Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (45 page)

A man stood waiting to meet them. Not Rufus.

Mist didn’t recognize him. Tall and stocky, he was casual in jeans and a white shirt, his handsome, narrow face topped by spiky white-blond hair. A stainless-steel panther jumped through one earlobe. He held a fully human shape, but Mist saw the glow that betrayed his Aetherial nature. His aura was reddish with flashes of silver. The man didn’t smile, but his odd eyes—one green, one blue—opened wide. He regarded the visitors with the controlled attention of a hawk on a post.

“Lord Mistangamesh?” said the blond man. “Is it really you?”

“As you can see.” Mist opened his hands slightly. “Should I know you?”

The male walked forward, stopping an arm’s length from them. “I’m Oliver. You don’t remember me? We have all changed, of course, but I thought you would see beneath the surface. I knew you at once.”

“I don’t…”

To Mist’s astonishment, Oliver gave a shallow, stylized bow. With that gesture, everything changed. They could have been standing in a chamber filled with starlight, bearing the elongated faces of lynx deities, their bodies clothed in weightless silks and jewels and pale gold fur … Their forms had long since mutated to echo those of humans, but the bow was all it took to ignite Mist’s memory. He knew the deference of a high-ranking Felynx to one even higher: the heir to Poectilictis himself.

“Veropardus?”

“The same, my lord Ephenaestus.”

He flashed back to those last moments in the chamber.
Their hands weaving a frantic web to destroy the invaders. Earthquakes shaking the ground, their web torn apart as walls tumbled and fire roared through the city. Distant screams. The Felixatus was falling apart as Veropardus and Aurata fought for possession … And Mist was trying to drag them to safety, yelling at them to follow him … then fleeing for his own life, their figures fading to shadow in clouds of dust as the chamber collapsed and his world went black …

That was the last he’d ever seen of Veropardus and Aurata. The memory was so sharp that he could smell the stench of fire.

He remembered—later—clawing at rubble, weeping on his knees in the dust … not yet understanding that the Dusklands had been torn away by the catastrophe, that there was now only the plain Earth around him, that the Felynx civilization was gone, erased. There was nothing left but a single component of the Felixatus, a smooth cold lens in his palm.

“I can’t believe it,” Mist said softly. “We thought everyone was lost, except Rufus and me.”

“Most Felynx perished, it’s true, their essences crushed or burned out of their bodies. It was a form of mass death; a tragedy. But I came back, as you see. My soul-essence was powerful enough to remember who I’d been, and to hold true.”

Mist stared in disbelief. Veropardus, Guardian of the Felixatus, had been a priest-like mystic whom he’d never really known or trusted. To find him standing here in modern dress, with a haircut that would not have disgraced a rock singer, was beyond belief.

One thing was the same: the mismatched eyes with their sharp, dutiful, measuring gaze.

He hid his reaction and spoke steadily. “So do we address you as Veropardus, or Oliver?”

“Oliver will do. Here we are in the modern world. Your companion?”

“I’m Stephanie Silverwood,” she answered. Mist was aware of her at his shoulder, radiating nervous warmth.

“Well, I am delighted to greet you both. Please relax. You look anxious, and there’s no need. What brings you to us?”

“I’ve reason to believe Rufus is here.” Mist kept his expression stony, his tone neutral. “Is he?”

“He might be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Surely you’re not acting as his henchman? I seem to recall that you hated him.”

Oliver turned at an oblique angle, as if to defuse confrontation and invite them deeper into the room. “What Felynx in their right mind didn’t hate him? He destroyed Azantios. Still … time passes. Aetherials evolve. Things change.”

“What things have changed?”

“I have no strong feelings about Rufus anymore. His time is long over.” Oliver moved towards the window-wall and Mist followed, Stevie close beside him. The vista glowed red. The canyon’s surreal geology was astounding.

“Is Rufus here or not?”

“Yes, he’s here, Lord Mistangamesh.”

A violent shock ran through Mist, electric waves of dread. He’d always been too slow to anger. Through his passivity, he’d let Rufus get away with murder, patricide, genocide and more. After all Rufus had done, Mist had nothing left for him but pure rage. And yet … he still felt afraid.

It was almost a phobia. He knew Rufus’s seductive poison. Mist had tasted freedom, but he feared that the moment he saw Rufus’s beautiful, ever-smiling face, the same old venom would be pumped into him and he’d fall, drugged once more into stupidity.

