ANTHEMICRONICON: BOOK OF AGES (AMERICAN IDOL RPF), [PG-13] - CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FOUR:
In which Cook and Archuleta finally compare notes and discuss their feelings. The King arrives at House Nineteen; Captain von Ahlen arrives in the United American States. The final showdown between Anarchists and Anachronists takes place at the World’s Fair.
House Nineteen, Friday, __ October 1901
Master Simon Cowell surveyed his troops - the two most powerful songcasting bands in House Nineteen, flanked by the Masters and lesser teaching staff.
"Right, gentlemen, I take it that everyone knows their places tomorrow. Do I need to run through this one last time?"
Cook saw Tiemann roll his eyes expressively. Elevated by his status as an intimate of the King, Cowell had been holding twice-daily meetings of those in the know for the last six days in preparation for the royal visit. It was really getting on Tiemann's nerves.
Cook himself was inclined to allow Cowell a bit more slack these days. He still hadn’t entirely forgiven Cowell for taking a hard line with the raid on the Bowery last Saturday. But Cowell had kept his word and intercepted Carly Smithson on her way to the Silo and diverted her to House Nineteen instead; the Smithsons continued under their roof and protection, notwithstanding that House Nineteen had never harbored woman nor wife in recent memory.
And when Cook had demanded audience with Lord Stringenfeld to plead for the freedom of the unlicensed songcasters taken into Guild custody, rather than trying to stop him, Cowell had seen fit to accompany him.
It had been Cowell’s practical remark as to how, if the unlicensed lads had actual talent, they might be pressed profitably into service for the Guild, which had found favor with the Lord.
When they finally hauled the prisoners out from the Guild inner chambers, Cook had recognized Richardson as the drunken blond boy whom he had seen in Lambert's company on that long-ago Friday night at the Silo, after the Guild meeting. There’d been a flash of recognition in Richardson’s blue eyes, also - clearly the lad hadn’t been as drunk as he’d then appeared.
Richardson turned out to have a fine tenor voice, and Cowell had been pleased to sign him on as a journeyman. The Guild had agreed to a bond for his year's wages, and Cook had tried not to gnash his teeth at the stripes the Guild's jailors had already taken out of the lad when he'd been in their custody. The same arrangement applied to the mild-mannered Frenchman, Matthew Giraud, who had also been captured in the Silo raid and who boasted an interesting, reedy baritone.
Cook knew the dour Master had a certain fundamental decency about him, and it was this which had prevented Cook from storming into Sony's offices and leaving the Guild for good the day after the Bowery raid. Cook could live with being pledged to the Guild's strict rules of conduct - lest Congress decide to implement even stricter song licensing laws - but he would not abide needless cruelty, and was gratified to have that reinforced by the strictest Master of House Nineteen.
Accordingly, Cook mustered some enthusiasm to respond, "We understand the timetable, Mr. Cowell. His Majesty arrives at House with his entourage at four o'clock and takes the tour, then has supper with Masters. Then they leave at seven o'clock on the special White House airship."
What Cook didn't mention was that the Anthemic would have left before then, to secure the Temple of Music site with the King’s elite guard for His Majesty’s secret late-night visit.
Cowell nodded and said, “Right, everyone, let’s get a good night’s sleep. Big day tomorrow, bright shining faces and all that.”
“We should really turn in early,” Cook said to his crew once they’d left the common room.
Predictably, this was met with derisive laughter. “No telling what’ll happen tomorrow,” Tiemann said. “Masters think they’ve got this under control, but I’ve a bad feeling about that damned World’s Fair and no mistake.”
Skib said, grinning, “Neal thinks we’re in danger of our lives, and I’m taking full advantage. It’s a late dinner at the Wardorf-Astoria for us, and everything that comes after.”
Cook groaned. “Fine. Don’t wear yourselves out; I want you both able to walk later.” He turned to Peek and Anderson. “And how about you lads, a quick dinner, perhaps?”
Peek blushed, and Anderson wrapped a burly arm around their drummer’s head. “Lad doesn’t want to die a virgin, so I’ll be accompanying him down the Broad Way to pay court to the fine ladies of the Bending Lilac tonight. Some of the boys from the Circle are comin’ with.” He paused, and looked more closely at Cook. “You wanna come too? Looks like you could do with some relaxin’.”
Cook was taken aback by his response to Anderson’s question. It had really been too long since he’d indulged the needs of his body. It took some effort to push the hot rush of blood away, together with the memory of a certain journeyman’s sleeping face against his shoulder. “Someone needs to keep a clear head tonight, damn it all! Everyone should still be able to use their hands and voices tomorrow, so I don’t want anyone to indulge in anything too strenuous.”
“Let the ladies do the work? I think I can handle that,” Anderson smirked; Skib said meaningfully, “You know Neal doesn't need to sing tomorrow,” and Cook couldn’t get them out of the door quickly enough.
Were they really in danger of their lives? Maybe Cowell was right - the Anthemic were just jumping at shadows, and there were in fact no dueling cult groups lying in wait to assassinate the King and to open a portal to old gods, or machines of war and death.
With such thoughts on his mind, Cook found he’d wandered into the journeymen’s common room, not-exactly in search of David Archuleta.
He hadn’t seen Archuleta for days. He’d exchanged a quick word with him the morning after the attack on the Silo, when he met Archuleta in the entrance hall, but for most part he’d been too busy to speak casually to anyone, shuttling to and from House Sony to negotiate the release of the rogue songcasters and planning the King’s itinerary with Cowell and Fuller.
Arch wasn’t in the common room. His friend, Castro, said he hadn’t been attending classes - “I thought he was still with you, doing the special study?” he asked Cook, laconically, and Cook shook his head.
Cook was wondering where Arch had gotten to when the lad himself came around the landing in his street clothes, pulling his coat off. He stopped when he saw Cook, his face brightening at first, and then clouding over slightly with an uncertainty that puzzled Cook.
“Arch, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately. Come have dinner with me?”
“I’ve eaten,” said Archuleta, a little reluctantly, “But of course I’ll sit with you if you haven’t.”
“I was going to have a tray sent up to my chambers,” Cook said, entirely honestly.
Archuleta didn’t even blush. “Fine.”
The serving boy did enough blushing for the two of them when he set the dinner things out on Cook’s small table. Cook couldn’t imagine why: it wasn’t as if he made a habit of entertaining handsome young students in his rooms. Why, he was practically a monk.
The boy poured wine for them both. Cook watched Archuleta surreptitiously as the journeyman strolled around his rooms, inspecting the well-loved novels on Cook’s shelves, his lithographs of famed songcasters and the huge Union flag, the framed hand-drawn world map hanging above his modest bed.
"Is that your family?" Arch asked, peering at the silver-framed photographs that adorned Cook's ink-stained writing desk.
