Epilogue
The Consul awoke to
the sound of a balalaika being played so softly that at first he
thought it was an undercurrent of his dream.
The Consul rose,
shivered in the cold air, wrapped his blanket around him, and went
out onto the long balcony. It was not yet dawn. The skies still
burned with the light of battle.
‘I’m sorry,’ said
Lenar Hoyt, looking up from his instrument. The priest was huddled
deep in his cape.
‘It’s all right,’
said the Consul. ‘I was ready to awaken.’ It was true. He could not
remember feeling more rested. ‘Please continue,’ he said. The notes
were sharp and clear but barely audible above the wind noise. It
was as if Hoyt was playing a duet with the cold wind from the peaks
above. The Consul found the clarity almost painful.
Brawne Lamia and
Colonel Kassad came out. A minute later Sol Weintraub joined them.
Rachel twisted in his arms, reaching toward the night sky as if she
could grasp the bright blossoms there.
Hoyt played. The wind
was rising in the hour before dawn, and the gargoyles and
escarpments acted like reeds to the Keep’s cold
bassoon.
Martin Silenus
emerged, holding his head. ‘No fucking respect for a hangover,’ he
said. He leaned on the broad railing. ‘If I barf from this height,
it’ll be half an hour before the vomitus lands.’
Father Hoyt did not
look up. His fingers flew across the strings of the small
instrument. The northwest wind grew stronger and colder and the
balalaika played counterpart, its notes warm and alive. The Consul
and the others huddled in blankets and capes as the breeze grew to
a torrent and the unnamed music kept pace with it. It was the
strangest and most beautiful symphony the Consul had ever
heard.
The wind gusted,
roared, peaked, and died. Hoyt ended his tune.
Brawne Lamia looked
around. ‘It’s almost dawn.’
‘We have another
hour,’ said Colonel Kassad.
Lamia shrugged. ‘Why
wait?’
‘Why indeed?’ said
Sol Weintraub. He looked to the east where the only hint of sunrise
was the faintest of palings in constellations there. ‘It looks like
a good day is coming.’
‘Let’s get ready,’
said Hoyt. ‘Do we need our luggage?’
The group looked at
one another.
‘No, I think not,’
said the Consul. ‘The Colonel will bring the comlog with the
fatline communicator. Bring anything necessary for your audience
with the Shrike. We’ll leave the rest of the stuff
here.’
‘All right,’ said
Brawne Lamia, turning back from the dark doorway, gesturing toward
the others, ‘let’s do it.’
There were six
hundred and sixty-one steps from the northeast portal of the Keep
to the moor below. There were no railings. The group descended
carefully, watching their step in the insecure light.
Once onto the valley
floor, they looked back at the outcrop of stone above. Chronos Keep
looked like part of the mountain, its balconies and external
stairways mere slashes in the rock. Occasionally a brighter
explosion would illuminate a window or throw a gargoyle shadow, but
except for those instances it was as if the Keep had vanished
behind them.
They crossed the low
hills below the Keep, staying on grass and avoiding the sharp
shrubs which extended thorns like claws. In ten minutes they had
crossed to sand and were descending low dunes toward the
valley.
Brawne Lamia led the
group. She wore her finest cape and a red silk suit with black
trim. Her comlog gleamed on her wrist. Colonel Kassad came next. He
was in full battle armor, camouflage polymer not yet activated so
the suit looked matte black, absorbing even the light from above.
Kassad carried a standard-issue FORCE assault rifle. His visor
gleamed like a black mirror.
Father Hoyt wore his
black cape, black suit, and clerical collar. The balalaika was
cradled in his arms like a child. He continued to set his feet
carefully, as if each step caused pain. The Consul followed. He was
dressed in his diplomatic best, starched blouse, formal black
trousers and demi-jacket, velvet cape, and the gold tricorne he had
worn the first day on the treeship. He had to keep a grip on the
hat against the wind that had come up again, hurling grains of sand
in his face and sliding across the dune tops like a serpent. Martin
Silenus followed close behind in his coat of wind-rippled
fur.
Sol Weintraub brought
up the rear. Rachel rode in the infant carrier, nestled under the
cape and coat against her father’s chest. Weintraub was singing a
low tune to her, the notes lost in the breeze.
