Melody and the Pier to Forever: Parts Five and Six: Melody and the Pier to Forever, #2

By Shawn Michel de Montaigne

PARTS FIVE AND SIX

 

Melody Singleton is a bright 13-year-old girl who loves math, classical music, her mom, her best friend Yaeko, and her dog. To her classmates that makes her a nerd, and they cruelly treat her as such. After being expelled from the advanced algebra class for not paying attention, she meets her new teacher, Mr. Conor, who gives her a very strange homework assignment. You see, she got kicked out because she was distracted by a symbol that the rest of us can't see, a beautiful sigil that, incredibly, Mr. Conor can see too, because it's on the assignment he gave her!

But that's just the beginning.

Her mom goes on a date to the Pier with Mr. Conor, and Melody is forced to tag along. That's bad enough. But then on the date Mr. Conor introduces her to one of his friends who freaks her out because his eyes are completely black; and then on the walk home, seagulls attack Mr. Conor and he has to be taken to the hospital!

Her weird assignment still beckons. Melody suspects that the mysterious symbol on it, and Mr. Conor's weird friend, and the seagull attack are all intimately related like the variables in an algebra equation. If she can just figure out what the sigil is, how to make it do what she wants, she knows the rest of the equation will be solved.

What she doesn't know is if she's successful, her life will be changed ... forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Michel de Montaigne
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215125373

Shawn Michel de Montaigne

I'm a writer, illustrator, and fractalist. A wonderer, wanderer, and an unapologetic introvert. I'm a romantic; I'm inspired by the epic, the authentic, the numinous, and the luminous. Most of all, I'm blessed.

Book preview

Part V

~the legend of the red talon~

When life is victorious, there is birth; when it is thwarted, there is death. A warrior is always engaged in a life-and-death struggle for Peace.

—Morihei Ueshiba

We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.

—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Prologue v

~~*~~

MAGGIE SINGLETON walked along the dirt road that hugged the eastern border of the Tijuana Estuary. She strode forward easily, her gait loose and free, her gaze wandering over the flora and fauna of the low salt marsh. She listened to the roaring Pacific surf, which was just beyond a long line of beach dunes half a mile to her right; she watched the seagulls and sandpipers and great egrets as they busied themselves with the morning; she felt the sleepy whisper of a breeze, untussled by the day’s heat still hours away. She had rarely seen a more beautiful, vibrant, prismatic morning.

The sun was just a few degrees above the horizon and still partly behind puffy low clouds that hung like cotton balls over the barren, brownish-gray mountains that lay between San Diego and the vast deserts beyond. The brilliant yellow quarter-circle cast long, wide rays, like heavenly highways, softening the sky into a painting ... but no: one could not paint such simple beauty, so alive was it, she thought. Many have tried; only a few have ever come close. But no one has actually captured it. The light spread uniformly over the estuary, almost dimly, bringing the thousands of subtle hues of green and brown and the occasional wild splash of yellow or purple or white to a state where they seemed to glow from within, as if trying to make up for the deficiency from above. She took in the panorama with a deep breath of fresh salt air and wished she would not have to die.

A hazy, thin line of yellow-orange light caught her attention, rising well beyond the barrio-dotted bluffs of Tijuana a few miles to the south. It was like looking at a forest fire on the distant horizon. The line seemed to traverse the sea itself, reaching well out over the water. She searched for signs of billowing smoke, but found none.

What could be making that light?

After a long time looking at it, she shrugged and continued on her way.

The road she walked on was used by the estuary’s rangers and frequented by many seeking the solitude of a quiet hike away from zooming cars and choking fumes. Many biked to its end at the mouth of the Tijuana River; many others came armed with binoculars and cameras, as the Tijuana Estuary was full of thousands of species of birds and insects and reptiles, many endangered. She remembered seeing a red-tailed hawk winging low over the scrub in search of easy prey here last summer—and being chased away in short order by half a dozen angry crows. A mother’s urge to protect her young was very powerful, she thought. She remembered her admiration for the crows’ courage, her smile fading somewhat. Something in that thought disturbed her, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. She brought her attention back to the dirt road, and that’s when she saw him.

He stood just under the leafy canopy of two small cottonwood trees that arced over the road at the point where it narrowed considerably into a double-rutted trail perhaps a hundred yards away. He watched her steadily as she approached, leaning on a fine wooden cane. He wore a blue French Basque beret cap and had the sculpted face of a Spanish patriarch, his large, dark eyes alive and playful. His clothing, from the gray zip-neck pullover to the blue denim trousers, was worn impeccably but loosely; and as she came close his face broadened into a welcoming smile.

"Buenos dias, Señora, he bowed. I saw you as you walked and thought I might join you. You seem to be at such peace, so happy. Would it be too much of an imposition for an old man to accompany you for a while?"

