narrowed her eyes, studying Iosef very intently until Iosef was forced to look away from her gaze.

  “Perhaps I do know you,” Olga said, her tone tinged with the hint of suspicion. “Only now it is I who cannot recall when or where.” A lock of her hair blew across her face, and she gently tucked it back behind her ear. “Perhaps we have met already...or perhaps I merely heard tell of you from another. I too shall recall in time.”

  “Of course,” Iosef said, bristling.
>
  He kept his eyes downcast, considering his thoughts. It would be easy to assume that the woman was Edith, remembering him from their encounter in America; and it was dangerous to make assumptions. Then again, it was equally dangerous to dismiss such possibilities out of hand.

  “Where are you bound?” Sophio asked Olga.

  “To the Aral Sea,” Olga replied. “I sensed a presence there resting upon the northern shore. And so, I have gone in search of this old friend to see who it may be. Just as you are doing, I expect.”

  Sophio nodded. “This is so. It seems we have a common purpose.”

  “What chance you crossed our path,” Iosef said, endeavoring to keep his tone sincere and innocent. He doubted that he was successful.

  “Not chance at all,” Olga said. She addressed Sophio, “I sensed you at a distance as you no doubt sensed me, and I came in search of you. It is lonesome walking the world by oneself. My curiosity overcame me.”

  Sophio considered this and nodded again.

  “Will you join us?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Olga told her. “It will be good to travel among”—she looked from Sophio to Iosef before she finished—“familiar faces.”

  Sophio smiled and motioned toward the empty shore ahead of them.

  “We must retrieve our walking sticks,” she said. “You go ahead and we shall catch up with you shortly.”

  Olga nodded and said, “Of course.” She turned and continued walking northward with her long, easy gait.

  When Olga had moved out of earshot, Sophio said softly, “I know her, but I cannot recall the memory of her. I know with certainty that I should recall it, but I cannot.”

  Iosef gently stroked her hair to sooth her frustration.

  “It will come to you in time, my love. It will come soon enough.” He paused and then asked, “Is she...Edith the Saxon?”

  Sophio’s mouth tightened and she replied:

  “I cannot remember. And that is what troubles me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  •

  Midwinter

  Varanus lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling of her cell. The ceiling was decorated with a mosaic in a spiral pattern that always made Varanus dizzy when she looked at it. It was supposed to help with meditation, or so Iosef had told her. She did not believe a word of it.

  The cell was as comfortable as a cell could be. It was bare and austere, but at least it was meant to inspire solitude and introspection rather than punishment. She did not know what to make of that, but an ascetic’s cave was better than a rat-infested oubliette.

  “How are you, liebchen?” asked Korbinian, as he gently stroked her hair.

  Varanus looked up at him, her face conveying clearly the irritation she felt.

  “I am bored,” she replied.

  “Bored?” Korbinian pretended to be aghast. “But there is so much here to entertain you! The solitude, the introspection, the...patterns on the ceiling.”

  “Enthralling,” Varanus said. She groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Aagh! I feel like I am going mad! I must have activity! Books! But there is nothing! Nothing but silence!”

  “And also me,” Korbinian murmured, kissing her.

  Varanus sighed. “I think without you I would have lost my mind these past weeks. And to think that there are Shashavani who do this voluntarily.”

  “Well, they say that reflection is good for the soul, don’t they?” Korbinian mused.

  “They are idiots.”

  “Mmm.” Korbinian leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. “Come now, liebchen, be of good cheer, for soon it shall be Christmas.”

  Varanus growled at the mention of the holiday and glared at Korbinian. She watched him gently wipe away a droplet of blood that trickled from his eye.

  “It is not nearing Christmas,” Varanus said. “Not here. They still follow the Julian calendar here, so Christmas will not be celebrated for another two weeks.”

  “But we do not use the Julian calendar,” Korbinian reminded her, again wiping blood from his pallid face. “We use the Gregorian. And the Gregorian calendar says that Christmas is in two days.”

  Varanus sighed. Sitting up, she kissed Korbinian softly on the lips and brushed away the blood that had begun to trickle from the corners of his mouth.

  “You know that I cannot bear that day,” she said.

  Kobrinian looked at her sadly and said, “I know, liebchen, I know. But it is only a little while longer, and then it will have passed.”

  “True,” Varanus agreed, “but then I will still be confined to this cell until Easter.”

  “Hmm,” Korbinian mused. “This is also true.” He shrugged sadly and looked up at the ceiling. “I suppose...we could always count the tiles in the mosaic....”

