Dazed, Kit glanced around, trying to perceive what had happened. One instant he had been reaching for Cass’ hand, and the next he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky and wondering why he could not breathe. Shaken in every bone of his body, he rolled onto his side and looked across to Cass, who was lying in a heap ten feet or so away. On hands and knees he crawled to her side. “Cass? Are you okay?” He reached out to her.
“Don’t touch me!” Her eyes rolled in her head and she pushed herself up on her elbows.
“Any broken bones or burns or anything?”
She sat up and patted herself here and there. “Nothing broken,” she reported. “But I’ve got a terrific buzzing in my head. I think I’m deaf in one ear. What about you?”
“No buzzing, but I feel like a bug slammed into a windscreen. Ohhh . . . man!” He collapsed beside her. “That was extreme.”
“What was that?”
Kit thought for a moment. “The tree stands on a portal,” he explained. “Like a ley line, but more of a—”
“I know what a ley portal is, Einstein,” she told him, her tone sharp, almost accusing. “Did you know that was going to happen?”
“Obviously not,” Kit replied. “The only other portal I know is at Black Mixen Tump back in England. That one is activated by raising your arm in the air.” He turned his gaze to the tree and the place they had been standing only moments ago. “Apparently so is this one.”
“Apparently,” Cass echoed. “You should have warned me.” She brushed herself off as if shedding a bad memory and gave a derisive sniff. “Smell that?”
Kit lifted his head and drew in a tentative whiff. “Yeah—it smells like electricity.”
“Ozone,” replied Cass. “Formed when high-energy electromagnetic radiation breaks the atomic structure of oxygen in the air. Electrical discharges make it—which is why you can often smell it in elevators, or after lightning storms.” She pushed herself upright. “I think we should move along—in case the charge or whatever builds up again.”
“Good plan,” Kit agreed. He levered himself up off the ground, and after shaking his arms and legs and rolling his head from side to side, he shouldered his pack. “Okay, important safety tip. Waving your arms around is not a good idea.”
“Seriously,” agreed Cass.
“Let’s go,” Kit said. “We don’t want to be caught in the forest after dark. We can come back tomorrow. With any luck, Mina will turn up.” He turned and pushed through the ring of saplings forming a hedge wall around the tree. “We need to get down to shelter before the bears come out.”
CHAPTER 3
In Which Rage Leads to Reverie
The slops bucket was full to overflowing and the stink was thick in the fetid, clammy air of the underground keep. More worrying was the fact that Burleigh no longer minded. He seemed to be getting used to it, a circumstance he looked upon with loathing. Also disturbing, his men had ceased complaining about their sorry lot and had quit badgering him about doing something to enact their release. Nor were they picking at one another nearly as much as during the first weeks of their confinement.
Instead, they sat slumped and dejected in their respective corners, or occasionally paced along the back wall of their communal cell. None of them spoke much, as none of them had anything new or useful to suggest. There was nothing any of them could do or say that would turn the unhurried wheels of justice.
The only event that altered their existence—and another thing that Burleigh despised with an unreasoning passion—was a visit from Engelbert the baker. It galled Burleigh that the sole person in the world who cared whether they lived or died was the reason for their imprisonment in the first place.
In a less grudging mood, he might have been moved to acknowledge that his assessment of the situation was not strictly accurate—but admissions of guilt were as foreign to Burleigh as feathers to a fish. Nevertheless, as day gave way to unforgiving day, Archelaeus Burleigh was forced to confront the prickly fact that savaging Engelbert in order to obtain information regarding the movements of his rivals in the quest for the Skin Map had been a grave error of judgement.
The self-made earl had never been one to wallow in either shame or regret for any length of time. The demands of his obsession to possess the secret of the Skin Map forced him always to forge ahead. The quest was a merciless taskmaster, whipping him on in relentless pursuit of the elusive prize—even when he encountered evidence that seemed to suggest that the much-decorated parchment might be something other than a road map to the cosmos. Burleigh never looked back, never questioned his defining philosophy that his end more than justified his means.