His accent wasn’t Mexican, but the most refined Castilian Spanish she had ever heard. Despite having never met him before, she found herself smiling and nodding wordlessly, somehow already comfortable in his presence.

Excellent, he said. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Luis Arroyo.

Maggie Singleton, she responded with a smile, extending her hand.

The Spanish gentleman took her hand in his, grasping it gently. His hand was warm, the skin of his palm like fine, worn leather.

"Please forgive my forward manner, Señora. I fear I have never been all that graceful."

Maggie. Call me Maggie, she said.

Maggie. He held her hand a second longer, as if savoring the feel of her skin against his, then released it. Shall we? he asked, sweeping his hand towards the path. He tipped his cane up a few inches with a flourish, grasping the ornately carved lion’s head handle.

Yes, let’s, said Maggie, slightly taken aback with her new walking partner’s demeanor. They passed underneath the dappled cottonwood archway, continuing on the sunlit trail.

They had gone forward an awkward, quiet minute when Luis Arroyo said, Maggie ...

Yes?

Short for Margaret, yes?

"That’s what my mother always yelled when I got in trouble. I always knew it was serious when she used my full name: ‘Margaret Rae Cobb, you get in here right now ...’ "

Luis chuckled. It is a beautiful name: Maggie, Margaret ... Margarita.... Would you mind if I call you Margarita?

Like the drink?

And just as intoxicating, I’m sure.

He noticed her sideways smile. "Margarita:

‘No quiero ver, amor, en la luna florida

de tu frente cruzar el odio que me acecha.

No quiero que en tu sueno deje el rencor ajeno

olvidada su inútil corona de cuchillos.’ "

She listened, her smile softening. "I know it:

‘Under a flower moon, beloved, may I never

see the odium of others lining your forehead,

remote or forgotten rancors ravage your sleep

with their useless crown of knives: I do not wish to see it.’ "

His eyes lit up. You know Spanish! That was beautiful coming from you!

I have traveled widely. A long time ago I could not be held down. Funny how time and a child anchor you.

Do you like Pablo Neruda?

"I do. I also like the way you say my name: Margarita. It sounds so beautiful—coming from you, Señor Arroyo."

He grinned, looking down at the rutted trail before him. "I am supposed to be the charmer here, not you.

Maggie, he said after another awkward pause. Margaret, Margarita. It does not matter the form or the language, this is your true name. It is the name your soul accepted when you were born.

That, too, is beautiful. It’s a beautiful belief.

He said nothing. They walked on in silence for several minutes before she offered, Sometimes I think the soul doesn’t have to accept a name.

My dear?

"I was thinking of my daughter Melody. I think there was no acceptance involved at all—at least, not at her end. It was her name, she chose it, and Rich and I were simply to make due. We had to accept. We didn’t even have a discussion over names. Not one. It was just understood between us. I don’t even remember the first time we used it, I just remember ..."

She stopped walking. Her face drained of color and expression as the implications of the melody breezing through her memory now came crashing back down on her. When after a time she glanced at Luis, his face wasn’t lined with concern or puzzlement—but understanding. Somehow he knew.

I was hurt ... she said without hearing herself. I ... the Pier ... the reality beyond ... Melody ... the seagulls ... the Guards ... Aedan ...

She whispered each, each quieter than the one before.

"How ... how can I be here, in the estuary? I was ... hurt. I remember. I remember the pain—burned. I was badly burned ... Melody ..."

She held up her bare arms, examining them closely. They were untouched by injury. She fingered her face. It too was unharmed.

"Am I ... am I dreaming this? Are you real? Am I ... am I ... dead?"

Luis gently grasped her hands. You are not dreaming, Margarita. Not in the sense that you are accustomed to thinking about that state. And you are certainly not dead. And I am quite real. Do you believe this?

She studied his face for a long time. She could feel his hands ... just like fine leather they were, worn and comfortable and warm ... She could feel the morning breezes on her cheeks, could hear the surf, could even smell something resembling lilacs wafting sweetly through the moisture-rich sea air.

I’m ... I’m dreaming this?

Yes, Margarita—and no. Oh, I suppose we could be unimaginative and say, for example, that you are in fact in your bed at home, and that I am seated beside you, holding your hand. And how unimaginative and coldly empirical it would be, however true.

He looked up and around, smiling wondrously. Or we could recognize such truth as merely superficial information, and therefore of not much importance or value. Of far greater import is the fact that right now we are taking a walk— he brought his gaze back to her—in your soul.

"In my—my s-soul?" She was shaking now.

And what a beautiful soul it is, Margarita. Do not be frightened. I am a Dreamcatcher. For our purposes here you can consider me a special kind of Healer. I am here to help you heal from all you just pictured a moment ago. Can you accept this?

