In the Laps of the Gods

November 11, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
3:05pm AZOT

It is decided. They are to leave by nightfall.

George gives a speech about the sacred artifacts now in the care of the Orathom Wis: the Poet, the boy god, the writing contained in the pages of a red spiral notebook, the Leaves of Fire. “Holy elements,” he calls them, “will deliver us. We will guard humankind. We will stay true to our mandate.” Then he adds with gravity, “But the flood has come. Gods will fight in this war. Like long ago, they will fight to keep order.”

Corey Thomas shares what he learned while in Albion Ravistelle’s confidence. From out of his jacket he unveils a small leather pouch of leaves and holds them up.

“To William Greenhame, hoy!”

Every voice echoes: “Hoy!”

Corey explains how Albion’s team, directed by Dr. Angelo Catena, has managed to take an ancient seedling from the plant, enhance it with the latest advances in genetic engineering, and grow a biological miracle. A pale fruit. Its juice as red as blood. The very tree marking the center of myth, of Eden. A true Tree of Life. Corey tells that three people have eaten of the fruit. He nods to the love of Samuel Eversman, Leonaie Eschelle. Loche’s eyes move to the beautiful woman, her hair now more brown than grey. She meets his gaze, and for a moment he thinks she is trying to say something. A tear forms below her eye.

Leonaie stands and shares how her beloved Samuel had taken her to Venice for a treatment that would make her immortal. Many times during her recounting, her words are arrested by emotion. Others in the room openly weep when she tells of her first sight when she awoke as an immortal: the beheading of her love, Samuel. When she speaks the assassin’s name, Emil Wishfeill, the very proper Leonaie spits on the floor. No one in her audience is shocked by the gesture. She hisses, “I will have him. I will have him for Samuel.” Empathy and anger cross the gathering’s collective countenance. Her voice lowers, “But I was made immortal, and I do not know what it means… I do not know how to go on without my Samuel.”

Corey places a comforting hand upon Leonaie’s shoulder. Watching her, his sorrow transforms to anger. He growls the name, “Nicolas Cythe is the second to have eaten of the fruit. The Devil now has the blood of our ancestors. The Devil is now immortal.”

Corey pauses. “The third recipient is unknown to me. I am sure we will know in due time.

“Using the fruit of the leaves, Ravistelle will repopulate the earth with immortals—with the paintings he will aim the sickness of humanity heavenward, and with the death of Loche Newirth, his story will not be overwritten.”

Helen is asked to tell what she knows. Listening to her speak, Loche wonders if she’s telling the truth. There is a subtle kindness in her voice. It is foreign, but welcome. A levelness in her tone that doesn’t appear strained or contrived. As she speaks to the gathering, her grey eyes do not stray from Edwin. Her hands are fists at her sides. She speaks slowly and carefully.

“It is true that Loche’s assassination was planned,” Helen agrees, “but there is a division in policy. Albion feels it is best to simply follow through with an assassination in order to keep Loche from writing something that would stop his war. Everyone on his council agreed except for two—Nicholas Cythe is one. He felt that killing the Poet was a mistake.” Her eyes tick to Loche. “He said that the Poet could be trained. The Poet could be made to write whatever they wanted. With the right pressure—”

The weight of many stares fall upon Loche. “I, myself can’t control the writing,” he says, “how could they?”

Helen’s eyes drift to Edwin, but she speaks to Loche, “He said that with the right pressure—he could preach to your subconscious—a way to push you and your muse into writing what they want.”

“Preach to my subconscious? That should be an interesting experiment for the psychologist in me to witness.”

Helen remains gentle but stoic. She looks at Loche, “They have ways to make you. Certainly, they can use those you love—or they can leverage innocent people, whole cities even. They can bring an entirely new meaning to terrorism, Loche. But they see such actions as barbaric. They won’t stoop to human methods unless all else has failed. No, they will begin with a weapon—a weapon that seems made just for you.” She glances toward Corey, avoiding eye contact. “The third to eat of the fruit—his name is Dr. Marcus Rearden. He is now Itonalya.” She turns back to Loche. “Albion, Cythe and Rearden have become quite the trinity. Rearden knows how to find you in the dark. He knows you better than even I. It’s Rearden that wants the chance to find a way into your mind. He has been given that chance. It is almost a race between them to find you. Rearden has access to everything in Albion’s house. Everything—” she pauses. She starts again, “The paintings, Loche. He has spent some time in Basil’s Center. He knows things. He knows things…”

A stone crushes Loche’s abdomen at the thought of Rearden within the Center. His mind wrestles between the admiration he once had for his mentor, and the murderer that claimed the life of Bethany Winship. What other terrors lurk in Rearden’s past? He nods. “Rearden knows me, it’s true. But I still don’t see how he, Albion or Cythe, for that matter, can manipulate my writing. It was the Priest Lake Journal that started all of this—and though I wrote it, something not-of-this-earth made it real. It seems to me they would have to persuade that entity to cooperate. Convincing a muse or a god seems a little beyond their reach.”

Helen’s eyes move to Edwin and they shine with sudden tears. “Is it?”

Concern darkens each of the gathered faces. Edwin is warm in his arms. Loche thinks of the little boy, just days ago, walking out of the back bedroom at the Priest Lake cabin, with one bare foot, the other wore a sock—his pajamas bedraggled. “Hungry,” he had said. “Hungry, Daddy. Pancakes.” How did he come to be there? Loche still wonders. The universe had tilted somehow. A portal between the pages of a book had warped history. Imagined lives winked into existence. Reality altered and augmented from a few short sentences. And the little boy stepped out of the dark and into the fire lit cabin as Loche’s hand lifted from the last period on the page—from the puddled ink at the tip of his pen. This little boy, that has now fallen through the pupil of some seraphic specter and returned as both his son and god entwined, lies in Loche’s lap, staring out the window of the great hall.

Suddenly, Helen’s words are an inescapable avalanche. He no longer questions her intentions. He trusts her next sentiment implicitly. “If they capture you, Loche, you will wish I had taken your life when the chance came.” She sits, “If they learn of what Edwin now bears and they take him, I will wish my own death.”