The Trust of Helen Newirth

1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

Helen Newirth enfolds Edwin in her arms. Towering over her with the Rathinalya tugging at his jaw, her jailor, the formidable Talan Adamsman, watches the reunion closely. Wide-eyed, with her hands clustered into fists at her sides and smiling at the mother and son reunion is the newest to the Orathom Wis ranks, Leonaie Eschelle.

Edwin turns to Loche while being smothered in his mother’s kisses and tears. His little grinning face fades into a translucent mask then back to smiles—the sight sends a nail dragging down Loche’s spine. The boy god from Basil’s painting appears from behind Edwin’s skin. Shadows pool in Its eye sockets and two tiny pin-pricks of light, both horrifyingly reminiscent of the yawning Center, glimmer like distant stars. The two faces crossfade back and forth at a pace that matches Loche’s breathing.

The psychologist shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut to make it stop.

Julia says, “Loche?”

An instinct from some impossible to understand neurological firing struggles for mastery in Loche’s mind. Its directive is to scream to the entwined entities of God and Son, Hide yourself! Not here! They will… they will kill you…this is no place for a god! But all that comes from Loche’s mouth is the vapor of his breath in the cool, autumn dusk.

“Loche?” Julia asks again. He feels William’s hand on his shoulder.

It is the massive Talan Adamsman that breaks the phantasmic stranglehold on Loche when he says, “George believes that Helen still has a role to play—so he allowed us passage to find you.”

Corey says, “But I see, Talan, that you are still her chaperone.”

“I am,” Talan says. He bows as William dismounts and stands beside Corey. “William Greenhame. William. When word came of your fall, I laughed. William Greenhame, I told them, even limbed and thrown to the sea with the fishes, William will live. Gal Ashto! Good to see you, my friend.”

William bows in return, “Lain, Talan.”

Talan motions to Leonaie Echelle. She is pretty. Her hair even more brown than the last time Loche saw her in the Azores —age shuffling off its coils from her face and her frame. But behind her youthing, there is nothing that can hide the grief she carries—the death of her beloved, Samuel Lifeson. Each time Loche has seen Leonaie he has noticed tears weighing below her eyes. This meeting is no different.

Talan says, “Miss Leonaie Echelle has come at her own request. George approved of her coming. Her errand is unknown to me.”

Leonaie’s smile, though sad, is still piercing and bright. “I am here to speak with Dr. Newirth. I will need to speak to him in private as soon as we are able.”

Helen lets out a breathy snicker, “Yes. Place me on the private convo waiting list, too, won’t you?”

The massive Italian man scowls at Helen—his thick eyebrows angle angrily. “As for Helen—George does not trust her… nor do I. Nor do any of you, I expect. But I believe her youthful urges are finally finding the right road.” He faces Loche, “After all, you are alive, Dr. Newirth. If Helen had not escaped my supervision at the Azores Omvide, the bullet meant for you may have met its target. I am thankful for my failure and letting her slip from my grasp. One can never order fate completely.”

Helen’s detached and myopic tone sounds out, “Husband, I saved your life. And please, don’t be so shocked to see me. After all, because of this little fellow, we’ll always be a family.” Her voice has its familiar, unsettling quality.

Edwin’s cheeks glow crimson.

This is no place for a god. Loche thinks again, but a strange relief unwinds the muscles along his shoulders. Perhaps the grafted boy and God heard his frightened plea. George Everman’s voice drifts through—as does the sound of a sizzling omelet, “Trouble for Edwin is that we, Orathom Wis, eat the gods.” The Itonalya already know, of course. The Rathinalya is enough to place the boy on the plate. But if the god shows itself, its swirling, glittery eyes, Loche believes a ravenous, immortal mob might devour them all. At least Helen will be there to protect Edwin if things go terribly wrong.

And what exactly has gone right? he thinks.

“Always a family,” Helen continues, “And you’re stuck with me.”

Corey speaks, “We, Helen, may be stuck with you—but it does not mean that you have earned our trust.”

“You speak of trust, Corey Thomas?” Helen sighs, sarcastic. Her words border on laughter. “You? Which trust, I wonder? Albion’s? George’s? Really, Corey, I’ve learned much from you over the years—but you’re not the only one that can pull off double agent. But never mind—time will tell.”

She kisses Edwin on the forehead and stands. Her head swivels and her eyes take in the entry court of the West Gate of the City. “And, Corey, here we are in Wyn Avuqua, as told in the Toele. Can you believe it? You do remember our first bottle of wine together, don’t you? Beside the canal in Venice? What was I, 19? We spoke of this place—the true home of our kind. Do you remember?”

Corey listens but remains stoic and impassive.

“And we talked about what we were all waiting on… how did we say it? Waiting on this omen thing from this place?” Her fingers comb through Edwin’s hair. “And didn’t you instruct me, all those years ago, to consider the dictum: the less you care, the longer you last? Well, I do care, Corey Thomas.” She gently places her hands on either side of Edwin’s face. She then says to Loche, “And I’ve lasted long enough to know whose side I’m on.”

“And whose side is that, Helen?” Corey asks.

She answers the question with her grey eyes studying Loche’s face. “Loche knows…”

“And what of trust?” comes the deep baritone voice of Vincale. “I can see now the only trust one should keep is that anything is possible. I can trust that divisions between the Itonalya will indeed widen, for I see between you, great chasms. Even now in the City, cracks are forming between us. I shudder to think of what is to come for our people. Never would I have thought that one Itonalya could not trust another.”

William says, “You can trust there is nothing sacred—even we. Time will crumble the very mountains of this world.”

Vincale shadows. “Come,” he says. “I am to bring Loche and his son to Tiris Avu. The Queen waits. She above all will want to learn how the moon’s children will one day break faith.”