"We’re walking ... inside—inside my ... soul?"

"Is it so hard to accept? Gaians know so little about the human soul! They know so little about it that they deny its existence! Your soul is strong, Margarita, and spacious, and so very beautiful. Look around! This is you! All of it—and much, much more beyond those horizons! Go on! Look!"

After a long time, she tore her eyes from his. He held her hands firmly, as if to steady her, a child standing at the very edge of a sheer cliff and peering over.

She glanced slowly around. She heard him whisper, I can feel it—your acceptance. You know that I am not lying to you. Now: can you accept your acceptance?

I ... she continued gazing about. I ... don’t know.

He whispered:

" ‘Small worlds are set spinning

on the edge of the dream

with the wind of grief

and a rush toward memory.’ "

She looked at him. His smile was gone.

You feel grief?

He tightened his grip. I meant you, Margarita.

She stared into his eyes. No. You did not.

His smile returned slowly. No. You are right. I did not. You felt it.

Yes, but I ... I don’t know how I did ... I just—

"I am walking with you in your soul, Margarita. Simply to be accepted here I had to present to this Landscape of You my true self. Such an act shall serve as your insurance policy. I cannot lie to you, Margarita. If I do the lie will be immediately known by your soul—by you. He brought her hands together. You will feel it, just as you did. There is another insurance policy, so to speak, which you will become aware of later. But for now— his dark, sad eyes seemed infinitely deep, two vessels filled with the glassy, serene seas of wisdom and compassion—shall we continue walking?"

She didn’t move, nor did she smile in return. It’s your grief. That’s the other one, isn’t it, the other policy? I’ll know you’re not lying—by your grief.

He said nothing, then chuckled without mirth. Every time I think I have been suitably impressed with the king, that I can be impressed no more, he goes and gives me the lie again.

The king—you mean Aedan?

One and the same, yes.

He impresses you? How?

I know how very highly he respects you, Margarita. I am his personal Healer. I would know.

And this impresses you?

No. What continually impresses me about him is how he seems to find the very best, the very finest, people. He is like a powerful magnet. I would lay my life down for those who serve him, and for those who call him friend—and for him of course. I should not have expected anything less with you. You, Margarita— he took a long look around—you may be one of the finest of the finest, if what I see around me is any indicator. Yes, my new friend, you are right: my grief will be your second insurance policy. You will learn how it serves in that capacity later—unless, of course, you have managed to sort that out already as well?

The playful smile had returned. The sadness in his eyes was gone.

No ... I haven’t.

He winked. Then let us walk, shall we?

They continued on their way along the double-rutted trail. They walked for many minutes in silence. Maggie couldn’t help but stare around her, taking it all in. This ... was her soul? She was walking ... inside her soul? How was this any different than dreaming, than some fanciful whim of imagination?

She stopped and brushed her fingers against a wide, lavish, blue-and-white flower blooming at the end of a tall green stalk at the edge of pine scrub. A bee inside the flower floated upward out of it; the flower’s petals felt silky and dreamily insubstantial—but still very real.

He watched her patiently, saying nothing. She touched her face again, reexamined her arms. She peered back at the rising sun, now completely above the puffy clouds and warming her shoulders and cheeks.

She walked on.

At the bank of the Tijuana River the trail turned sharply towards the ocean, widening back into a well-graded gravel road. They made their way along it, their footfalls crunching quietly. She noticed that Luis walked slightly stooped but with a quiet, simple dignity. He was a man who wore his age quite well, like his clothing, and as effortless as the easy swing of his cane. He had no problem keeping up with her.

In the distance was a black sedan of some sort. It was off the road and just feet from the river itself, partially hidden by high scrub. A few minutes later she noticed the white front doors, then the shattered emergency light on top of it, the other one missing completely. A sheriff’s car.

A heavily damaged sheriff’s car. She stepped off the road to take a closer look. All four of the cruiser’s doors were open. One door—one of the back doors—had been ripped completely off its hinges and lay in brush a couple of yards away. The sedan was dented and smashed, its front hood crumpled up like aluminum foil. In fact, much of the hood was actually missing, shredded away by some unknown and violent force, the front windshield cracked and pockmarked, as if the cruiser had been through a thunderstorm of boulders. All its tires were flat.

She turned and gazed wryly at him.

"This is part of my soul? This?" she demanded, pointing at it.

It is, Margarita, though I must confess I do not know why. It must have some importance, either direct or indirect, to your life somehow. Otherwise it would not be here.

She stared at the car a moment longer, then asked: Did Aedan send you, Luis?

His reply was ominously quiet. No, Margarita.

She sensed great pain in him. She regained the road and looked into his eyes.

What’s wrong? What’s wrong with Aedan? I could ... feel it in you. Something has happened. What’s happened to him?