"Yes. My parents. My older brother Adam, his wife and children, my little brother Andrew, who's a journeyman in Missouri." Cook joined Arch at his desk and ran his fingers over the surfaces of the photographs, the familiar, loved faces smiling up at him. A songcaster by profession, Cook would never have a family of his own; in this moment the thought filled him with melancholy.
“I have four siblings myself,” said Archuleta: this was clearly the Utah way. “I miss them. It’s easy to forget that when you’re out here.”
“Well, I’ve had five years to get used to it.” Cook thanked the serving boy and then nodded Arch over to his battered leather sofa. “Are you sure you won’t have anything? I’m sorry I can’t offer you better fare.”
Arch smiled and sipped from his glass. “It’s fine. You took me to your club and offered me mountain lamb and it was delicious, but I like this kind of meal best.”
Cook grinned back; the lad’s lack of artifice was immensely appealing. “When this is over, I’m going to take you to the best restaurants in all York City, and you’ll find a better meal than meat and potatoes from Nineteen’s dining hall, I can assure you.”
“When what’s over?” Arch asked innocently. “Am I in for a long wait?”
Cook started in on his steak. “The business with King Edward. He’s coming tomorrow, the Masters are all a-fuss over it.”
Arch was silent. Cook continued, “Which is why I haven’t stopped by - we’ve been busy with arrangements. It’s just been a madhouse lately.”
Between forkfuls, Cook gave an abbreviated account of his Bowery exploits, and his efforts on behalf of the Smithsons and the unlicensed songcasters. “So we’ve finally managed to get them released, and all’s well,” Cook concluded.
Arch finally spoke up. “I’m glad the Guild didn’t harm anyone,” he said. “I was worried we’d played a part in that, you know.”
“You and me both,” Cook said sourly, pushing his plate away and taking a long draught of wine.
Arch continued to look down; Cook could see the tension rolling off the lad’s skin.
“I need to tell you something,” Arch said quietly. “I tried that day, but you rushed off, and I haven’t had the chance since.”
Archuleta was clenching and unclenching his left hand unconsciously; Cook took Arch’s fingers in his own to still them. Arch glanced nervously at Cook when he did so, and the dark, cautious gaze was unaccountably moving.
“I went to the Bowery the same night as you did, to help like you did,” Arch said softly, and Cook’s heart twisted in his chest.
“You went to the Bowery? By yourself? But you hardly know the City!” Cook realized he was clutching Arch’s hand tightly, and made an effort to stop shouting. “You could have fallen prey to God knows what!”
A smile pulled at the side of Archuleta’s mouth. “Why, it’s good of you to be concerned! I did manage to find my way, though, and saw the Silo burning. And I saw your friend, Mr. Maroulis.”
“You did?” Cook tried to focus. “Really? I’ve been looking for him since that Saturday, to warn him: the Guild’s on the lookout for him, he needs to lie low.”
“Well, he was lying pretty low when I saw him,” Arch said. “Mr. Maroulis is an Anachronist. There is a group of them, including Mr. Daughtry from the opera. They think another group, which calls themselves Anarchists, is going to assassinate the King when he comes here. Maroulis said the Chronomicon is the key to protecting the King.”
“Wait, what? You saw these men, these Anachronists, on Saturday? Did they harm you?” Cook knew he was shouting again; at this point he didn’t really care. Archuleta had willingly met with men who’d tried to hurt Cook and the others in Free Man’s Alley that first night. It had been Maroulis who had sent Cook out to meet the Anarchists - if Maroulis was really an Anachronist, had he been using Cook as bait to try to trap Lambert and Hickson and the other Anarchists? It was all most confusing, and instead of trying to unravel this mystery Cook found he was frantic with concern about Archuleta’s well-being.
“I wasn’t harmed!” Arch protested. “They were trying to get away from the Guild, too; I helped them!” He pulled his hand away from Cook’s. “They said… they said, the King isn’t human, but descended from Old Ones, which is why the others, the Anarchists, are trying to kill him.”
Cook remembered Lambert’s blue stare, remembered that beautiful singer’s voice saying, “Kill the breed of Kings, or the Old Ones will walk again.” He heard his own voice now saying to Arch, unevenly, “The Anachronists told you Edward isn’t human? And, and you believed them?”
Arch finally met Cook’s gaze. His eyes were bright with some emotion Cook couldn’t read. “Yes,” he said. “I believed them. We cast the spell again, and it showed me the world will end without the Old Ones - men will build machines and an explosive device. The Anachronists want to stop them. They want Edward to choose to bring the Old Ones back.”
Cook put his hands on Arch’s shoulders. Arch’s breath was coming fast, and Cook found that his was as well. “They want to bring the Old Ones back?” he echoed Archuleta. “Listen to yourself, Arch! Can you really believe that’s a good thing?”
“Yes,” said Arch. His hands made fists in the front of Cook’s shirt. “Yes, I can, when the alternative’s death. Cook, you didn’t see - I saw everything dying. My parents, my brother and sisters; I saw you dying - I knew I had to do something to stop it from happening -”
Arch’s eyes were so close that Cook could see the bright sparks in their depths; he could see the determined set of Arch’s jaw, but didn’t recognize the emotions underneath until Arch moved in, all in a rush, and kissed him fiercely on the mouth.
And for a shining moment, with Archuleta in his arms, everything that was confusing to Cook became as clear as day.
Archuleta kissed him like Cook was everything he ever desired; he made frantic noises, holding tightly to Cook, shivering - from his fear for Cook, from the days and weeks of their careful dance around each other to finally reach this place.
They were both breathing heavily when they broke apart. There were bright, disregarded tears in Arch’s eyes. “I had to do something,” he repeated, thickly.
“Ah, God -” Cook cupped Arch’s face in his hands, rubbed the wetness away with his thumbs. His heart was pounding. “You could do that again; you could do it forever. Arch…”
He pulled Archuleta in and kissed him again, feeling his blood rise to every part of him. He knew he should take matters slowly, chivalrously; for all he knew this was the first time Archuleta had kissed anyone. But it had been a long time for Cook, he had wanted this for so long, and Arch’s inexperienced ardor was undoing all his restraint. He found he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting his tongue more and more deeply into Archuleta’s mouth, couldn’t withhold from pressing himself, hard and insistent, against Arch’s eager, unschooled body.
When the pounding at his door came and didn’t stop, Cook was furious, but also relieved - it gave him the chance to pull away from Arch and try to recover whatever vestiges of control he had left.
“God damn it, not now!”
“Mr. Cook, there’s someone to see you!”
“Send him away!” Cook called. He tightened his hands at the back of Arch’s sweat-damp hair, readying himself to set a more gallant pace with the lad.
“Says it’s urgent! It’s about tomorrow!”
