The Sun Room

November 14, this year
Venice, Italy
6:22 pm CEST

“I thought we were going to see Graham,” Astrid says. Her hands tremble. She recognizes the symbol on the control panel’s metal casing—or at least, she read about it in Loche’s Journal. Above a single lit button is an embossed crescent moon opening over a ladder. She points at it.

Albion nods and places his hand on her shoulder. “We will visit Mr. Cremo in due time.” He notices her shaking hands. “Professor, do not be afraid. Your intuition and memory serve you. Behind this door are the works of Basil Pirrip Fenn. Behind this door is the answer you’ve longed to know your entire life: Is there a Hereafter?” He smiles. “I suppose you may be growing weary of revelation after revelation—but the answer is yes.” The smile fades, “At least for now. At least while Loche’s word remains…”

“I—” Astrid starts. A sudden fear grips her. She imagines how Loche described the effects of Basil’s work—The Silk—infinity—madness. “I don’t want to—”

“Please, Professor, Fausto, young Marcel, do not be afraid. You will not look upon the full face of God this evening. But you may, if you choose, peek through a parted curtain to see a blade of grass upon the fields of Elysium.”

Astrid stares.

“We have found a way to show Basil’s art through a kind of filter. Each painting contains what the artist called a Center. After many failed trials, we have found a way to unveil Heaven without destroying the mind of the viewer.”

Albion presses the button three times. The elevator descends.

“Of course, the experience is unforgettable. Disturbing for some, for others thrilling beyond measure—but without doubt, different for all. For our plight, as Loche has so aptly described, your eyes will bleed human imperfection into Paradise. However, what once caused a crippling mental break, now brings wisdom —or something near to it.”

“My friend,” Fausto’s voice quavers, “I do not want to see what my heart tells me I should not.”

Albion’s laugh is light, “As I have said, Fausto, do not fear. You do not have to look. You may if you wish. I bring you to the Sun Room to simply show you the truth. It is your choice to see it or to look away.”

The elevator halts. The doors slide open. A blinding white light forces all but Albion to squint. He gestures for them to enter, “Behold, the Sun room.”

It is just as Loche described. A round room of indeterminate size. Massive. Pillars, Roman numerals embossed into the marble floor, and around the perimeter are what looks like a thousand curtained windows. Astrid feels her skin tingle into gooseflesh. Behind each curtain is one of Basil’s paintings.

“Over the last few days we have had a great many people viewing the Painter’s work. Those that were sick in heart and mind have found comfort and health. Others have found madness and pain. But now we have found a way to shield the viewer from any permanent harm—and we can share the truth with those who will help to reshape our dying world.”

“The masquerade ball?” Astrid asks.

“The masquerade ball, yes.” Albion agrees. “Our attempt at the Uffizi to share the work was shortsighted. This time we hope to elude the press as best we can, conceal the participants through an age old device: a mask. In the Grand Ballroom on the main floor we will present fifty of Basil’s works. Then we shall lead the revelers down to the Sun Room to see the wealth of the Hereafter that we have taken as our own. Our guests are the most powerful people in the world. With the aid of these political and economic leaders, we will start the motor of the world. The gathering will be the beginning to a new consciousness. A New Earth.”

“What of the Orathom Wis?” Marcel asks. “You must expect their resistance.”

Albion waves his hand, “The Orathom Wis were the first on the invitation list. What is left of them, that is. Their resistance? It is possible, though I am of the mind they will understand our kinship is now more important than our differences. We shall come together. It is inevitable.”

Astrid’s eyes are now adjusted to the glaring white of the space. She turns her body in a circle as she walks into the room’s center scanning the curtains covering eternity. Her body freezes when she sees one of the niche’s curtained shields parted. At a distance she sees a painting upon an easel. She quickly averts her eyes.

“Ah,” Albion says. “The only work in the Sun Room that does not require a shroud, though, I dare say, it should. Also, the only work here that is not of Basil Fenn’s hand.”

Astrid begins walking toward the piece. The others follow. As the black and red swirl of it sharpens, she sees the content. Upon the canvas is the depiction of a murder. Astrid easily reads who is who. The victim is Bethany Winship. The killer is Rearden. Astrid tries to look away, only to swivel back to the thing’s leering, bleeding, vicious embrace. She feels as if she’s seen the painting before, if only in her mind. Loche’s description scrolls in her memory: Twisting in hues of red and black—a monstrous, lurid smile, lips of thin blood like scars mingled with gargantuan, murderous eyes bearing down upon another face, a pale, sleeping form. Bethany Winship. Around her throat are gripping, claw-like fingers. A wounded, bleeding sunset fills the background glowering down and mirroring itself upon a still body of water. Reflecting in the water are the two figures, but instead of the foreground’s strangling embrace, the figures are intertwined and intimate—delicate and pure. The right corner of the work holds a signature—L. Newirth. And below that, the title—Marcus Rearden, Murderer.

Astrid shakes her head and turns away.

Albion stops beside her and continues to examine the work. “Magnificent, is it not?”

“It is not,” Astrid says quietly.

“Love and death intermingling. Power and weakness. The innocent and the killer.” He shakes his head and sighs appreciatively, “Perfectly Rearden.”

“Fuck Rearden,” she spits thinking of the last time she saw him. “He shot Graham in cold blood.”

Albion turns to her. “As I have already said, my apologies for his behavior. Inexcusable. But The Board and my associates have given the good doctor carte blanche in the matter of Loche Newirth. He and he alone knows Loche’s nature. Rearden is our best chance at either silencing the Poet or bringing him to heel.”

“Death or submission. Aren’t those the very things you and yours are fighting against, Mr. Ravistelle?”

“Why, yes, Professor. But more so against the one that created it.”

Two attendants approach. One hands Albion a clipboard. As Albion turns to them and scans the attached document he says, “There can be no success for any endeavor while the power of creation exists in the hands of one. If Loche can create gods he can destroy the world. If he can wink characters to life from his imagination, he can remove them. What he has done thus far, I am uncertain if I would offer my blessing—save that I am still alive—I am still here—and I have found a way to survive the blunder of his failed plot. While he lives, he threatens existence.”

“So you will force him to create what you want him to create, is that it?”

Albion thinks a moment, staring at her. “Yes.” He signs the document on the board and hands it back to the attendant. “Or I will kill him. It is very simple. And, my dear Professor, Loche Newirth is fully aware of my intentions.”

“If that is so, aren’t you concerned that he is already working out how to write—”

“—write me and all of us out of the story?” he interrupts. “Indeed, a potential complication. Though,” he glances back up at the painting, “we have an influential force at work on the problem as we speak.”

“Rearden?” Astrid nearly laughs.

“Rearden,” Albion says.

“You trust that asshole?”

“Professor Finnley—I have been alive for over a thousand years. Whether I trust Rearden or not is beside the point. He will perform his allotted function, and he will answer to me—that is all I require of any person.”

“And if he betrays you?”

Albion waits. He grins. “Time will tell.”

Astrid mirrors the grin and returns it mockingly. “Time will tell indeed, Mr. Ravistelle.”