He stared back, unblinking. I am sorry, Margarita. The king is dead.

The revelation crashed down on her like an anvil. No, she whispered. How—?

"Your daughter Melody was in great danger. He went to save her. She’s fine— he grabbed her shaking hands, noting the instant panic in her eyes—you feel it; you know it; she’s resting comfortably with the Young Master, Yaeko, they are together—you feel it, Margarita, you know it. But what injured her injured you. Can you feel the truth that you are not yet ready to return to see her, that it is absolutely essential that you heal first?"

She felt the truth of all of it. It was a sensation of tonal certainty, almost like a pure bell sounding with each statement, each word, each syllable, a bell which sounded throughout her and told her without any doubts whatsoever. But—

... Aedan ...

All is not lost yet, Margarita, he said firmly, as if to assure himself. She could feel the intense doubt within him. Not yet. He was surrounded by many very talented Healers under my charge when I came to you. We have ways of saving those who have died, of bringing them back, provided certain conditions have been met ...

And did he meet those conditions? she asked urgently.

But before he could even respond, she could feel his answer. Her eyes welled up with tears.

No, she whispered, no ...

His grasp tightened to the point of pain, the fine lion’s head cane resting against his hip. "Were it any other man, I would say those tears are warranted. But I assure you—this is not any other man. This is Conor Kieran Faramond Benedictus the First we are talking about. You have no idea what kind of spirit that man possesses. If anyone can come back from what he has been through, it is he."

The tears spilled out of her eyes anyway, blinding her. "Oh, Luis, I’m the one at fault here, I know it. I lost my mind, I tried to hurt him, I didn’t want to understand what he was trying to tell me, what Yaeko was ... what Melody ..." She wept openly, tears streaking down her face.

He gently stroked her wrists and waited.

If he dies— she sniffled heavily—"if he dies ... I mean ... I—I don’t know how I’ll be able to live with myself. I ... oh God ..." But she couldn’t continue. She cried for a long time.

Healing must come from within, Margarita, he said when she calmed. It must come from you yourself. You have already taken the first steps, right here. I would like to help you take the rest. Are you interested?

She nodded after a time. He handed her a fine linen handkerchief; she blew into it, composing herself. What do I need to do?

I noticed a trail a few hundred feet back, one that goes back north. There is a bench next to a lovely lagoon a short hike up. Would you like to go and sit and let me explain?

She nodded again.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on the bench, watching a pair of great egrets step lightly about the shimmering shallow waters at their feet, the yellow sunlight making their white plumage almost glow.

Are ... are they alive? Are they real, too? Her face felt tight from grief and the dried trails of tears down her cheeks. She had cried on and off again all the way here.

They are, Margarita. They are part of you—you must take particular pleasure in them for them to be here—and yet they are also part of the larger Consciousness of the Universe. The Soul of All, if you will. But we can discuss such beautiful mysteries later. For now, I would like to tell you a story. Would you like that?

I ... She noticed again the hazy, thin line of yellow-orange light past his head. What is that light? It’s important, isn’t it? It has something to do with me, doesn’t it? It has something to do with what happened.

He laughed gently. "Everything here has something to do with you! Even the people living in those barrios, even the billions of people you cannot see and have never met past these horizons of yours; all are part of you. The light ... He glanced over his shoulder at it. The light is from a great and terrible conflagration. It is in fact why I am here, yes. I am merely the fireman called to put it out."

What does that make me then? she asked.

He patted her knee, his eyes glittering. Why, you are the water, Margarita.

I don’t see smoke above it. Are we in danger?

Not while I am here, no.

What do you need to explain to me?

Your soul has been seriously injured, Margarita. Like I said, I am a Dreamcatcher, a special Healer. I can help you heal and recover.

He came closer, peering deeply in her eyes.

"The human soul is an amazing, amazing thing, my friend, ultimately unfathomable, ultimately unknowable. But what is known is that a human consciousness leaves a track, a trace if you will, on the very fabric of space and time. A skilled enough Healer, like a skilled tracker, like a skilled hunter, can retrace the footsteps that consciousness—that soul—has taken. He can see, can relive if he likes, that person’s entire life—or just small parts of it. And a really skilled Dreamcatcher— he winked—can even access the Localized Intersecting Manifestations of the Universal Consciousness as well. He can ‘ride the tide,’ if you will, of the intersections of many consciousnesses and take a third-person view, free of any particular soul. Follow?"

I ... I think so, she said, slightly intimidated by his manner. Like watching a movie—except it all really happened. Is that right?

That’s very well put! he said, smiling widely. And that particular analogy will serve especially well for my work with you now, because I would like to tell you a story. It is a grand story of war and courage, of anger and agony, of love and joy, of stunning victory and bitter, tragic defeat. And it all happened, and you shall experience it firsthand, as if you were really there, which, in a very significant way, you will be. Do you think you can handle that, Margarita?

