Chapter 63
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
There are far more than three thanaturgic drycraefts, just as there are other modalities for the manipulation of light, energy, and sound.
Behind us on the cracked ancient soil, the Ward still lay unmoving and barely aglow. I was about to tell Handel of our plans to renew her when the overtone inside his Rupture became more of a dirge and started to grow. Above the rising sound, he spoke:
“Dear Heaven above, I cannot count the souls I have harmed or slain.
How shall I ever make amends?”
I was no priest. “Your obsession got the best of you,” I said. “But it sounds like you’ve started to forgive your father. I’m sure with enough time you can forgive yourself, too.”
“There is no quarter for what I’ve done.” He looked away into the ancient dark. “I am damned.”
I still needed Handel and all the souls inside him to renew the ward. Everything depended on it. And maybe becoming the ward would help Handel find the redemption he clearly needed.
Gently I pulled the Orcus from my pack. It thrummed more than it ever had. I gave it a few soft words from my song, and it quieted a little.
But then it hit me that none of the other souls inside the wraith had asked to be there.
And though Handel may now realize his father’s intention, he was far from forgiveness for the man.
None of that seemed a winning formula for renewing the ward.
In fact, it may just become a new prison for him, for all of them.
We’d all fought so long and hard to get to this moment. But it just didn’t feel right to secure our safety and London’s future at the expense of souls who hadn’t asked to do so or needed their own chance to heal.
I put the thread away. “Maybe you start making amends by freeing the souls you’ve taken.”
Handel was quiet a moment. Then the dirge inside his Rupture became a rising chorus of wails, and the wraith began to lose cohesion.
The soul of a man in tailcoat and breeches tore away first, his dark form pulsing.
Then a woman with a high wig, laughing hysterically.
Then a man wearing beatnik spectacles. In a rush, one after the other, souls separated from Handel, until Angela erupted with a great metal scream of hope, and Jimmy pulled free, too, his frail shoulders trembling, but wearing that derby-winning smile on his face.
I nodded to them both, before their souls disappeared like all the others, winking out with a small flash of light.
Relief rushed through me like a pulse of warm blood.
They’d all transitioned to the Meadows, as they might have naturally done.
All save Handel.
The great composer stood still, a long, blank stare in his eyes. I didn’t need to see his shadow to understand the shame he felt. Shame that would hold him hostage in the Strata forever.
I began to sing his “Sonata”-like gleam notes, but in a major key, focusing on his newfound understanding of his father’s concern.
Note by note his pattern brightened as he slowly started to truly grasp the good of his songs, his influence, his legacy.
I think he began to see the truer picture of who he was—deeply wounded and bitter, but also a bringer of hope and joy.
After a few moments, he looked back at me. “Perhaps I am not damned, after all.”
“I kind of doubt it,” I said, “and if you want, I think you could actually move on now.”
“Wouldn’t that be a blessing.”
I envisioned the Asphodel Meadows, as I had with Henry, and a rush of wind came funneling around us. Handel let the wind begin sweeping him toward the mountain of fire. Too weary to even watch, I let go of the Meadows and slumped to the rocky ground.
The memory of midnight mass with my whole family flared and was gone. Another hollow opened up inside me. This one ached the same as when Henry had moved on.
“Jack,” Cassius said, kneeling beside me, “are you all right?”
I was exhausted and reeling. “All the souls inside it were captives. And Handel needed to move on. It just didn’t seem right to hold them. I’m so sorry.” Church came over and patted my shoulder. “As you’ve ever done, Jack, you followed your heart. That’s why Henry chose you.”
Kincaid stowed his rods. “So, you just sent Handel’s soul onward?”
“I think so,” I said. “If nothing else, we helped him see that he was more than he gave himself credit for.”
“That’s a solemn gift, Jack.” Kincaid crossed himself. “Use it with discretion, since I’m not sure it’s something for which we know how to count the cost.”
I had to smile. “Everything these days is discretion.”
“When you sang”—Lady’s eyes narrowed—“I was able to see Handel’s scars. If that’s part of this gift—allowing others to see a shadow’s occlusions—it’s another argument for discretion, Jack. One’s missteps shouldn’t be made a public matter.”