Forty minutes out and
they had come even with the dead city. Marble and granite gleamed
in the violet light. The peaks glowed behind them, the Keep
indistinguishable from the other mountain-sides. The group crossed
a sandy vale, climbed a low dune, and suddenly the head of the
valley of the Time Tombs was visible for the first time. The Consul
could make out the thrust of the Sphinx’s wings and a glow of
jade.
A rumble and crash
from far behind them made the Consul turn, startled, his heart
pounding.
‘Isn’t it beginning?’
asked Lamia. ‘The bombardment?’
‘No, look,’ said
Kassad. He pointed to a point above the mountain peaks where
blackness obliterated the stars. Lightning exploded along the false
horizon, illuminating icefields and glaciers. ‘Only a storm,’ he
said.
They resumed their
trek across vermilion sands. The Consul found himself straining to
make out the shape of a figure near the Tombs or at the head of the
valley. He was certain beyond all certainty that something awaited
them there . . . that it awaited.
‘Look at that,’ said
Brawne Lamia, her whisper almost lost in the wind.
The Time Tombs were
glowing. What the Consul had first taken to be light reflected from
above was not. Each Tomb glowed a different hue and each was
clearly visible now, the glow brightening, the Tombs receding far
back into the darkness of the valley. The air smelled of
ozone.
‘Is that a common
phenomenon?’ asked Father Hoyt, his voice thin.
The Consul shook his
head. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It had never been
reported at the time Rachel came to study the Tombs,’ said Sol
Weintraub. He began to hum the low tune as the group started
forward again through shifting sands.
They paused at the
head of the valley. Soft dunes gave way to rock and ink-black
shadows at the swale which led down to the glowing Tombs. No one
led the way. No one spoke. The Consul felt his heart beating wildly
against his ribs. Worse than fear or knowledge of what lay below
was the blackness of spirit which seemed to have come into him on
the wind, chilling him and making him want to run screaming toward
the hills from which they had come.
The Consul turned to
Sol Weintraub. ‘What’s that tune you’re singing to
Rachel?’
The scholar forced a
grin and scratched his short beard. ‘It’s from an ancient flat
film. Pre-Hegira. Hell, it’s pre-everything.’
‘Let’s hear it,’ said
Brawne Lamia, understanding what the Consul was doing. Her face was
very pale.
Weintraub sang it,
his voice thin and barely audible at first. But the tune was
forceful and oddly compelling. Father Hoyt uncradled the balalaika
and played along, the notes gaining confidence.
Brawne Lamia laughed.
Martin Silenus said in awe, ‘My God, I used to sing this in my
childhood. It’s ancient.’
‘But who is the
wizard?’ asked Colonel Kassad, the amplified voice through his
helmet oddly amusing in this context.
‘And what is Oz?’
asked Lamia.
‘And just who is off
to see this wizard?’ asked the Consul, feeling the black panic in
him fade ever so slightly.
Sol Weintraub paused
and tried to answer their questions, explaining the plot of a flat
film which had been dust for centuries.
‘Never mind,’ said
Brawne Lamia. ‘You can tell us later. Just sing it
again.’
Behind them, the
darkness had engulfed the mountains as the storm swept down and
across the moors toward them. The sky continued to bleed light but
now the eastern horizon had paled slightly more than the rest. The
dead city glowed to their left like stone teeth.
Brawne Lamia took the
lead again. Sol Weintraub sang more loudly, Rachel wiggling in
delight. Lenar Hoyt threw back his cape so as to better play the
balalaika. Martin Silenus threw an empty bottle far out onto the
sands and sang along, his deep voice surprisingly strong and
pleasant above the wind.
Fedmahn Kassad pushed
up his visor, shouldered his weapon, and joined in the chorus. The
Consul started to sing, thought about the absurd lyrics, laughed
aloud, and started again.
Just where the
darkness began, the trail broadened. The Consul moved to his right,
Kassad joining him, Sol Weintraub filling the gap, so that instead
of a single-file procession, the six adults were walking abreast.
Brawne Lamia took Silenus’s hand in hers, joined hands with Sol on
the other side.
Still singing loudly,
not looking back, matching stride for stride, they descended into
the valley.