Will I feel it?

Yes. You will. You will smell it, you will taste it, you will touch it, you will hear it. It can be quite unnerving, not least because you will not be able to see your own body while in another spirit. Indeed, you will for a short time inhabit the souls of others—walk the very steps those souls took during the time under examination.

He patted her knee sadly. Many of those you will see on your journey are dead now. But the traces of their spirits will stay with the universe for all eternity. It is our unique and indestructible contribution to All That Is. The greater the spirit, the deeper and wider is its trace, its track. There are some very great souls you will become part of, Margarita. Souls as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon, as powerful as the Amazon River. You will feel these souls; you will sense their power, their—for a lack of a better word—integrity.

He took a quick glance back over his shoulder at the line of yellow-orange light over the Tijuana Bluffs. As I said, this process can be quite unnerving. You will be, in every sense of the word, really there. And I will be with you, so you know you are safe. Okay?

She nodded nervously. Telling me a story will help me heal?

I am actually hoping it does more than that, Margarita, both for you and for me.

Will telling a story put down a ‘great and terrible conflagration’?

Stories are how we live life, he replied, taking his French Basque beret cap off and setting it atop his cane, which he leaned against the bench. His short silver hair shone like the estuary’s flowers. "Think of it! Our daily reality is really nothing more than a story—our story—and how we choose to play our own part in it. Stories wage wars and seal the peace; they bring lovers’ lips together and send the dizzy spinning away into the night from the perfume left on his hand after his sweet time with her. Should it surprise you then that they can heal—or harm?"

She sighed, smiled falteringly. Aedan is lucky to have you, L—

Her smile vanished and the tears welled up again. Just the mention of his name felt like a sharp uppercut to her solar plexus.

I mean ...

Let us stay with the tense you just used, shall we? It is so much more hopeful.

She nodded, fighting back the pain pressing upward against her lungs.

I want you to close your eyes, Margarita.

She did as told, feeling a rush of fear and uncertainty over what was about to happen.

Very good, very good. Now ... relax. We will be here for a while; if you get uncomfortable, tell me and we can take a break. I am going to touch your face— his warm fingertips gently touched her cheek—and I shall be holding your hand, like so. You may experience a sense of falling or flying as you go from soul to soul and place to place. Sometimes it can be quite intense, even unpleasant. If it or your form’s invisibility become too much so, please tell me.

Her heart pounded, the rising sun (of her soul!—she couldn’t get over that) making the insides of her eyelids blood red. She could feel the track of a tear cooling in the brine-scented morning air.

The courageous shall ride without fear on the back of the great dragon mother Satèlemark, he intoned proudly, and may the light of the Eleysian Teardrop protect us against all evil.

He took a deep, deep breath, as if readying himself, then added with a touch of pride: I shall call my tale ‘The Legend of the Red Talon.’ Are you ready, Margarita?

She swallowed hard. Ready.

Chapter 26

The Last King of Vanerrincourt

~~*~~

SHE SUDDENLY felt as though she were blind and floating in a rapidly moving whirlpool. The bench or Luis’ fingers on her cheek or her drying tear were gone; it was just as though she had been thrown into a vast, swirling body of water, warm and unfathomably deep. But the whirlpool was spinning faster, ever faster, and now she was falling ... free falling—

She coughed out a loud Whoop! and felt her tummy roll over, her inner ear telling her she was still spinning. She went to cry Luis’ name—this wasn’t uncomfortable, this was desperately frightening, an endless, sightless carnival ride hell-bent for tragedy—when she heard his voice, calm, reassuring:

Almost there, Margarita ... Hold on, just a few more seconds ...

—And now it felt like she was speeding up ... She whimpered against her every effort not to, but it came out anyway. In the back of her mind she wondered if she was going to throw up.

But now she was decelerating, slowing—she could feel it in the pit of her stomach and in the small of her back. Her weight was coming back, doubling, doubling again, settling, resting ... a long moment of motionlessness, of complete silence ... and now there was light, very weak, as though she were approaching the mouth of a cave, growing steadily, growing slowly, unfocused.

She came to the abrupt realization that she was standing, not sitting ... A very pleasant smell teased the air, not sea salt or the wafting odor of lilacs, but the mixed smells of leather and horses and something baking, something sweet and delicious. The smells of a city: people—lots of people—and smoke, but not the smoke of cars, of industry, but a more honest, homey, earthy smoke. And yes, there was the sea salt, but it was a degree or two out of true, alien, not the familiar sweet-salty brine of the Pacific Ocean.