Cook hesitated. He looked down at Archuleta. Arch’s eyes were huge and wet. Somehow he’d managed to undo the first few buttons of Arch’s shirt; Archuleta’s throat was bare under the low lights and flushed with arousal. It was damnably difficult to draw himself away from the warmth of his sofa, and of Archuleta’s mouth.
“I have to go,” Cook said. It transpired that his own attire was in disarray; he started to straighten and refasten his clothing, watching Archuleta do likewise.
When he was done, he reached down, touched Arch’s cheek; he found he didn’t want to be parted from Archuleta, not just yet. “Come with me,” he said softly.
Archuleta paused in mid-button. His eyes met Cook’s - uncertain again, undecided. “I’d better not,” he replied at last. “You should go, Cook.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can. Please stay,” and Cook leaned in for a last kiss. Sweet and sure, everything Cook had ever desired.
This time, when the knocking resumed, he could barely pull himself away. He couldn’t catch his breath; he discovered he didn't want to be parted from Archuleta, ever.
He pressed his forehead against Arch’s brow. “When this is over, assuming we survive this, I am going to take you wherever you want. Away from this, if you’ll come with me. Anywhere.”
Archuleta ran his fingers over Cook’s lower lip. A beat, then he nodded.
Cook took hold of himself reluctantly, pulled himself from Arch’s arms and flung himself out of the room.
It was Richardson at his door, dressed in street clothes. Cook blinked at the sight. “You? What is it, who’s here?”
“You’d best see for yourself,” Richardson said quietly. He held Cook’s coat out to him.
*
Cook wasn’t entirely surprised to find the Anarchist, Lambert, waiting for him in the Nineteen coach house, embroidered coat matching the finery of Lambert’s blue eyes. Despite himself, despite his awareness of the illusion of stage makeup and stage presence, Cook was not insensible to the showman’s allure.
“I understand your lads are gunning to kill a King tomorrow,” he said to Lambert without preamble.
“That’s not entirely accurate,” said Lambert quietly. It seemed he was incapable of surprise.
Cook took a step towards him. “If any part of it’s accurate, you know my lads and I will need to stop you.”
Lambert lifted his chin; his eyes shone with secrets. “What if the King’s not human? What then? Would you spill my blood, knowing he’d summon the Old Ones back to our shores - Old Ones who would eat your flesh off your bones, who’ll suck your soul from your body as if it were an orange?”
Cook shuddered in spite of himself. The visions of a two-headed god, of tentacles uncoiling in the brimy depths - "You'll not take action against an innocent on my watch," he said with a firmness he didn't feel. "And if it's true, we'll stop him. There's no need for you to kill anyone."
"There's not just him," Lambert said warningly. "There are Anachronists, also, human agents who will assist the King. They've reached inside Nineteen, you might be already breached."
Cook had to thrust away the memory of Archuleta's hot eyes, of hearing him say, I had to do something. The taste of Arch’s mouth - no. "I won't countenance killing anyone!" he said loudly, taking another step forward until he was toe to toe with Lambert. "I don't believe you came here to tell me this! I could have you locked away -"
Lambert shrugged. "I could try to out-sing you, David, but it won't come to that. You're an honorable man and so is your crew. You’ll leave me free in case I’m right. And I know you'll do the right thing, also, when the time's right. I know you'll choose to help us."
Lambert held Cook's gaze for a moment and then took his leave, coat swirling in the cold night.
Damn him, he was right. Cook let him walk away.
When he was gone, Cook turned to Richardson, who had been standing as still as a blond statue at the edge of the coach house. "You brought him in here? And I thought you’d want to repay the generosity we showed you," Cook told him coldly.
"You know I'm grateful, and I haven't sought to betray you or House Nineteen," Richardson protested; he looked miserable. "Captain Lambert knows what he's talking about, Cook. His father was an Anarchist, and his father before him - the songs and knowledge have been passed through generations. I've seen things, horrible things the Old Ones have done -"
"And I've seen a dead President, and men doing their best to kill themselves," said Cook bitterly. "You Anarchists think you're saving the world, but I doubt you really know what you're doing."
"We know the significance of tomorrow," Richardson said, and this brought Cook up short. "Tomorrow it’s Samhain: the stars align, the moon rises, and when the winds blow through the four corners of the dome, when a song is played on pipes and keys, the barrier between worlds can be brought down."
It felt as if the winds were blowing through Cook's heart. "We don't have the other half of the Chronomicon," he said.
"The Captain says the Anachronists have it," said Richardson. "There's something about a man from Germany called von Ahlen. But it seems they were very keen to get your half, with the summoning song."
Cook glared at Richardson. "And you're not?"
"No! I swear. We want to make sure the portal's not opened. If we have to kill the King to make sure of it..."
Cook knew he should drag Richardson back to the Guild's jailors, but he didn't have it in him. "I don't want to hear that kind of treason," he said tiredly. "You'd better leave, Richardson - turn in your uniform, we'll see what we can do about the bond. If Giraud’s involved with you Anarchists, I want him gone as well." He'd square things with Cowell later.
Richardson hesitated. "I'll always be grateful to you, Cook, and to Mr. Cowell. But you'll see we're right," he muttered, and then he too turned on his heel and vanished into the night.
*
When Cook returned to his rooms, he found they were empty. So was Arch's narrow bed in the journeymen's quarters.
Please wait - evidently, Arch had figured he couldn’t.
It was foolishness beyond belief, but Cook spent the night searching the streets of York, peering into the gas-lit shadows for any sign of Archuleta. His brain was a pounding, frantic mess; he felt as if something with too many joints and limbs was consuming him from within, something else on his heels that he was only just managing to outpace. Damn it, where are you?
At dawn, he returned to House, collapsed on cold, empty sheets and let the darkness drag him under.
*
He woke to bright daylight and realization. Holy God, love had made him take all leave of his senses.
He barged his way into Cowell's music rooms, usually under lock and key when its Master was away from the House as he was that day, playing escort to the visiting King of England.
The music room doors were open, and the Chronomicon was gone.
*
On the streets of Fifth Avenue, the previous night.
There was a cold wind blowing through Arch’s body as he walked through the night, clutching his tattered satchel. Its purloined cargo was a weight on his conscience as well as his shoulder.
He remembered the incredulous sound of Cook’s voice: “Can you really believe that’s a good thing?” Remembered how it felt to finally take action, reaching out to kiss Cook like he had wanted for so long, feeling the hungry pressure of Cook’s body against his own.
He shivered with adrenaline now, having been called to take this action, but it didn’t feel remotely the same.
He’d give anything to be back in Cook’s rooms, in the shelter of Cook’s arms. Cook had said, “When this is over, assuming we survive… I am going to take you away from this, if you’ll come,” and Arch had thought his heart might burst with hope and desire.