Thus, this period of enforced quiescence in a dreary dungeon cell weighed more heavily on him than anyone—even Burleigh himself—might have imagined. When given the leisure to reflect, to contemplate, he found he did not care for either the mood or the results. All his reflections and contemplations tended toward the singular conclusion that his fate was in the hands of a faceless bureaucrat of some stripe, and he was utterly powerless to alter or sway the outcome. For a man long accustomed to having his own way in absolutely everything, this was a novel development, as rare as it was deplorable.
A thin, scrabbling sound roused him from his meditations. He glanced up to see a rat making off with a large crumb of something between its sharp yellow teeth. Burleigh picked up his empty wooden drinking bowl and flung it at the thieving creature as it disappeared into a crack in the damp, mouldering wall.
“Filthy rats,” he muttered.
“Boss?”
Burleigh looked around to see Tav’s haggard face looming above him.
“He’s comin’ back.” Tav glanced toward the cell door. Footsteps could be heard on the flagstones in the corridor. “You wanted me to wake you when he came back.”
Burleigh pushed up on an elbow. “I wasn’t asleep.”
Presently, there came the now-familiar rattle of the key in the lock and the rusty squeak as the mechanism clicked open. The jailer entered first and gave the cell a cursory inspection, saw the overfull slops bucket and retrieved it. He motioned their visitor into the cell, then closed the door and locked it again. Engelbert, a simple smile on his bland face, cried, “Guten Tag, meine Herren. Guten Tag! Ich habe Essen für Sie.”
The Burley Men levered themselves to their feet as their jovial visitor moved into the centre of the room and unslung a large cloth bag; he untied it and rolled down the edges. “Hier ist Brot,” he said, lifting out a large round loaf of dark brown bread. “Gut und Frisch.”
The baker passed the bread to Con, who was first and closest. The others received their loaves in turn, and then the baker delved into his sack and brought out chunks of sausage and lumps of fresh cheese. Burleigh, holding himself somewhat aloof from the others, watched as if from a great distance. The way his men bowed and scraped to the lumbering dolt of a German—all smiles and grovelling appreciation, so absurdly, pitifully grateful—was pathetic.
“Für Sie,” said Etzel, holding out a perfect loaf of fragrant, wholesome bread.
Burleigh gazed at it, and then at the hand offering it, and then into the baker’s round, friendly face. The marks of the vicious beating were fading, the traces of his injury at Burleigh’s hands beginning to heal.
Curiously, the big baker seemed to bear no ill feeling toward his tormentors, a thing that Burleigh could not understand. Stiffelbeam brought them food and drink enough to keep them alive—fortuitously, too, since Burleigh’s own resources had run out weeks ago. The first delivery had caught him off guard. But when Engelbert returned a few days later, Burleigh suspected revenge: the food would be tainted, poisoned even, and would make them all sick. Though Burleigh cautioned his men against eating anything offered by the baker, one by one his men succumbed to hunger and ate. No one got sick or died, and they soon grew to trust the handouts as wholesome and genuine offerings of concern.
“Warum?” he asked in his rudimentary Deutsch. “Why?”
“Bitte?” said Etzel.
“Why do you do this?” the earl growled, forcing his tongue around the awkward German language. “Every week you bring us food. Why?”
Etzel regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. “Who else will bring it if I do not?”
“No,” countered the earl. “I mean why—what is the . . .” He struggled to find the German word. “Zweck—what is the purpose?”
“To eat,” replied a mildly bewildered Engelbert. “If I do not bring this food, you will starve.”
Burleigh glared at his unlikely nemesis and his mouth dropped into a bewildered frown. This was getting him nowhere. Perhaps his German, basic as it was, could not cope with the rigours of abstract argument. He backed up and tried another tack. “Why? Why do you care? What is it to you if we starve?”
The baker gazed at him and shook his head. “I do not understand.”