  “That is a dreadful idea,” Varanus replied. She paused. Then, with reluctance, she sighed and began, “One...two...three...four....”

  * * * *

  Ekaterine set down another armload of books with a dejected sigh and ran her fingers through her hair. It had been decades since she had last been confined to the archives, and she did not enjoy a return to that ignominious work. This was her penance for her complicity in Varanus’s crime, but at least it was better than Varanus’s forced seclusion.

  Ekaterine had spent time as an archivist when she had first taken the cup, but then it had been appropriate. When one was young, one had to begin with lowly work, but she had long since advanced to greater independence and greater authority. To be back in the archives was shameful, which, she realized, made it a fitting punishment for her crime of arrogance.

  Not that she disliked the archives; they were beautiful and deep, with countless shelves of books and scrolls housed safely underground. The libraries in the castle were bountiful in their literature, but even they only represented a fraction of the knowledge that the Shashavani possessed. They held only the most commonly needed texts and those that did not have to be kept under lock and key. For more esoteric material, the Shashavani went to the archives, and it fell to the archivists to locate the texts that they needed.

  Ekaterine sighed and began returning the books and scrolls that she carried to their place on the shelves. She had been demoted to being an archivist. It was her duty to catalogue, to retrieve, and to shelve. Some of the Shashavani enjoyed the work and the solitude, and she wished them well for it. But an archivist simply tended the archives. They did not study the texts or conduct research—that was the work of the scholars—nor did they assess the content of the books and determine how they should be classified—that was the work of the librarians. They simply tended the archives. And Ekaterine hated every moment of it. She loved reading books; being surrounded by them but denied that particular pleasure was agony.

  “Excuse me, young lady,” a man’s voice addressed her from further along the shelves, “but can you perhaps direct me to a copy of Soslan’s Third Treatise.”

  Ekaterine turned and saw Vaclav the Moravian striding down the corridor toward her. She smiled brightly at him, delighted at the prospect of the distraction.

  “Father Vaclav!” she exclaimed. “What brings you to this solemn estate?”

  “I am searching for a book,” Vaclav said, returning the smile. “Soslan’s Third Treatise to be precise. I understand that a missing copy has recently been found.”

  He meant the copy that had been borrowed by Varanus and not returned. When the Shashavani had searched Varanus’s rooms, they had discovered her stockpile of texts and promptly returned them to the archives. But though Vaclav’s tone was teasing, it was not malicious.

  “I may know where it is, Father Vaclav,” Ekaterine said. She motioned to him to follow her. “Assuming it has been returned to where it was the last time. But surely, this is not the work of a scholar. Tell me which texts you require, and I shall find them for yo
u.”

  Vaclav laughed and replied, “Nonsense, this is a good place. A place of knowledge.” He looked at one of the bookshelves and placed his hand against the wood. “It may be dark, it may be cramped, it may be lonesome...but it is important. And important things are to be respected.”

  Ekaterine fluttered her eyelashes and asked innocently, “Do you wish to become an archivist, Father Vaclav? We could exchange duties, you and I.”

  “I enjoy being a scholar,” Vaclav said, though he seemed amused at the suggestion. “Though I have always felt that one may be a scholar and an archivist both.”

  “I will be certain to share your views with some of the scholars when they come asking for texts,” Ekaterine replied.

  “They will be well received, I have no doubt,” Vaclav told her.

  Ekaterine motioned for him to follow her.

  “This way,” she said.

  She led him down the rows of shelves in search of the missing book.

  “How is Varanus?” she asked hesitantly.

  Of course, she had not been permitted to see her. She did not know if anyone else had either, but Vaclav was of middle years and well respected. He might have knowledge she did not.

  “Alas, I do not know,” Vaclav replied, his tone sympathetic. “But I have heard no ill news regarding her, and I often am privy to such things.” He smiled at Ekaterine and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do not fear,” he said. “Her confinement is only a few months. She will be released very soon, very soon by our reckoning, and I have every confidence that when the Eristavi returns, Varanus will be released from her penance.”

  “I do hope so,” Ekaterine said. She sighed. “I cannot imagine the House without her.”

  “You need not,” Vaclav assured her. “All will be well, I am certain of it. And soon it will be Christmas. And that will be joyful.”

  “True,” Ekaterine told him. “Christmas is Christmas, but I tell you truly, Father Vaclav, I shall not rest soundly until Easter.”

  * * * *

  That evening, Luka sat on the northern terrace with Lady Zawditu, smoking a pipe and watching the coming of night as the sun descended into darkness.