No. Not this time.
It was time to avenge Helena, Poectilictis and Theliome, Adam, and all the others whom Rufus had tricked and destroyed: the entire Felynx race.

“Then where is he?”

“It’s a big house,” said Oliver. “And here’s the thing: He doesn’t actually know you are here. He arrived only a few days ago. He’s still settling in.”

“Settling in? I don’t understand. I assumed this was his house. You seemed to know we were coming, and yet Rufus doesn’t?”

“Not yet.” Oliver gestured at a bank of luxurious leather seating. “Why don’t you sit down, enjoy the view? Would you like tea, or something stronger? We’ve a lot of catching up to do. And you’re here as our guests, so please make yourselves at home.”

Mist remained on his feet. “Is Rufus a guest, too? Not a prisoner?”

“No, not at all.” A glimmer of a smile touched Oliver’s mouth. “Only if he misbehaves, but he won’t. We’re trying to make peace, to put the past behind us. Aren’t you in favor of that?”

Mist glanced at Stevie. Her eyes were large, glistening with wary puzzlement. “I’m all in favor of peace,” he said quietly. “I’ve known little enough of it, thanks to him.”

“Sit down. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll let Rufus know you’ve arrived.”

As Oliver turned away, Stevie said, “Wait. Did Rufus bring an artist called Daniel Manifold here?”

“No,” he answered. After a pause for a slight, self-satisfied smile, he said, “I brought Daniel here myself.”

“You’re the mystery man from London,” she said flatly. “Is Danny all right? What’s happening?”

“Ah, what isn’t happening?” Oliver looked at her with his head slightly tilted. His unreadable gaze and oblique manner were becoming more familiar to Mist by the second. There’d always been a calculating quality to Veropardus he’d been unable to fathom. “So many questions! He can tell you himself.”

Mist saw excitement rush through Stevie, almost lifting her off the floor. “Can I see him?”

Oliver raised a patient hand. “Yes, soon. He’s working. Again, please relax. There’s no cause for concern. Everyone will be pleased to see you.”

Mist said, “It’s hard to relax with so many armed guards about the place.”

“All Aetherials. They’re for our protection, including yours. It’s normal security.”

Mist let the remark pass. Slahvin’s aura had reeked of malevolence, not safety. Nothing felt normal. “So Rufus had nothing to do with Daniel coming here?”

Oliver shook his head. “On the contrary. Rufus was rather shocked to see the subject matter of Daniel’s paintings. Even delighted, in his perverse way.”

“And did Rufus tell you that he thinks I’m dead,
truly
dead?”

Oliver became still. His voice fell. “He’s reluctant to talk, but the story came out, yes. First, that you were the unfortunate victim of a jealous husband. That he later found you in a human incarnation, stubbornly refusing to admit your true identity, before dying by violence yet again. Rufus was grief-stricken.”

“Grief-stricken?” A cynical laugh broke from Mist. He remembered Juliana’s words—
Rufus went to pieces. He was insane with grief
—but he’d never believed it.

Oliver’s cool eyes showed little reaction. “From what I hear, he’s been a walking ghost ever since. Distraught, bent on self-destruction … He’s changed. That’s why I’ve managed to find some compassion for him. I would never condone any of his misdeeds, of course, but the desire for revenge seems pointless now. However … here you are, after all!”

“What are you implying?”

“That Rufus was right. It
was
possible for you to come back. All he had to do was to stop struggling so desperately to find you—and you came straight to him. I think there’s a lesson for all of us somewhere in that.”

“You make it sound easy. It was not easy.”

“Are you ready to see your brother now?”

Mist drew a thick breath. “What will you tell him?”

“Well, if I tell him it’s you, he won’t believe me. I’ll simply say there’s a visitor for him … and let him see you with his own eyes.”

Oliver repeated his quick, graceful bow and left the room. Minutes passed. Stevie touched Mist’s arm and said, “What are you going to do?” but he shrugged her off, isolating himself. He was so tense he could barely move. All his senses seemed to be shutting down.

Become a marble statue, like the one he had once inhabited … it was the only way to face this.

“Mist?” she murmured. “We’ll all keep calm and it’ll be fine, okay?”

He didn’t answer. She moved away from him, towards the windows.