Losing his patience at last, Burleigh shouted, “You do this for us! You give us food. I want to know why you are doing this!”
Finally, Engelbert seemed to comprehend what was being asked. A wide grin broke across his bruised countenance. “It is what my Lord Jesus would do,” he said cheerfully. “How can I do less?”
CHAPTER 4
In Which a Problem Is Laid to Rest
Turms the Immortal opened his eyes on the 9,265th day of his reign. He rose from his gilded bed to face a blood-red dawn the like of which he had never known. Though the long history of his race recorded periods of war and turmoil, during his time on the throne Etruria had known only peace and tranquillity. The brutal attack of the Latins and their invasion of his kingdom had unleashed a day of slaughter and bloodshed unprecedented in living memory.
The raid was brief—begun at dawn and ended before midday—but the damage and injury would persist for years to come. Mounted raiders from the greedy North had sacked and burned two villages. They drove nearly three hundred people from their homes and holdings, and took eighty Etruscans into slavery before fleeing for the safety of their borders once more. The trail of destruction was a wide swath of ashes and death.
Numbered among those injured and wounded in the raid was the man known as Duglos, the great-grandson of his old friend Arturos and a guest of the royal household. A great pity that, and so unnecessary. For if Duglos had only stayed in his house, he would have escaped harm. Etruscan soldiers arrived shortly after the enemy reached the outskirts of the royal precinct and successfully repelled the attack. At the arrival of the soldiers, the raiders simply scattered and made a swift retreat.
Duglos was found on the road bleeding from a vicious spear wound. He had been carried back to the guesthouse and placed on the table in the main room, where the royal physician and healers set to work. They cleaned the wound, which continued to bleed profusely. Unable to stanch the blood flow, they resorted to the extremity of heating iron probes and cauterising the wound with red-hot metal; acrid smoke and the stench of burning meat filled the room, but at last the issue of blood stopped.
They had just set about a final cleaning of the gash when there arose a commotion outside; voices raised and a door slammed. An instant later Duglos’ companion—the pale, wraithlike youth with the large head and empty eyes—burst into the room. He halted on his heels when he saw the body of his benefactor naked upon the table, blood pooling on the floor. The boy gaped, opened his mouth, and uttered a sound none of those in the room had ever heard from a human being—an animal shriek of rage and triumph. Then, as swiftly as he had entered, he darted away again. The door slammed once more and the boy was gone.
Somewhat relieved, Laris, the chief physician, returned to his work. He ordered an unguent of olive oil, nard, and garlic to be applied liberally, and the wound was bandaged with clean linen strips dipped in a mixture of honey and wine. As the last bandage was secured, the king arrived. Laris dismissed his helpers and beckoned the king to join him. “Most Excellent One, all that can be done has been done for your guest,” he said. “Whether he lives or dies is now in the hands of the god who made him.”
“Such is the fate of all who walk this world,” Turms observed.
“I will sit with him and await the outcome,” offered Laris.
Turms thanked his physician and said, “You have more pressing work elsewhere. There are many injured—go and see to them.”
The physician bowed and hurried away to tend others wounded in the attack. Turms stood by the table regarding the body—so still and white, the chest barely moving. He watched for a time and, assuring himself that the injured man was in no distress, summoned a servant to keep watch, then left the villa and rode out with his bodyguard to assess the damage to his kingdom. Turms hastened first to the devastated villages and heard reports of the attack from the victims; pledging his support to aid in the rebuilding, the Priest King of the Velathri continued on to survey the ruined fields and woodland burned by the Latins in their senseless attack. Through all this, the single question jangled in the king’s mind: Why?
The Latins were a restless, war-loving race; that much had been understood for generations. But the two realms had been at peace for many years, and the attack was completely unprovoked. This development augured ill for the immediate future. Something would have to be done to forestall further incursions and strife. To that end, the king would consult his advisors and make the appropriate sacrifices, hold council, and, only then, determine what to do.