It was entirely self-indulgent to try to disclaim responsibility, though: the fate of the world rested with him - his life, Cook’s life, the lives of those he loved - under the circumstances, it was cowardly to want to rely on someone else, even as sure and certain a strength as Cook. He needed to be strong enough to take this step by himself.
Which was why he was here, at the Anachronists’ summons: committing to helping them, making a stand.
A horse cart pulled up out of the curling fog. A bald head gleamed under gaslight; another tousled and blond one alongside.
“You’re here!” said Lewison. His handsome, boyish face was still bruised and bandaged, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. “Captain von Ahlen’s ship is arriving at midday, all our pieces are coming together at last!”
“Thank you for coming, David.” Daughtry’s eyes were as deep as a still winter lake. “Shall we ride?”
Archuleta nodded, and swung decisively up into the cart.
*
In the Royal Presence, Saturday, 31 October 1901
Edward VII of England, the most powerful man in the Western world, was addressing him, and Cook simply couldn’t focus. In fact, after the goings-on of the past two weeks, Cook wasn’t even sure Edward was a man at all.
Although it’s true he looked human enough in the low light of the House Nineteen drawing room: an older, bearded gentleman of immense girth with a pronounced brow and piercing eyes. Gold cuff-links, peacock-colored cravat, a huge ruby-encrusted stick-pin that was the exact same hue as the blood that had covered the floors in Cook’s dreams…
…Cook belatedly realized he’d been asked a question, and tore his gaze away from the Crown jewelry to meet the Crown’s steady gaze.
“I apologize, your Majesty. I’m afraid I didn't catch that,” he muttered.
Cook saw, at the King’s side, Cowell’s face twitch in a small wince of disapproval. He knew he must look rather less than presentable, sleep-deprived and gnawing on his nerves with worry. Arch, where are you.
The King smiled. It was a polite, amused, entirely human smile.
“We were just commenting about this year’s World’s Fair. We are told that the Exposition has used the steam turbine power generated via your Niagara River. It is a mighty river, which we last visited in 1860. Do you think that the same river would be able to generate sufficient electrical power to power the city, also?”
Cook frowned at the question. “Sire, I am not familiar with the new electrical technology. Though I hear steel manufacturers in Buffalo have been considering the switch from steam to electrical power for a while now.”
“Well, President Roosevelt’s White House is a marvel of the new electrical lighting, and we are fascinated by the Bell’s telephonic device.” The King looked down at his gold-topped walking stick and then up again. “Electricity is the wave of the future for us all, even for songcasters. Would you agree, Mr. Cook?”
Cook was interested despite himself. “Perhaps, your Majesty. I’ll own, I am curious as to the extent to which electricity can be used to amplify the sound of guitars and the human voice, and how this will affect songcasting in general.”
The King nodded. “Perhaps electricity will cause a renaissance of thaumaturgy, or songcasting will be made obsolete.”
His Majesty turned to address remarks about engineering to Master Jackson, leaving Cook to consider these last words. In the long run, how truly viable was the current songcasting technology, based as it was on the rigid stability laws of voice, strings and beat?
Of course, Neal would have been able to engage the King far more knowledgeably on such technological issues, but Tiemann and the other Anthemic fieldcasters had already departed for Buffalo to ready the Temple of Music for the clandestine Royal visit.
The away team had taken with them a member of the King’s personal field guard, a bald, bearded English beat caster named William Champion. The King's other fieldcasters - frontman and rhythm guitar player Christian Martin, stringcaster John Buckland and bass-caster Guy Berryman - stood flanking the King's person.
Like most of the songcasters in the Western World, Cook was familiar with the mighty Cold Play and their songbook, and they looked as impressive in the flesh, wearing short cloaks in the royal colors of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, insignia of rank on their collars and weapons held at the ready.
Cold Play continued on a state of alert during the short tour of House Nineteen’s treasures, staring at doorways and potential threats while the King conversed with Cowell and Fuller. Even when the King settled down to an early supper in Fuller's private dining rooms, the three did not relax and took turns to eat instead.
When it was Christian Martin's turn to come off duty, he put his guitar back in its case and seated himself by Cook. Conversationally, he said, "Mr. Cook, I must say that the Anthemic's airborne song is a particularly well crafted one."
"'Heroes'? That's very kind, Captain Martin, coming from such accomplished fieldcasters as yourselves."
“Your House is known for its rigorous training; I approve. I hear some of your journeymen are missing, though,” Martin said, and Cook nearly choked on his wine.
“Indeed.” Cook managed to keep his voice level. Cowell and Fuller had been similarly silent when Cook told them that Richardson and Giraud hadn't relinquished their Anarchist tendencies, and that Archuleta had likely taken the Chronomicon to the Anachronists.
"There isn't anything to be done until after the King's visit," Fuller had said resignedly. Then he'd peered at Cook's stricken countenance. "Mr. Cook, I'm not sure exactly what's between you and the boy, nor do I wish to, but under the circumstances, perhaps you'd like to consider stepping aside."
"I'm fine," Cook had said. He wasn't leaving his team to run this visit by itself. And if he stayed, he might be able to stop whatever the Anarchists or Anachronists had in mind, might be able to save Archuleta, or stop him. Cook didn't want to think about what it meant to have to stop Arch.
Martin frowned, now. He put down his fork. “We were told there might be rogue songcasters about, but that it was unlikely to be an issue. Do you think that's so, Mr. Cook? If the King’s safety is at risk, I will need to know.”
How much did Martin know? If the King wasn't human, was the team that defended him also tainted? Cook cast about for a counter attack.
"I gather His Majesty specifically requested there be only minimal security, for a visit to a place where President McKinley was assassinated a month ago. If there's a security issue, it's of his own making."
Martin held up a hand. "You may be right, sir, and I wasn't trying to suggest you weren't concerned about the King's safety. You'll forgive us for being more afraid for our liege than he is himself."
Cook pressed the point. “Riddle me this, sir. Why does His Majesty desire to find himself in the Temple of Music on a clear evening in Samhain?"
One corner of Martin's expressive mouth turned up. Damn it, of course he knew. "Mr. Cook, while His Majesty does occasionally confide in his humble servants, this is not something he chose to share with me. I'm sure he's keen to see the Exposition, that's all, without folks present and before it's disassembled."
Cook was rather sure that wasn't all, but Martin said nothing further on the subject.
They were both distracted by sudden movement in the room - Nineteen's head butler opened the door to admit a crewman in White House staff uniform, aviator's goggles pushed up into his hair. He was joined by a stooped woman, swathed in silk scarves and in a nondescript dark coat.
Martin and Cook got up quickly, the Englishman reaching for his weapon. Cook didn't recognize the woman at first, but as Fuller bowed to her and Edward reached for her hand, Cook realized this bent, elderly figure was Ida McKinley, the last President's widow.