The mingling odors of pine and wildflowers, yes ... not lilacs ... they lent a bittersweet lilt to the cool air, which she felt along the hair of her arms, the back of her neck. The growing light, which came towards her as an indistinct blob of brightness, surrounded her, enveloping her, growing in intensity.

More noises now: the steady sound of falling water ... people talking, people walking past her, someone voicing what sounded like a greeting in a foreign language. She felt a hard slap on her back, startling her ... The light was firming up, was splitting into colors and shapes, like focusing a telescope or a pair of binoculars, the scene resolving, sharpening ...

She was in the middle of a tremendous city square.

She gasped, blinking and looking around—

Welcome, Margarita, to the great capital city of Quadris Empiricus, came Luis’ voice in her mind. ‘Quadris Empiricus’ means ‘The Four Empresses,’ though most people simply call it by its first name, Quadris. Quadris is the capital city of Vanerrincourt, the kingdom at the very center of Aquanus, the realm you recently visited with your daughter and Yaeko Mitsaki. You are tracking my soul at the moment. This is the city as seen almost twenty-five years ago, Earth-time. This was my home. Go on, Margarita, take a look around.

The first thing she noticed was the first thing she had to notice. It rose well beyond the beautiful fountain just in front of her, and beyond the very interesting, ornate, Romanesque buildings in the immediate foreground, surrounding the square; it rose silver-green into the sky, rising and rising, thrusting through puffy white clouds, triangulating to infinity itself ...

The spire seemed on top of her, so close was it.

She spun about, breathless. Another one greeted her, reaching over a very pleasant, green, leafy park populated with hillside villas. Behind her was yet another, skying over long, thin streets lined with double-storied stone structures and crowded with people and horses and carriages. Past these were the riggings of large ships. A fourth spire, partially hidden by clouds and standing over a magnificent columned edifice, she saw after another quarter turn on her heels.

The Four Empresses—the four Sisters rising over Quadris: each is just over thirty-five miles from the city center, which you are not far from. Two stand over Ae Infinitus, the very Pier you walked on with the king; the other two, including the one you are looking at now, soar over the north-south Pier known as the Eternitam.

Holy Jesus ...

Luis’ laughter was genuine. "The Empresses rise almost sixty-six miles into the sky. They are very impressive, yes. The city of Quadris, standing in the center of these Sisters, is cast in shadow most of the day. It sometimes feels like being at the bottom of a well, leading the more vulgar of Vanerrincourtians, or the more envious Aquanians not from here, to label the city Lavatum Deiae, or ‘Lavatus’—‘God’s Toilet.’ But as you can see, the capital city is quite beautiful, despite what its few detractors may think."

She took it all in, feeling the cool air lift her hair and puff against her cheeks. The city was indeed cast in shadow, but not darkly so: the effect was less oppressive than it was alien. Everything was dyed with a permanent pale blue mountainy tint, not at all unpleasant. She turned to watch children splashing about in the fountain, and groups of adults in conversation next to it. Their clothing was colorful but not ostentatious, a mix of modern with Renaissance with the robed flow and sweep of Roman nobility. Many did in fact wear robes; most of the passing men had beards. Some were soldiers dressed in blue and green uniforms and armed with broadswords. The uniforms caught her attention. They looked vaguely familiar ... But—

Luis, she asked, turning to gawk upward at one of the Four Empresses again, "what are the spires—the Sisters—for? Did the Vanerrincourtians build them? Why make something sixty-six miles tall? Are they markers, signposts? What are they?"

I can answer that question, Margarita, but only from a philosophical or religious standpoint. No, we did not erect them—and you would have trouble believing anything I told you about them at this point. The Sisters are all along both Great Piers, ten across Aquanus on each, spaced evenly, a little over a thousand miles apart from each other—with the exception of, course, of the Empresses. My goodness!— he laughed—a sizeable percentage of Aquanians themselves refuse to accept the legends and stories! May I beg your indulgence for a little while longer?

Of—of course ... They’re so beautiful—and scary.

They are. And so are the legends behind them. Let us be going ...

The scene dissolved into blackness. Just before it did she made the startling realization that she had been standing ... in someone’s body. (Was it Luis’?) She went to say something, now floating again in deep, serene water, but he interrupted her:

"At its height, which was just about twenty-five years ago, the capital city of Quadris Empiricus was home to over half a million citizens, one of the largest cities on Aquanus, full of life, a nexus of learning and trade. Ships from every Quarternia, from lands and kingdoms all over Aquanus, docked in our ports every day."

A pause.

This ... is Quadris Empiricus today—

It wasn’t a long fall this time, but a simple drop, like leaping off a small stone wall. The scene resolved around her immediately. Maggie suppressed the instant urge to scream.

She was staring straight into a thin, sallow face contorted by rage. The face belonged to a tall man who wore thick brass-colored armor with insignia on it—a broadsword thrust down through a flaming ring.