There were voices, coming closer. Mist heard the unmistakable, melodious, slightly sardonic note of his brother’s voice. Oliver reappeared, and at his side was the so-familiar sight of Rufus, slim and graceful, with brown-red hair rippling to his waist.

He saw Rufus freeze, saw his face open wide with incredulity, saw his eyes turn to liquid glass …

“Who the hell is this?” said Rufus.

Silence. Eventually Oliver said, “It’s Mistangamesh.”

Rufus began to shake his head, lightly at first then harder and harder. He backed away towards the fireplace. “No. No, it’s not. Who is it? Impostor!” Hand shaking, he pointed a finger at Mist. “Get him out of here. What sick joke is this?”

“Truly, it’s him,” Oliver said calmly.

“No. No no no. Get him out!”

Rufus was shouting. Mist felt a smile spreading over his face. He stood quietly, opening his palms. “It’s me. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“No. You’re out of your mind. You’re dead! Who’s responsible for this? What the hell—? Take him away. It’s not him, it’s not, it can’t be…”

Mist was astonished by Rufus’s crazed rambling. Until the moment they saw each other, he hadn’t known how he would actually feel; hadn’t expected vehement denial verging on hysteria from his brother; hadn’t expected to feel nothing in return but a sense of cold, faintly amused despair.

Then Rufus seized a long, heavy poker from the fireplace and rushed him, his face set in a snarl. He swung the iron rod like a sword at Mist’s head. Mist flung up his hands and the poker slammed into his palms, stopped in its trajectory.

His ice-cold thoughts ignited into red fire.

No longer could he hear Rufus’s voice through the rushing of blood in his skull. His fists were clamped tight around the rod. He lunged, and the next moment, Rufus was pressed back against a wall and Mist was forcing the thick shaft of the poker across his throat, squeezing, crushing …

Rufus struggled. His hands also gripped the poker, resisting, but he could not dislodge his brother’s death-lock. Rufus’s angelic face turned ugly with rage: hideous, shiny-crimson and bloated. A thread of blood ran down his neck, oozing from broken skin. Voices cried out in the distance but all Mist could hear was the rasp of Rufus’s mockery.

“You idiot, you can’t kill me! I can’t die, in thirty thousand years I’ve not been able to die!”

“Let’s see.”

Mist pressed harder. Rufus began to laugh. His eyes bulged and his face turned purple as he fought for breath—yet he was laughing. The mixture of amusement and agony horrified Mist beyond sanity. He slammed Rufus’s head into the wall.

Someone was pulling ineffectually at Mist’s locked arms. Oliver, and one of the guards; they might have been scrabbling at solid rock for all the effect they had.

In the far distance he heard Stevie say in a soft, cool voice, “Leave him! If he needs to kill Rufus, let him. It’s meant to be.”

Her words blew through Mist like waterfall vapor. At the point where he could have finished it, the point where Rufus stopped laughing and was plain terrified, turning purple-blue as his life ebbed away—his rage died.

In that moment, someone else appeared. A woman forced herself between Mist and Rufus, emanating a power the others lacked. “Stop!” she said. Not a plea, but a command.

Her hands closed on his wrists. Mist’s passion was gone and it didn’t take much for her to wrest the poker from him and pull him away. As he gave up the weapon, and dizzily stepped aside, her presence registered.

Shock doused him. Impossible.
Aurata?

“Stop,” she repeated, her voice soft yet firm.

Mist reeled away and collided with Stevie, collapsing into her arms. She caught him as best she could and steered him to a safe distance. Rufus tried to laugh, but the sound was hoarse now, a rasping breath. Turning, Mist saw through a blur of tears that his brother was coughing, rubbing at his bruised and bloody neck and then staring at the blood on his fingertips.

Numb, Mist knew that Rufus, for once in his endless life, had been genuinely, utterly petrified—if only for a few minutes. He thought,
And that might be all the satisfaction I’m ever going to get.

Perhaps it was enough.

Aurata was fussing over Rufus, leading him to a seat. Her presence commanded the room; her beauty—although more human and less feline than the last time he’d seen her—was unmistakable. Her clothes were plain, outdoorsy khaki. She wore her hair in a glossy bob that tapered to points along her strong jaw, its red-flame shine undimmed. All Mist could do was stare at her while his breathing slowed and all fervor drained out of him.

Aurata.
Stevie was speaking but he couldn’t hear her.
Aurata!