"Your Majesty," the former First Lady said querulously as the King of England bent over her fingers. "This will be a perilous journey for you."
"No more than it had been for you, Lady," said Edward. As if no one else were in the room, he continued, "I am deeply sorry for your loss. You cannot know... My own Alexandra, this is her abiding fear: that what happened to your William will happen to me."
"It should have been me," Ida murmured, incomprehensibly. "Men are so cruel, Edward, as cruel as our fathers were to them. You know you should not have come here."
"I had to see it for myself: the Temple, which your Americans managed to recreate." The King shrugged. "And I'm in trusted hands. Will you come with me, to see if you can see also?"
Mrs McKinley shook her head. "I'm not as brave as you, Sire. You should depart. The President's Airship Two is rigging up to take you to Buffalo, and I have an errand to run in Manhattan."
Edward nodded, and pressed her hand tenderly. "Stay well, then, my dear, until we meet again." She nodded and left the room, leaning on her escort's arm.
His Majesty elbowed himself to his feet, the serving boys rushing to hold his chair for him. Once upright, he turned to Fuller: "We stand at ready, sir."
"Then by all means, Sire, let us depart," said Fuller.
Cook looked meaningfully at Martin, who didn't meet his gaze.
*
Ordinarily, Cook would have found it an unalloyed pleasure to speed through the early evening sky in the White House's state-of-the-art airship.
The setting sun briefly turned the white silk balloon of the White House's second airship to bronze and gold. The narrow-prowed gondola was fashioned in a new aerodynamic design which could lift off quietly from the Nineteen courtyard and tear through the air at a speed far exceeding that of the normal dirigibles.
Cook gripped the brass railing, the wind racing through his hair. The roar of the dirigible's engine was insufficiently loud to drown out his roiling thoughts.
The ship was aimed like an arrow across the Hudson Valley, toward the World's Fair Exposition in Buffalo. Cook knew they were heading towards the resolution of the mystery of these past weeks, of McKinley's assassination, the strange half-book and dueling cults and the tableau of Edward VII and Ida McKinley standing with joined hands in House Nineteen. Towards what waited for them, now, in the Temple of Music.
He knew they were heading towards the Anarchist whom Richardson called Captain Lambert, and on the other side, Anachronists Constantine Maroulis and the bewitching Frenchman Christophe Daughtry.
I know you'll do the right thing, also, when the time's right. I know you'll choose to help us.
And, God willing, they were also headed towards David Archuleta: young and courageous and driven half mad by dreams of blood and war, desperate to do the right thing. I had to do something. Cook hoped he'd be in time, either to help Arch or stop him, he wasn’t sure which.
You didn't wait, David. But I'm coming anyway.
Night fell, and an ancient, cloudy moon rose above them, golden with secrets. Below them were wavering pinpoints of light as they passed over cities and towns on the Southern Tier. Cook had never seen a dirigible with night lights, but the White House airship had them aplenty: gas-powered running lights that winked on and off, giving the brass trimmings and white balloon of the ship an air of unreality.
Behind him, Cowell kept up a running commentary; the King’s good-humored responses were snatched away by the sound of the engines. Cold Play were silent, waiting for the final act to commence.
*
The World’s Fair, Buffalo.
Buffalo appeared on the horizon a good half hour before they actually docked, the brightness of its street lighting powered by Niagara steam turbines - a true city of lights at the turn of this century. Cook would have marveled at the sight if he hadn't been on edge of his nerves already.
The Airship Two aviator landed on a field platform brightly lit with electric lights. The aviation crew busied themselves with the rigging, communicating with the ground crew in quiet tones that were at odds with the usual casual hollering ways of dirigible operators everywhere else.
A uniformed officer approached the airship and ripped off a stiff salute.
“Sire, on behalf of the City Mayor and the President of the United American States, welcome to Buffalo. It’s an honor to have you here.”
“We thank you, Major,” the King said, a little breathlessly. He managed to climb with assistance from the gondola and descended the short flight of stairs to the ground.
Beyond the field, the brilliance of the Pan-American Exposition rose above them, and the curved dome of the Temple of Music.
“Everything has been readied for your Majesty’s visit as you’d asked,” the major continued. “A small escort has been prepared to take you to the Temple of Music. If you please -”
His Majesty was ushered into a small steam-motored car with the White House crest on its side. Cook got into the second car with Cowell and Beresford, the King’s footman, and the uniformed driver put her into gear.
The armed forces of the United American States had closed the World’s Fair to the public this evening. As they drove past, Cook saw tents had been pitched around the gates by ejected masses waiting for the Fair’s re-opening on the morrow.
The streets of the Exposition, which Cook had last seen teeming with vendors and exhibitors and holidaymakers, were quiet. The wheels of the cars made gouges in the pedestrian tracks as they pulled up outside the colorful octagonal walls of the Temple of Music.
Outside the Temple was another small receiving party: two men in uniform, beatcaster William Champion, and the four other members of the Anthemic. Tiemann found Cook’s gaze and nodded imperceptibly: all was as well as could be expected.
“Everything’s secure, Sire,” Champion said, as Martin assisted the King from the car.
Cook reached out to his people; Skib grasped his hand in welcome, and Peek said, excitedly, “Cook, there was a contingent of soldiers that swept the Temple, they had the new long-nosed rifles!”
“Lad wanted to hold one and nearly got his arm shot off,” Anderson said, grinning.
Cook rolled his eyes. “You need both arms to drum, Kyle. All right, let’s go in and have this done with, then.”
The major and other uniformed men had taken up positions at either side of the Temple’s Northern entrance, under the golf leaf “MVSIC” emblem. Cook and the Anthemic passed under the cherubs in the archway, guitars in hand.
The great chamber was deserted. The scanty gas lamps bracketing the intricately painted walls proved insufficient illumination for the massive breadth of the octagonal-shaped hall. The moonlight streamed in through the windows and portals at each of the cardinal points of the hall, and left swathes of shadow across the marble floor.
The King had stopped in the north-eastern corner of the chamber, before the largest pipe organ in all the United American States.
“This is a marvel,” he said. Although he spoke quietly, his voice echoed around the hall, amplified by the acoustics of the dome and the octagonal walls.
The King stepped forward to inspect the pipe organ, whose brass pipes stretched above his head. Then he stared at the huge red-gold panel beside the organ, a shiny, mirror-like surface which Cook recalled depicted a mass of angels playing instruments, although it was now very difficult to see clearly in the shadows of night.
The King beckoned his footman, Beresfold, and said, “See you this, now.”
Beresfold peered closely as well, and said, “Do we have light, Captain Martin?”
The Cold Play bandcasters had stationed themselves at each of the cardinal points of the hall, but at Beresfold’s words they all approached the pipe organ, swinging their weapons to the fore.