It was the symbol Melody had seen on the seagulls—the seagulls that attacked Aedan!

The man was viciously whipping a naked woman. She was chained face-first to a pile of gray, blood-stained rubble, what Maggie recognized immediately as the broken remains of the fountain she had just seen children playing in moments ago. The woman screamed with each lash. There was a long line of naked people waiting their turn just next to a perimeter of other armored men. They shivered soundlessly in the blue shadow of the Four Empresses, now utterly malevolent. Another lash—Maggie’s skin crawled—the woman’s shrieks were heartrending—

Before she could call for Luis to take her away from this awful scene, it dissolved. She found herself standing on a hill overlooking the city. A city completely decimated, as though it had been hit by an endless squadron of bombers.

Piles of white rubble stood where grand buildings once did. The green of the hillside was gone, replaced by barren gray-brown dirt, hard, cracked, and lifeless, with patches of oily black here and there. The air was heavy with a sickly dreary haze quite unlike fog, occluding the Empresses beyond, and smelled thickly of burning garbage and rotting fish.

The cold was biting. It came in random waves of chills which swept through her, making her want to clutch herself for warmth. She could just hear the distant cry of a child.

It was very, very difficult coming by these viewpoints, Margarita. I gathered them many years ago, just after the invasion, at the king’s request. I have not been able to come back to see what has happened since. Still, I thought you should see them. Even today they break my heart.

"Luis, my God ... what happened?"

He took a deep breath. The whole of Aquanus was attacked by and succumbed to a vile ruler known as Necrolius Anaxagorius, the Black Coffin. He was the emperor of a vast southern nation—a great desolate wasteland, really—and its many satellite island-states collectively known as the Gyss. Twenty-two years ago he invaded and destroyed Vanerrincourt. What you see before you is his handiwork.

Did ... did no one see it coming? Was there a war?

Yes, on both counts. The scene held for a few more seconds, then dissolved back into calm, floating blackness.

In the womblike dark, which felt less and less alien and more and more comforting, even welcome, she heard him say: "For many months the King of Vanerrincourt—not Conor Kieran—had been having horrible visions, horrible nightmares. He would wake with drenching nightsweats, screaming, complaining of chilling, biting cold. I was his Healer. The king’s soul was slowly disintegrating, was being destroyed—and there was nothing I could do to stop it. What he was seeing in those dreams I could not access. It was as though something was consuming his spirit, his life-force, little by little. His illness was a total mystery to me, something I had never encountered before. Finally, in the interests of the people, he decided to step down from the throne. Tellingly, when he did the nightsweats and the mysterious disease process eating his spirit ceased entirely. He began to improve, though very slowly. But, strangely, he began having new visions, different ones, even more frightening than the ones before. These were premonitions.

The monarchy of Vanerrincourt is an enlightened one, Margarita. The king’s—or queen’s—or, in the case of a married couple, the cupidicy’s—power is checked somewhat by two governing bodies, the Seminarium and the People. A king’s decision to step down is followed by a waiting period while both the Seminarium and the People decide whether to choose another monarch or to allow the king to select his heir. In the event of death, the eldest declared heir assumes the throne until the decision is made whether to officially crown him or her, or any younger sibling, or to choose a new monarch from among the People. In the rare case of a king stepping down, history bears out that most times the selection of an heir is preferred; it has not been often that both the Seminarium and the People have risen and taken that privilege away from a reigning monarch. But in this case it seemed inevitable that just such an event was going to take place. Meanwhile, the king’s premonitions were increasing in both frequency and intensity.

Why was it inevitable? Was the king unpopular?

No, Margarita. The king—his proper name was V. Chaundran Exeter Innocent III—was quite popular. He held a particularly acrimonious relationship with the Seminarium, one he relished, a relationship which over time—and by time I am talking about over forty Aquanian years—only endeared him to the People even more. The problem was his family. Allow me to explain.

She floated in darkness and waited.

The king’s son and daughter both officially renounced the crown shortly after they came of age. They had no interest in the politics and endless scheming and the overwhelming dedication such a life required, regardless of the considerable material privileges a monarch enjoys. Both eventually married and had children of their own, a son and daughter for one; a daughter and, much later, an adopted son for the other. Both the king’s granddaughters died young of tragic causes, leaving only the grandsons behind. One, the older of the two, the adopted boy, who was very close to the king, officially renounced his interest in the crown shortly upon reaching manhood, disappointing Exeter greatly, choosing instead to spend his life in academia and what Gaians might consider a life akin to that of a monk, though with significant differences. The other, the younger, made it known that he would not renounce the crown, which thus made him the king’s only possible heir. The problem was, Trajan Chaundran Vanerrincourt was two things that were quite unpopular with the People: he was a rare powerful Mathematician known for his cruelty, heartlessness, and arrogance—

A short leap from a low wall—

Before Maggie could ask the questions forming quickly in her mind, she found herself standing in a firelit room, looking at a tall, thin young man who was watching himself in a mirror as several men fussed over his clothing. He stood haughtily erect, his dark eyes thin and menacing, his mouth unsmiling, a dour expression she knew immediately was a permanent feature of his gaunt face. The men flitting about him seemed terrified of him, touching the hem of his gold-bordered robe as though it might shock them any moment. When he moved, or adjusted himself in any way, they backed away instantly, bowing.