Lakshmi sheathed her sword. “I saw them, too, which makes me all the happier he’s gone. The killing is over.”
“I was just lucky that I understood a bad relationship with a parent.” I finally turned to Cassius. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”
The centurion bent close. “I spent thirty years as a slave to Rome and two thousand years as a slave to the Shiguan. Across those many years, the things I have done . . . it was not that I could no longer imagine freedom, but that I no longer felt I deserved it.” Cassius paused.
“However, then I met you. We spoke of important things, shared mortal danger, as friends. It reminded me of the very good, very long past—before my time with the Legion.”
His family in Gaul. “I get it.”
“But across all those years,” Cassius went on, “and all the new thanatists I have served and often trained . . . well, what you did for Handel might be the most decent thing I have ever seen.”
He reached out and clasped my forearm in his massive hand. That grip felt awfully damned good.
“And by my reckoning,” he added, “I just saved your nates again.” I didn’t need a translator for that one. “No argument there.”
I then hurried past him to where the Ward lay on the ancient soil, her body broken and ravaged, her light guttering in the great wide darkness. I knelt down. Her crimson and amber threads angled into the soil like anchor chains. I tried to pull them up to free her.
She shook her head. They are not my prison, Jack. They are my covenant.
Her face hung in translucent lines. She looked so weary.
“I’m really sorry,” I told her. “I just couldn’t do it. Didn’t seem right.”
I know. But you did manage to renew our bond. She looked over at Chuey. With the help of a friend.
Chuey had sung me my third verse, but the feeling inside it was still empty for me. “I haven’t really forgiven her . . .”
No, but you found the heart of what makes this ground hallowed.
That old chorus. “Family.”
She smiled. You still need to find your way onto the forgiving path, but you will find that path easier to walk now that you understand its destination.
I’d have to sort that out later. “But is it too little, too late?” I leaned closer. “Tell me what else I can do.”
She stared into my eyes a moment. You’re a good steward, Jack. When the slings and arrows come, just don’t cease to be you. That’s all we can ask.
I thought I knew what she meant. “How is your song?”
It persists for now. She touched my hand. But I have only a few hours left . . . Make good use of them.
A gentle gust of wind blew from the ground beneath her, stirring ashes into the air. They fell lazily back to the earth around her, and the Ward receded into the soil.
I pressed my palm into the dirt to say goodbye, and up through my hand came a new voice—one so low it got into my bones: And still you know nothing of true dark . . .
I began to tremble, feeling suddenly small, insignificant, helpless—Lady put a hand on my back. “Something wrong, Jack?”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine, but it would do no good to tell her that now.
Something was still unsettled, something other than Brach and his revolution.
And someone or something had just tried to tell me as much, speaking into my mind from beneath the most ancient soil of the Strata.
I remembered then, from my books, that there was one more stratum, lower still—the Primordial.
Some said it was hardly a stratum at all, being nothing but dark . . .
“The Iron Horse is lost, then,” said Kincaid, breaking me from my thoughts. “The ward will weaken, and Brach’s recovery teams will find the song. The man will have his revolution.”
“Maybe not.” I turned to Lakshmi. “How long until my trial?”
The raptorial checked her watch. “We have an hour. If we’re late, you’ll be convicted in absentia. They won’t reconvene.”
Chuey put away his macuahuitl. “Legal tricks. That what you’re thinking, Jack? Stall ’em out like they wanted to do to you?”
“I think that’s the only play left,” I said.
Cassius sheathed his sword. “If it is helpful, I will confess to my crime at your trial.”
“Vestige confession won’t hold much weight there,” Lakshmi told us, “and the penalty for your crime is dismissal.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, standing. “I think the idea is to cast enough doubt on Brach to buy ourselves some time. And maybe if we do, the Strata Chancery will intervene, help us restore the ward for the good of the Strata.”
“There is no agreement on what is good for the Strata,” said Church. “That is why we go to trial.”
“Then let’s hurry,” I said. “The ward is almost gone.”
Thunder rolled over us in long waves as we hurried back toward the Steps. Something was out there on the ancient plain. Made me think there might be more than one good reason to ask the Strata chancellors for help renewing the ward. We reached the Steps and climbed, tunneling up toward my trial.