The Bane of Immortality

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:53 pm CEST

George Eversman’s wiry frame snaps from the top of the stairs to Cythe like a flung rubber band. Yafarra wriggles forward onto her belly and reaches for the steps above her. Astrid rolls to one side to protect her, and tries to pull her upward. At the same time she reaches a hand down to Graham. His eyes are open. The guard he had tackled is now standing and hurling his baton at George Eversman. The guard misses his target. Graham grabs the man’s ankle and trips him over the railing.

George falls upon the Devil and they cluster into an embrace. A moment later they tumble down to the base of the stairs. George pounds his fists into Cythe’s chest and face, sending mists of blood into the air. Security guards join the fray to assist Cythe in restraining George’s seemingly mindless ferocity. They wedge the two apart.

“The Angofal is mine,” Cythe shouts climbing to his feet, “The Chal is mine and mine alone.” The two guards let them free and cower back as if from the lashing of a whip.

George whirls away and stands. He glances up the stairs at his mother, then back to Nicholas. His expression is something Astrid cannot quite place. It is partly blank, partly halcyon. As Cythe raises his sword and dagger in preparation for George to attack, George stands with his arms at his side, his blade point down, and his head slightly tilted. He studies his opponent with thoughtful curiosity. One moment it seems as if he is indifferent and aloof, the next, he appears to be having a kind of revelation —a quickening. The brown pools of his eyes brighten.

“Come, Iteav,” The Devil says. “The sea calls for your head. The sea hungers for the head of your mother. Let us feed it.”

“Tell me, Cy,” George says. “What happens after? What is there for us when we, the Itonalya, fall? When the sea takes us?”

A peculiar gleam flashes in Cythe’s gyring irises as if the revelation of George had crossed between them. A tugging, troubling question.

“What will existence be without you, I wonder?” smiles George. Nicholas Cythe’s mouth opens to respond but George cuts him off. “Oh, I know.” George waits. He again traces from Cythe’s feet to the top of his head. “I know, no more fear.”

Astrid sees George move between two blinks. The speed is uncanny. He lunges forward on one leg, his body stretched out. She is certain she sees his sword swing from right to left in an elegant circle. But now, he is standing just as he was before: his arms at his sides, and his sword tip down. She blinks again.

Cythe’s eyes are closed. The ghoulish green of his eyes is hidden. His head slips to the side and falls to his feet. His body follows.

George looks to the security guards. They back away and flee. One of them shouts into his radio, “Mr. Cythe is down. We need back up!” As they disappear down the hall, George grabs a handful of Cythe’s hair, lifts his head and rushes up the stairs.

When he arrives at his mother’s feet, he kneels and stares into her face. Astrid watches the reunion. She imagines wispy lines of spring green and ivory threads of light weaving and lacing together their memories, their sorrows, their years of pining for one another. The Silk, as Loche called it.

Yafarra sits forward and throws her arms around his neck. “Mama,” George says. She cries and tells him: My baby boy is alive. Forgive me. Forgive me.

Astrid’s eyes stream and blur watching. Graham’s hand touches her knee. “When all of this is done, we must find some time to talk.”

“You call it. I’m there,” she says.

Graham leans toward her and touches his forehead to hers. He says, “I came for thee, for I heard you calling.” He squeezes her tighter.

Yafarra continues to speak to her son in both Elliqui and English. She tells George, “You have killed the Devil—let us hope I have saved God.”

A clamor of boots rushing toward them from the hall below silences the Queen. She looks up to Astrid and touches the Red Notebook. She says in perfect English, “Astrid—you must go. Go now. Run. Find Aethur! You must find Aethur.” The landing below fills with ten or more security guards.

“Go, Astrid Finnley,” George says. “Do as she says. Find The Poet.”

Graham says, “We got this. Find Loche!”

Astrid kisses Graham’s lips, rises, vaults up the stairs and rushes to the next staircase leading to the masquerade ball.