The Move on the Board

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:21 pm CEST

Loche Newirth is relieved when he hears his father’s familiar voice, “Ithic veli agtig.” He is also amused when William Greenhame draws a sword, stretches himself into his wonted, painfully unusual ballet pose and adds, “I’m not dead yet.”

Silence. Albion Ravistelle tears his mask from his face as if to remove any possible hinderance to his vision. He squints into the sheer light. He stands mute, but his expression demands, Is it really you?

William savors the quiescence—the wonderstruck shock —the image of wheels turning in his old friend’s mind. William waits. And waits a little longer. Finally William says, “Mark me. I am thy former friend’s spirit.”

The audience chortles at the line and their heads twist to Albion for a rebuttal. He blinks. “William? You were—you were gone—”

William bows lower. “How I love my wife. It was she that drew me home from the sea.”

Marvel and confusion battle for control over Albion’s face. His mouth curves into a smile and his eyes glitter with seeming gratitude and suspicion both. After a deep breath, presumably signifying the acceptance of Fate’s toying hands, Albion asks, “So you’ve come again to prevent our inevitable evolution? You’ve come to stop us from entering a New Earth?”

William says, “I’ve come to tell you a number of things, but for now, I’ll limit myself to two items.”

Albion waits. William waits.

Albion asks, “And the items are?”

“The first item is to tell you that you are a nutter. Completely mad. A lunatic. Gifted, yes. Brilliant, pretty good speaker, but for the most part, a looney.” William gestures with his eyes to the wide, dark periphery of the chamber. Albion looks around. Just outside the circle of Basil’s paintings—just beyond the reach of the spotlights, a large group of men armed with both handguns and lightweight swords have surrounded the revelers. Loche feels for the handle of his rapier. He notes the men are masked and wear the same tactical attire as Emil Wishfeill.

Greenhame says, “Second, know that I am not here to stop you. Instead, I am here to help you.”

Albion casts a slightly confused glare at each corner of the room. “Help me? And just how will you do that?”

“Albion. Albion Ravistelle. They will not allow you to continue. You are not their leader. A single mind cannot rule the human collective. They will not allow your intervention, nor our intervention any longer—we Itonalya. The age-old Godrethion have hunted us, they have slain our ancestors—they have killed —killed,” Greenhame’s voice breaks. His next words are a struggle to bury sorrow, “Killed—my grandson. Killed my Edwin.” He halts. A slight shake of his head and he resets his tone, “And now our beloved Alyaeth.” He opens his embrace to the surrounding faces, “These mortals we have spent lifetimes protecting—now they have no need of us. The New Earth Albion, will not be of our making—it will be theirs. It was always theirs.”

The encircling group slowly encroaches.

Albion turns to his nearest assistants. Loche locates them retreating behind the advancing men. Their eyes still on their former master.

William says, “You have been replaced, Albion. The Board is making its move.”

Albion takes a nervous step back from the podium. For the first time, Loche sees fear tugging at his seemingly unshakable demeanor. But it is but a passing shadow.

“Well then,” he grins at William Greenhame. “Treachery! Seek it out!” His cloak waves up and over his shoulder and a bright blade sings into the air.