The young prince himself, said Luis with obvious displeasure.

She watched the man for a few seconds longer. The Vanerrincourts named the kingdom after their own family? Seems quite arrogant in and of itself, Luis.

"No, Margarita. Forgive me: I have not been clear. Trajan’s true surname is Chaundran. Trajan Chaundran. A ruling family takes on the new surname Vanerrincourt as a symbol of service to their broader family, the People. Exeter is the king’s first name; but here, and as a show of respect, rulers are publicly titled first by their surnames: Chaundran Exeter, Chaundran Trajan. Ostensibly as well, it is a reminder to the rulers that they serve the people. I do not respect the prince, and so I use the common form in naming him Trajan Chaundran Vanerrincourt."

Ah, said Maggie as she tried to discern any spark of life in Trajan Chaundran’s eyes, and found none. She spied motion in an unlighted corner of the spacious bedroom, and took her attention off the thin young man before her to see what was moving.

It was another man (she guessed), who was sitting in a high-backed red leather chair. He wore a crimson-and-black cloak, the cowl pulled over his head, his face nearly lost beneath it. He shifted in his seat, and she could just make out orange firelight from the low fire crackling in the large hearth at the back of the room catch his slitlike eyes. Long, skeletal fingers grasped the arms of the chair. She found herself staring at them, not knowing why they were so compelling.

Luis, she asked, who’s that in the corner?

The disgust in Luis’ voice was plain. That, he said, is Flaglyas Turpensus, Trajan’s life-long mentor. Rumored to be a Mathematician himself. A very dark soul, if you will forgive the rather loose use of that word. What you are watching here is the heir being fitted for royal robes, which he anticipates will be officially his in just a few days’ time.

But you just said that the People didn’t like Mathematicians ...

"They do not, Margarita, especially those with the potential of gathering even more power to themselves, especially the political kind. Mathematicians are tolerated in Vanerrincourt, more so than probably anywhere else on Aquanus, but are required to take an Oath of Nonaggression, which states that if they abuse their power—if they harm another person or use their abilities to destroy property or to intimidate others—they will be required to wear an Emasculatum, a special pendant that deprives a Mathematician of his or her powers. They cannot remove them without killing themselves, and once donned can only be removed by a more powerful Mathematician. If a Mathematician removes another’s Emasculatum and he is not more powerful, they both will die. Some Mathematicians don them voluntarily, either to discipline themselves or to feel more accepted in their society. Some societies, however, do not even allow Mathematicians to exist, killing the children that manifest even the slightest of abilities outright. They require all children to wear an Emasculatum; as the children enter adolescence they are forced to remove them. The Mathematicians among them die instantly. Mathematicians from other kingdoms are not allowed to set foot on their shores; if they are discovered, they are killed. The Emasculatum is not enough for these cultures.

Mathematicians are feared on Aquanus, Margarita. And there is very good reason to fear them. History has clearly shown that a human being with such abilities becomes little more than a monster over time, abusive and deadly and insanely corrupted, a mortally wounded soul. Trajan was but a single heartbeat from the throne—once again, he was the only possible heir of Chaundran Exeter’s—and, as you can see here, was quite confident that his appointment to the monarchy was inevitable.

But it wasn’t, said Maggie, thinking fearfully of Melody. Was Melody destined to become a monster, abusive and deadly and insanely corrupted?

Common sense said there could only be one way for Trajan Chaundran Vanerrincourt to be elevated to the monarchy; continued Luis, and that could only occur during a leadership crisis, namely if the king himself suddenly died—

Maggie caught her breath.

That’s right! You just told me! ‘In the event of death, the eldest declared heir assumes the throne until the decision is made whether to officially crown him or her ...’ Trajan was the only heir! Trajan was trying to kill the king! she cried, watching him again, aghast.

We have no way of proving it, replied Luis. "As a boy just entering manhood, Trajan had been convicted of abusing his powers. As a result he was required to wear an Emasculatum, which on the day was to be put on he killed four attendants and several more guards before finally being restrained and the pendant being safely placed around his neck. His reputation for cruelty, for heartlessness—never mind his frightening abilities towards those ends—was