Champion’s bare hands found the beat against the tight skins of the battle drum he’d slung around his body, Berryman’s bass joined the rhythm line, and Buckland’s strings filled the hall with effortless thaumaturgy.
Martin’s light, cadenced voice sang, softly:
“Light and dark Bright spark/Light and dark and then light/Light, light, light, light…”
The end of Martin’s guitar burst into a concentrated ball of light, and he stepped close to the King’s side, holding it high for his monarch to see.
As one, Cowell and the Anthemic pressed close to see as well.
And see they did - a great figure, wide wings spreading to the heavens, rising above a mass of supplicating hands and bodies. For the first time, Cook realized that the limbs he thought were those of many angels actually belonged to the same figure: jointless, coiling, muscular limbs that held instruments of music and that reached out to clasp and to caress.
Edward let loose a great sigh, and incredibly, the figure in the panel almost seemed to move in welcome.
Bring to the Temple the true King.
Cook felt the pressure from Champion’s drum-casting build in his body. The great dome a hundred feet overhead felt as if it were weighing down on them. The blue clouds and personages painted on its curving surface stared down at Cook - it was as if the sky itself was falling…
…and, like a slice of cold steel, another rhythm inserted itself into the chamber.
Out of the shadows, figures emerged, one after another, through the southern entryway where the guards had been. Beat, bass, guitar strings - and a familiar, unearthly-beautiful voice.
Richardson, Giraud. Two other men: one with a drum platform, a smaller, platinum blond one with a guitar. Tay Hickson, white-haired and menacing, a guitar slung around his shredding robes, trailing little rats that skittered on the marble floor.
And tall Lambert, leading the charge in basic black.
The Anarchists’ thaumaturgy lanced through Cook like a hail of Spanish War bullets.
Cold Play had been distracted - Martin barely had time to twist around and fling up a song shield around the four of them and the King, and the effort of it drove him to his knees. The footman, Beresfold, collapsed and lay still.
Dimly, Cook heard Cowell shouting, “Cook! Damn it, man, get to your feet; ward the King!”
Damn it, man, did I not tell you this would happen? thought Cook, muzzily. It was an effort to fight past the pain. Lambert was laying down a powerful attacking spell: his sinuous voice mingled with strings and beat, and flung power that shook the domed roof.
“The future I cannot forget this aching heart ain't broken yet/I know this flame isn't dying - nothing can stop me from trying/It’s time, it’s time…”
The Anarchists’ power didn’t directly target Cook, though, and after a moment of disorientation, the Anthemic's front man pulled himself to his feet.
Cook glanced to his left: Tiemann had managed to keep his footing and was holding Skib upright. At Cook's glance, his tall Second's hands moved to the strings of his guitar.
To his right, Anderson was too shaken to move, but Peek's youthful resilience had stood him in good stead. He was holding to his battle drum, insinuating himself into the rhythm, unobtrusively building a beat which Cook and Tiemann could use.
Cook's hands still felt weak, but he took hold of his fighting A chord and flung thaumaturgy at the Anarchists' unguarded flank.
“Now that you're wrong, you don't know how to defend/You are your own end”
Giraud stumbled and fell to the ground; the Anarchist drum-caster howled. Tay Hickson snarled, taking up a second song line (“It’s time, time, time”) and continuing to hurl power at the protection set up by Cold Play, while Lambert flung up a ward against the Anarchists’ flank and turned his attention to Cook.
Cook reached for his own shielding song, but Lambert didn't attack. Instead he shouted, "Cook, I'm not your enemy!"
Lambert shouldn't be wasting voice on idle talk; he should be singing strength into the flimsy shield. Cook could sing it down in one bar.
Instead, he chose to speak as well. "I told you not to try this!"
Lambert's eyes were impossibly blue in the shadows. "And I told you he was no innocent! Cook, look you, look at the King!"
It was a trap. A trap - but Cook couldn't help it, he looked over to where the King and his guards were huddled -
- and, hellfire and damnation: he saw the massive bulk of something that still looked like Edward, but it had more arms than any ordinary human should. It had four muscled, tentacular limbs; things holding it upright, that rippled on the ground -
- "Oh God," said Peek in a thin voice, and the beat fell away and Peek bent over and threw up.
So the Anarchists were right. Tiemann's face had gone bone-pale; beyond him, Skib grasped his shoulder. Cook saw Anderson pull himself together and shoulder his bass guitar.
Anderson's bass line caught hold of the rhythm, and Cook shouldered his resolve and opened his throat.
This time, Cook aimed the Anthemic's power straight at the Cold Play song shield.
“Find a new way to feel right between this time a fistfight/I can read the circles 'round your eyes”
Martin's shielding song shuddered, faltered. Cold Play might be the mightiest songcasting band in all England, but even they would have difficulty fighting on two fronts.
The Englishman met Cook's gaze with an exhausted glare that held nothing of surprise. Bastard knew I suspected him, Cook thought. Cook wondered if Cowell might protest, as well, but Cook had no attention to spare for him - it was hard enough to keep singing, keep pounding an attack on the tall blond man and his crew that shielded a monster.
“This is life, this is no rhyme/Find a beat, find the right time/Over my head to straight ahead…”
Buckland collapsed; Berryman slid to his knees, the thaumaturgic bonds slowly fraying. The Anarchists readied themselves for the killing push --
-- and a fourth song reached into the chamber, raw and raucous.
This was the encounter Cook was expecting, was dreading: the Anachronists.
From the northern door came Constantine Maroulis, who had been missing from the Silo for days. He was followed by a taller, bearded man with long coarse hair. A shorter man, blond and unshaven, who used his voice to create a hissing, snaking tempo, and a dark-haired man on a levitating drum platform.
Together, they slid into the Cold Play shielding song, knit it together with strings and beat and Maroulis’ gravelly voice:
“Be my mirror, my sword and shield, my missionary in a foreign field…”
Christophe Daughtry walked in from the east entrance, his bald head and fair skin shining in the darkness. In one hand, he held a guitar that looked like it was made of metal. In the other, he held the battered copy of a songbook.
At Daughtry’s side was David Archuleta.
Arch looked wild-eyed, like an animal caught in searchlights. His arms clasped the familiar leather-bound shape of the Chronomicon.
Daughtry and Archuleta moved to the pipe organ, behind Cold Play and the King. Cook saw Arch open both books - both halves of the same whole - and slide onto the seat, and the first tentative notes of an entirely new song began to play.
Cook stopped singing; he couldn’t help it. It was clear what Arch was going to do: he was about to cast the spell that sundered worlds. “Arch!” he shouted. “For the love of God, don’t do it!"
Arch looked frantically for an instant over the Cold Play shield, at Cook and the Anthemic. Then Daughtry whispered something in his ear, and he turned resolutely back to the keys.
