Excerpt (SPOILER ALERT!)
The
morning of the funeral dawned chilly and gray. There was to be a graveside
service. Cerulean had no cemeteries, per se, as the Cerulean people preferred
natural burial for their dead, interring them in the raw dirt of forest, field
and, presumably, fen. To dust thou art and all that. Bathory supposed it was
all Joan’s doing. You can take the girl out of Rome, she thought. But she will
never be completely rid of that papist streak.
A
spot had been selected for Katarina in a city park, a four-mile green space
with sculptures and gazebos, ponds, footbridges, and a small river lined with
willows. The hole had been dug, the coffin suspended over it by a mechanized
lowering device. A brazier had been set up nearby. Millicent had assured
Bathory that they would have Cerulean’s finest artists submit designs for a
proper monument. In the meantime, a simple marker served as a headstone. It
bore Katarina’s name and the year of her birth, 1601, which was really only an
approximation. They had always celebrated her birthday in February, since that
had been the month in which Bathory had found her. But they hadn’t known the
actual date of Kat’s birth, a fact which Bathory had always taken in stride.
Until
now. Grief tightened her throat like a pair of pincers and her vision suddenly
blurred. At her sides, her gloved hands balled into fists. She would not cry.
Not now.
Not
before the rulers of Starry Wisdom, who were gathered with her at the
graveside. Eight of them. They had all introduced themselves, but offered no
support—not that she needed or desired any. It was not their way. They
respected only strength. As they waited for the officiant, she peered around at
them. Some of them she had known, if only by reputation. But they certainly
seemed to know her. No doubt there was an extensive file on her in some
Cerulean archive and no doubt they had all read it. She knew they were watching
her, even as she watched them, weighing, measuring, appraising her right down
to the soles of her new patent leather pumps.
One
of them, Bautista, was so silent and still, he gave Bathory the cold shivers.
Even Nathan, who stood at a respectful distance from the proceedings, seemed
unnerved by him.
On
the other hand, there was Esfir Taghvaei. A master of geomancy several times
over, she was not only from a well-to-do family, but from an Eastern land. Add
to that an apparent lack of love between her and the General and the
possibilities were indeed encouraging. Taghvaei’s specialty would allow a
graceful excuse to meet and discuss the wand. With luck, she would be arrogant
enough to underestimate the newcomer, and allow any alliance to ultimately be
to Bathory’s advantage. And if not-- well, Bathory found it unlikely that the
Persian would exactly be missed.
At
last, Joan Metz and her son arrived together in a small hovercraft. It touched
down with a soft purr onto the dry grass.
The
General got out first and helped his mother alight. She kept her hand on his
arm as they approached, Joan in a long white priestess dress with belled
sleeves, a lotus sewn into the bodice with golden threads. The General wore his
dress uniform, charcoal with blue piping and black cuffs. Despite the radical
difference in dress, the pair of them looked so much alike, they could’ve
passed for siblings rather than mother and son.
The
assembly parted respectfully to make way for them, and Joan held out her hand
to Bathory. As Bathory took it, she said, “Lady Bathory, I’m so sorry that our
first meeting is under such circumstances.” Her voice was rich and low, her gray
gaze steady and sincere. “Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
“Thank
you,” Bathory murmured.
As
for that son of hers-- he’d made his judgment of Bathory long ago and had never
swayed from it. He hardly glanced at her now, confident in his dismissal of
her. More fool, he.
Now,
Joan took her place at the head of the open grave. “Hail, ye Children of
Osiris,” she began. “Our brethren has been counted, and there is one among us
who has not answered to her name, Katarina Benicka, whom Death has vanquished.
We are unmoved by its victory. We are no more affected by the shadow of death
than by the darkness that divides today from tomorrow. Immortal we are and ever
shall be.”
As
Joan recited the rite, Bathory’s thoughts strayed. For nearly four hundred Earth
years, she and Katarina had been together. Katarina had been her only
certainty. Her solution. Her love.
“We
deny your dominion,” Joan said. “We deny your justice. We stand in defiance of
all knowledge forbidden to men. We see the faces of all Gods and all Time. We
are powerful. Let us say unto you, ‘I have come. I see you. I know your name. I
claim my place among the gods.’”
Memories
of Katarina, her darling Kat, frolicking merrily down an alleyway in Corbenic,
her little skirts rustling, her blade at the ready, looking for muggers and
ravishers to accost her and ripping out their kidneys. The sweetest memories
had to be kept close to heart. The first memory. The peasant man in the snow.
How could it have come to this?
“We
didst stand up and smite our enemies. We set fear in our adversaries. The
splendors of the world are ours. We claim guidance of the world as long as
times endure. Our crown penetrateth the height of heaven. Our wisdom is the
wisdom of the stars. We are the first of our brethren, favored among all
souls.”
More
life. More blood. More of everything. There could never be enough. Until the
end of time. Her and her Katarina and their pleasure.
Which
meant that if Katarina was now gone...did that mean that time would end?
“We
say to Katarina, do not be cast down. Do not be disquieted. Hope thou in
deliverance, for the day shall come of our ascension. Lift up thine eyes to the
hills, from whence cometh thy help. We shall come. We shall not suffer thy foot
to be moved: he that keepeth the world shall not keep thee. The sun shall not
smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. Ye shall be preserved, thy going out
and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even forevermore. Immortal we are
and ever shall be.”
Now,
Joan turned to the brazier, which erupted into bright red-gold flames. She drew
a scroll of paper from her sleeve. Bathory had inscribed Katarina’s name
herself.
Joan
threw the paper into the fire, intoning, “Depart, thou One, who shinest from
the moon. We bid that this Osiris Ani, Katarina Benicka, may come forth among
the multitudes who are at the portal. Let the Duat be opened to her. Behold,
the Osiris Ani shall come forth by day to perform everything which she
wisheth.”
The
gathered watched as the paper disintegrated and the wind carried its ashes
upwards.
“Go
forth by day, Children of Osiris. The dead are the stars that light our path to
wisdom. Immortal we are and ever shall be.”
Together,
the mages intoned, “Amen.” Not a blessing or entreaty, but a declaration of
will.
As
she concluded the rite, Joan nodded to Bathory. Stepping forward, Bathory threw
the lever that lowered the casket into the earth. The mechanism worked
silently, and she could hear the breeze move about her as she watched her
beloved descend into darkness. Bathory vowed that her darling would not be held
long.