Chapter 20 #3
Picking up the pace, we make our way down a few sets of short, stone stairwells.
I’d hoped we’d be going up, but, alas, I may have seen the sun for the last time.
My curiosity has a spotty past when it comes to getting me into trouble; I have no idea where I’m going to land this time, but I’m hoping on the side where I get to live.
I can tell we’re getting close to our destination when I hear voices. They rush along the walls like a swollen creek after a storm, awakening my wariness. How many people live in this underground stronghold? Bes’s uncle’s network of spies is much larger than I first surmised.
Turning the corner, Anders stands alone, waiting beside a looming stone entryway. Where’d Cec run off to?
Bes, however, doesn’t appear to have the same concern about his cousin. With no time to look for him, I allow Anders to lead us through the deep threshold. The murmuring swells into full-on conversations, though I can’t parse out what any one person is saying.
I straighten. I’m going to march up right to Arturo—Ansaldo—whoever—and demand he tell me who he thinks he is and what he can tell me about the amulet. I’m tired of being pulled this way and that. It’s time to get some answers.
The moment we enter the huge hall on the other side, the murmuring dies down until it stops altogether. Dozens of people fill this hall, seated at long, wooden tables. This is certainly not a small operation. Not even close.
This is Bes and Cec’s greatest lie yet.
All eyes land on the three of us before focusing on me: an outsider, the one among them who doesn’t belong here. They don’t have to say it aloud—I feel it in the way their gazes linger, in the quiet judgment of their furrowed brows and clenched hands.
In an instant, my bearings leave me and my pulse pounds loudly in my ears, my vision almost blurring.
The weight of my pack and the suitcase in my hand disappears as heat radiates out from my chest and neck, threatening to spread to my cheeks.
Facing death at the hands of the God Men, I can handle; facing a room full of strangers giving me their undivided attention is my worst nightmare.
What I wouldn’t give right now for the gift of invisibility the Amulet of Amun promises.
Don’t let them intimidate you, nipotina, Nonna often reminds me whenever I have to make a presentation at school. They’re more frightened of who you are and what you can do than you are of their judgment.
Tears threaten to prick the back of my eyes. She always knows what to say. Even when she’s not around to say it in person. It’s why I keep her in my heart always.
I desperately hope she hasn’t been keeping the truth of all this from me.
Bes leans in without breaking his stride. “Don’t let them frighten you,” he says, practically parroting Nonna’s words.
I’d nearly forgotten he was there, silently supporting me simply by being at my side.
Which is more than I can say for Cec. I take slow, deliberate breaths until every one of my worries washes away into an ocean of unintelligible faces.
I raise my chin and refuse to meet their eyes.
They can think whatever they like about me.
No longer flustered, I take in the hall around me, fortified with wide pillars carved meticulously from the same light stone as the walls.
Half a dozen low-hanging candlelit chandeliers illuminate the intricate artwork spanning the entire ceiling.
It’s cracked and faded, but colorful. Like what Michelangelo did inside the Sistine Chapel, but bloodier.
War and suffering poison this room, raw and horrific—the longer I look at it, the more uncomfortable I become.
How can the ceiling possibly be so tall when we’re still underground? Admittedly, I never actually got to see the castle itself, so I have no idea how high up the ground floor is. High enough you wouldn’t be able to hear anyone scream down here, I’m sure. A sobering thought.
From the silence, a deep voice bellows from the other end of the hall.
“Bes Belzoni, as I live and breathe.”
I search the crowd for the man who the voice belongs to. Past the long rows of wooden tables and benches, where nameless faces look on, is a much smaller table. There, sit around half a dozen—
“Cec?” I can’t stop myself from uttering it aloud.
Yet, the humiliation I should feel from my outburst doesn’t come.
Only anger. Why the hell is Cec sitting directly beside the man who called on Bes?
And who, given the size of his chair compared to the others’, holds himself up as the head of this organization.
The man I’ve come to know as their Uncle Arturo.
The only explanation I can think of is that Cec chose not to divulge how large his role is here.
Cec has the good sense to appear sheepish, maintaining his milky gaze on his tightly-folded hands on the table.
As much as his omittance enrages me, I tell myself it wasn’t born out of malice. Bes and Cec withheld a lot from me under the guise of a supposed blood oath; this was merely one of their many secrets. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to give him and Bes shit for it later.
Knowing most of the people in this room are still watching my every move, I do my damnedest to leach the surprise and betrayal from my expression.
That’s when I hear the whispers.
“Is that Bes?”
“Bes is back.”
“I can’t believe it’s Bes.”
My attention turns to him. His cheeks are flushed, his attention focused on his shoes.
It’s not me they’re interested in—it’s Bes. So much for my supernatural powers of observance.