“Save your breath, Cook!” Maroulis shouted, as the Anachronists and Cold Play tore into the strings portion of the shielding song, buoyed now by the notes of the Chronomicon’s spell. “It’s not too late to join us!"
“Arch doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Cook panted. “Neither do you! Damn it, Maroulis, there’s another way to stop the war!”
“No, there isn't,” Maroulis said, stoutly, swinging back into the verse.
“It’s no use,” Lambert said to Cook. “You need to refocus your energies. We need to hit the pipe organ before the spell breaks the barriers. Aim there.”
“No! I’m not risking Arch!”
“You risk the entire world,” Lambert said.
Cook roared, "I said I won't do it, damn it! Arch, please!"
Arch's voice seemed to waver as he lifted it:
"To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall."
The world shivered, and a lithe figure entered through the western door.
A uniformed man, not tall, wearing a captain’s stripes, aviator’s goggles atop his peaked cap. He held a silver pistol cocked in one hand.
"Captain von Ahlen!"
Daughtry leaped to his feet, coming around the organ to the front of the song shield, one first raised in triumph.
“The Silver Key,” Maroulis crowed, his hands blurring over the strings of his guitar.
Daughtry pointed over at Lambert. “Captain, over there, that’s your target - Lambert of the Anarchists!”
The newcomer turned to the huddle of Anarchists and the Anthemic. He stood close enough that Cook could see the blue flash of his eyes.
Cook readied himself to redirect his song energies at the new Anachronist Captain, who had a guitar at his back but otherwise clothed himself with no thaumaturgy -
- and Captain von Ahlen raised his weapon and fired a shot. Through the song shield.
At the King.
With almost preternatural speed, Daughtry flung himself in front of Edward, and the Captain’s shot took him high in the chest.
“No! Oh, God -” The blond man who had been grounding the beat with his voice broke off and ran over to Daughtry’s side. Maroulis cursed loudly, and realigned himself in front of the King, beside Chris Martin.
“We’ve been betrayed,” Maroulis’ long-haired companion ground out. “Constantine, quickly, we need -”
Not quickly enough. Captain von Ahlen, Anarchist double agent, slid calmly behind the Anarchists’ shields beside Cook and Lambert. He raised a hand to his cap in greeting.
Lambert said, "Guten tag, Herr Kaptain. What kept you?"
"My apologies. I had some difficulties getting past the soldiers at the gate, although I see you knocked over the ones on the south entrance for me."
“Nothing but the best for my Kristopher,” Lambert said, slyly, and Cook saw a boyish grin tug at von Ahlen’s mouth.
“It’s for this I risk my life? All right, then.” The Captain raised his arm and took aim.
Lambert said, “It’s not for me, it’s for Germany, and America, and the whole world, yours and mine,” and Cook hollered, “Aim low, damn it! No more bloodshed!” and Kristopher von Ahlen fired.
And they watched Constantine Maroulis deliberately club Chris Martin to the ground, and get out of the way.
Von Ahlen’s shot struck the unprotected King in the shoulder.
The King tottered. Green gouts of blood burst from his body. His many limbs clawed at the air in front of him, pulling his sodden jacket and clothing away from his chest. He made an inhuman, howling noise that sounded as if it came from more than one throat.
His Majesty’s face - still human, still ordinary - turned to look in horror at Maroulis, who was smiling.
“Oh no,” von Ahlen said, very quietly.
Maroulis called to him: "You thought to betray us, Captain? You serve us anyway! The King’s blood was always the key; yours was the only weapon that would pierce shields to do so. We tried this once with President McKinley, but our target and timing were wrong, and we didn’t have this weapon or half of the book. This time, we’ll do everything right.”
His evocative voice took up the song: "To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall."
Cook struggled to keep up. The King had been betrayed by the Anachronists. Maroulis had always intended to use von Ahlen’s pistol, the Silver Key, to spill the King’s blood and to open the portal. Daughtry hadn’t known, had tried to protect the King. Surely Arch would now understand he’d been lied to, surely now he’d stop casting the spell - damn it, Cook needed to reach him -
- The Temple shook under their feet. Daughtry was motionless, Lewison weeping over him. Three of the four Cold Play bandcasters were out of action, but Maroulis’ long-haired stringcaster and bass-caster and Will Champion were holding firm.
And Archuleta was still playing, and singing, and casting the Chronomicon’s final spell - the one which was holding up the song shield, and readying to breach the link between worlds.
“I have one last bullet,” von Ahlen said softly.
Lambert nodded. They all staggered as the walls swayed and a long crack ran through the marble floor.
Cook said tightly, “You’d better save it for me, then.”
“Cook, don’t be foolish,” Lambert began, as Cook ducked out from behind the Anarchists’ shields and started across the chamber to where the boy at the pipe organ was about to break down the barriers between worlds.
Cook did rather hope von Ahlen wouldn’t take his words to heart and shoot him in the back. He felt the Anthemic’s surge of power behind him and broke into a run, criss-crossing the room and pushing out of the eastern door like a combat soldier, guitar gripped in his hands.
Ducking out into the still moonlight, Cook raced around the octagonal walls to the northern door and weaved back into the hall. He emerged by the flank of the pipe organ and the edge of the Anarchists’ song shield - unbreachable to everything except that one silver bullet.
He looked across the shimmering barrier into Arch’s eyes.
Archuleta looked dazed, caught up in the spell. His dark hair was matted with sweat, his face pale in the moonlight. His fingers were a blur on the keys. His voice soared above the cacophony of the conflicting spells that raged around him in a song that would put an end to everything.
Beyond the pipe organ, Maroulis was on his knees, fists in the pool of green blood on the ground. The spell was making the walls of the Temple shudder violently; any minute now they were going to come down.
Cook took hold of his nerves. He spoke evenly, as if his heart were not pounding in his chest in triple time. “Arch, please look at me. Please.”
Archuleta looked up at him, finally. A small frown pulled at his brow, as if he were seeing Cook for the first time tonight.
“I asked you to wait last night, but I suppose I shouldn’t have.” Cook swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have left you, either. If I’d stayed, I might have been able to convince you there’s still beauty in the world.”
Arch’s eyes flickered, and his hands faltered on the keys.
Cook reached out, placed his hand against the barrier. “I know you think men will put an end to everything. We might still do that, it’s true. But bringing the Old Ones back isn’t the answer. Maroulis lied to you: he planned to kill the King all along. And, just look at the King! Do you think we’d be better off enslaved to gods like that?”
Arch glanced over to where the King lay on the ground. The massive figure was majestic and terrible. Its human head turned to Arch and Cook, and, very distinctly, it spoke into their minds.
I do not wiszh it either. I never did. The rule of the Old Ones is past. It izs the time of Men, now.