After a long, wretched day touring the destruction and offering what solace he could to his people, Turms returned to his palace to find that the wounded man had succumbed to his injuries. “He died a little before your return, my lord,” the servant informed him.
Turms nodded thoughtfully. “Was there pain in the end?”
“No, sire. He entered the life eternal in peace.”
“What of the strange boy? The youth who stayed with Duglos?”
The servant shook his head. “I cannot say, my lord king. I saw the youth but once and only briefly when he bolted into the room. He looked upon the body, screamed, and then ran away. I cannot say where he has gone. Perhaps he will return.”
“Perhaps not. Either way, I am content.”
Turms discharged the servant and, drawing up a stool, sat down with the body to contemplate the unknowable twists and turns the path of a life could take. Despite his best intentions, it seemed that destiny had decreed a different outcome for this sad, broken soul. Although as king he was convinced that in keeping Duglos and the feral youth here, he had chosen the wise and proper path, the priestly part of him wondered whether he had done enough. Had he failed his duty to his friend? More importantly, had he failed his duty to the future and the well-being of the world?
“I am sorry, Arturos,” he murmured after a while. “I should have observed better care for your kinsman. The debt is mine, and I will find a way to repay.” After a moment’s thought, he rose from the stool, shouting, “Pacha! Pacha, come here. Attend your master!”
He heard the slap of the royal housekeeper’s feet on the stone floor outside, and Pacha put his round, shaved head into the room. “Your servant attends you, my lord.”
“I have decided what is to be done.”
“That is well, sire.”
“Out of respect for my dear friend Arturos, I will bury his kinsman in my tomb. In that way I will honour the memory of my friend and also redress any offence I may have committed in this unfortunate matter.”
“Your personal tomb?” Concern ruffled Pacha’s usually placid features. “Sire?”
Turms heard the note of caution in his servant’s voice. “You think me too hasty?”
“Never, sire. And yet . . .” He put out a hand to the dead man. “To be buried in a royal tomb . . . To my knowledge he was not born of nobility.”
The king paused to consider the situation, then declared, “I am noble, and the tomb will be my place of rest. Let Duglos have the sarcophagus that is ready. I will have a new and greater one carved for myself
.” Turms smiled, happy with this gesture. “Let it be as I have decreed.”
Pacha summoned the embalmers to collect the corpse and begin their work. When they were finished, the prepared body was laid on a bier at the foot of the royal hill. Together with a number of priests, a handful of soldiers, and a small gathering of curious onlookers, the king in his scarlet robe and golden sash, his high-crowned ceremonial hat on his head, descended the pathway barefoot. In one hand he held an olive branch and in the other a curved knife with a blade of gold and a handle of black onyx.
A yellow-robed priest brought a silver bowl containing water mixed with resinated wine and took his place beside the bier. Turms bowed to him and, dipping the olive branch into the bowl, sprinkled water and wine over the body; he did this three times and then placed the olive branch on the corpse’s chest. Two more priests joined the first, and the three wound the body in its shroud, bowing to the king when they finished.
The ritual of Last Ablution thus concluded, Turms put on his sandals and took his place at the head of the hastily convened procession. The body was taken up by the priests and carried to the Sacred Road—the narrow corridor carved deep into the tufa below ground level—and borne to the tomb the king had constructed for himself. The king stepped to the door and, taking the golden knife, scraped the blade along the doorframe, down either side and across the top and bottom, breaking the thin screed of red mortar that sealed the door to the tomb.
Using a special tool, the hidden latch of the door was lifted from the inside and the heavy stone covering was slowly pulled open to reveal a dark cavity room, empty save for a large sarcophagus made of amber-coloured alabaster and carved with the familial symbols—swans, dolphins, and lions—of the royal resident-to-be. Turms dipped his ceremonial knife in the silver bowl and sprinkled holy water on the doorposts and lintel, then stepped into the tomb and repeated the procedure, shaking water into every corner of the squarecut chamber. He did the same to the sarcophagus and then directed three of the soldiers in attendance to open the alabaster casket.