I speak soft enough that only he can hear me. “They’re acting like it’s the second coming and you’re Jesus Christ. Should I be worried about the Apocalypse? Is Cec the Antichrist?”
The slight rosy tinge gradually disappears from his skin and a smile tugs at his lips. “It’s not the Apocalypse. Although Cec could easily be the Antichrist.” He glances over at me. “My coming back here is more like the return of the prodigal son than the son of God.”
“So you do know the bible.”
He grimaces. “It’s required reading here, unfortunately.”
I cast my gaze on the man who initially called Bes’s name, keeping my voice low. “Then, tell me, is this place more Old Testament or New.”
Bes grins out of the corner of my eye. “A bit of both.”
Nonna would’ve fit right in here. Then again, perhaps she did.
Bes steps forward and offers one word in greeting. “Ansaldo.”
The man—Ansaldo, not Arturo—shifts his attention to me. “This must be the infamous Amelia Hawkins.”
I clear my throat. “Mel, sir.”
I wonder if I should bow or curtsy or the like. If I didn’t know what year it was, I’d think we’ve been transported back in time to medieval Europe, where everyone called the King ‘your grace’ and the other noblepersons ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady’.
Lucky for me, and all women, we’ve evolved since then.
“Should I call you Ansaldo, or Arturo?”
He grimaces. “Arturo is my name out in the real world; Ansaldo is only spoken within these walls.”
One small riddle solved, at least.
“Well, Ansaldo, I’d like to inquire why the hell I’ve been dragged partway across the world to be brought here on your orders, with an amulet that your people—and everyone else who wants it—claim contains magic?”
He opens his mouth to speak but I continue on.
“And, given all the pain and suffering I endured to get it here, I demand to see everything you have on the Amulet of Amun and how it works.”
Cec coughs, likely choking on a laugh. Ansaldo smiles tightly, allowing a tense laugh of his own. The rest of the room remains silent.
“Just like Lucia. I would’ve expected nothing less from a child raised by that brute of a woman.”
A bout of anger swings through me. I nearly tell him to keep my nonna’s name out of his goddamn mouth, but it won’t help the situation. It does, however, affirm that this man knows Nonna well enough to use her first name.
“You flatter me.” I bow my head dramatically, curious if he recognizes the mocking tone in my voice. “But that doesn’t answer my questions or my demands.”
“All in due time, child,” he chides, letting slip an edge of impatience. My free hand turns into a fist at my side, but I don’t argue. “First, an introduction: we are the Order of Cavendi, sworn to serve the natural order of the world and protect its most sacred resource—knowledge.”
Ah, so that’s where the “—endi” in Anders’s Morse code came from.
Ansaldo raises his voice, lifting his hands as if inciting a prayer. “Scientia potentia est.”
The room returns the favor. “Scientia potentia est.”
My eyes widen and my lips press into a thin line. Well, I’m uncomfortable—it turns out that I’ve walked willingly into a cult.
“I thought your motto was ‘it is darkest before dawn’, not ‘knowledge is power’?”
My query garners a few scattered laughs.
“Scientia potentia est is our order’s motto,” Ansaldo explains. “Det ?r som morkast innan gryningen is how we find each other out in the world.”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Whatever you say.”
Any smile Ansaldo had left slips from his face; apparently, he doesn’t care for sarcasm. He and Cec must get along swimmingly.
“Bes, our guest is tired. Please show her to one of the available rooms so she can take some time to rest.”
My shoulders slump. Shit. Why couldn’t I have kept my goddamn mouth shut for once?
“But—”
Bes grabs my arm with gentle insistence. “This way, Miss Hawkins.”
Grudgingly, I allow him to lead me off to the right, between a row of tables and their gawking occupants. I throw one last look at Cec, but he’s still purposefully avoiding me.
We pass one table of particularly burly men and women dressed in all manner of clothing from around the world.
Their narrowed eyes track me in suspicion and distrust. I wonder if the entire room is this intimidating—or this fit.
Before I can take stock of the others, Bes pulls me through another threshold, where we find ourselves in a different and narrower passage than the one we came in through.
Now we’re alone, Bes loosens his grip on my arm, though he doesn’t take it away. My skin tingles where he touches me.
“What was all that about?”
Bes tucks a dark, errant lock behind his ear with his free hand. “Ansaldo can be… fickle.”
“If by fickle you mean short-tempered and pious, then I agree.” We move along the brightly lit corridor. “But that’s not the only thing I’m talking about.”
Bes shoots me a confused look.
“I still can’t believe you kept all this from me.” I gesture back toward the hall. “And Cec? What the hell was he doing up there next to Arturo—Ansaldo—whatever his name is? I know he’s his uncle, but—”
“He is my uncle, but not Cec’s.” He scratches at his jaw. “Cec was seated next to Ansaldo because he’s his son.”