Arch froze, his sweat-damp face filled with disbelief and indecision. Cook finally understood, and tried to push past the disorder which the King’s mind-touch had left in his head, to form words that reached out to Archuleta.
“Arch, you heard the King. The world belongs to us now. We can choose to make it beautiful.” Cook pressed his forehead against the barrier. His voice was shaking. “I think you’re beautiful. I love you. Please let me take you away from this.”
The echo of last night, the dampness in Arch’s eyes then and now. The way Arch’s curving mouth trembled - and, with a convulsive movement, he stopped singing, and his hands fell from the keys, and the Chronomicon’s final spell died away.
“I’m sorry,” Arch whispered, and then, “What have I done?”
“Saved the world,” murmured Cook. His heart was full; he gazed into Arch’s beloved face.
*
It felt as if he were waking from a dream, his usual dream of blood and death.
Of course, it wasn’t usual to be waking to more blood and more death, which was why Archuleta felt as if the world was in fact coming to an end. There was a concussive blast, the walls around him shuddering violently, and then the song shield had disappeared and he was falling forwards into Cook’s arms.
Someone screaming behind him - Maroulis’ voice - Arch twisted around to see -
- in time to witness the one Anarchist - Captain Lambert, Maroulis had called him - aim a blast of song at Maroulis and Bice that stopped them cold.
The shield was down - Arch saw Lambert take a tentative step towards the King, saw a man in uniform come to stand beside Lambert, a long silver pistol in hand -
Archuleta hauled himself out of Cook’s embrace. He jumped over the organ stool and flung himself in Lambert’s path in front of the King.
“Don’t kill him! The King means no harm! He doesn’t want to bring the barrier down!”
Lambert blinked, but lowered his hand, and in the next instant Cook was at Arch’s side, too.
“Lambert, it’s true. I heard him - your Majesty, did you speak to us?”
Lambert and Cook knelt by the King, who had levered himself up into a sitting position. Arch could hardly look at him. There were so many limbs, tentacles, moving and sliding in the moonlight...
“Yes,” said the King’s human voice, and Yeszs, the King said in their minds. “We wished only to come here on this day because we had heard that the human architect, Mr. Esenwein, one of our faithful, had built a temple that conformed to the Chronomicon’s song. On this day, we hoped to see our Mother’s face one final time.”
“You mean her Majesty Victoria?” Master Cowell probably wouldn’t usually discuss importuning the deceased, but anything seemed possible today.
King Edward raised his head. “No,” he said, and then he gazed at the panel beside the pipe organ, and his mouth fell open like no human mouth should.
Arch and the others turned to look.
They saw a great fastness, dreadful and majestic; eyes like rubies of great worth. Long, sinuous tentacles shifted restlessly in velvet shadows.
A mellow voice declaimed, MY SSON. YOU WILL SSEE US, WHEN THE WORLD ENDSZS. BE PATIENT, AND WAIT. FOR ME.
The terrible scent of the brimy depths filled them all.
Arch realized the other songcasters were all on their knees, vomiting the contents of their stomachs onto the marble floor. He wondered why he was not similarly affected. He supposed after weeks of dreams and death he was now accustomed to the presence of old royalty.
Then he remembered watching Daughtry fall, and he spun around.
Lewison was silent now beside Daughtry’s supine body. Archuleta bent over as well, and saw that the spark of life yet clung to the Anachronist who had been his friend.
“You lied to me,” Arch said, quietly, putting a hand to Daughtry’s cheek, and the dying man’s eyes opened.
“They lied to me too,” Daughtry said. “I’m sorry, David.”
“I forgive you,” said Archuleta, and he did. He knew Daughtry had been trying to do the right thing, like Arch himself - Daughtry hadn't been aware of Maroulis’ intent to slay the King; he had tried to protect Edward, and was now dying for it.
Daughtry’s cheek was cold to the touch. “That’s good,” he said. “The book…should be destroyed, I think.”
“I’ll do it,” Arch said, and watched the blue eyes slide closed as if in sleep.
He wasn’t aware that he was crying until Cook came over and held on to him as if he were the last thing in the world.
Around them, people were stirring. There were those who might not stir again. Arch didn’t want to see if that included Maroulis, or Journeyman Giraud. He watched instead as Journeyman Richardson took Blake Lewison by the hand and helped him rise.
Cold Play assisted the King to his feet. Edward had fully recovered his human form - there was nothing to suggest his Old One blood save for the emerald on his white shirt, the bloodstains on the marble floor.
Lambert and von Ahlen stepped forward to meet him, unarmed. “Forgive us, Sire,” von Ahlen said quietly. “We were afraid you were party to this. We didn’t know.”
“Now you do,” said Edward VII. “Those of the Old Blood have never sought to restore that world order. Anarchists and Anachronists both would be well advised of this. There need be no more bloodshed over the Old Ones from across the seas.”
The King looked at Cowell, Archuleta, and the Anthemic. “This goes for all of you. The time of the Old Ones is truly over. The world now belongs to you. Use it wisely.”
He nodded once, an ageing monarch who would endure more years of toil before he could finally rest.
Cook’s beard was rough against Arch’s forehead. Archuleta leaned back against Cook’s broad chest and felt his own blood pulse hotly in his veins.
In his mind’s eye, Archuleta saw the horrors of war, the people he loved dying. But this time, he also heard Cook’s promise: We can make the world beautiful.
It was up to him to make a start.
“We need to burn the Chronomicon,” he told Cook. “And I think we should take an axe to that damned pipe organ, also,” and a fierce grin stole over Cook’s face like a sunrise.
Prologue & Cast of Characters : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Epilogue, Footnotes & Full Cast list (spoilers)
In which Cook and Archuleta finally compare notes and discuss their feelings. The King arrives at House Nineteen; Captain von Ahlen arrives in the United American States. The final showdown between Anarchists and Anachronists takes place at the World’s Fair.
House Nineteen, Friday, __ October 1901
Master Simon Cowell surveyed his troops - the two most powerful songcasting bands in House Nineteen, flanked by the Masters and lesser teaching staff.
"Right, gentlemen, I take it that everyone knows their places tomorrow. Do I need to run through this one last time?"
Cook saw Tiemann roll his eyes expressively. Elevated by his status as an intimate of the King, Cowell had been holding twice-daily meetings of those in the know for the last six days in preparation for the royal visit. It was really getting on Tiemann's nerves.
Cook himself was inclined to allow Cowell a bit more slack these days. He still hadn’t entirely forgiven Cowell for taking a hard line with the raid on the Bowery last Saturday. But Cowell had kept his word and intercepted Carly Smithson on her way to the Silo and diverted her to House Nineteen instead; the Smithsons continued under their roof and protection, notwithstanding that House Nineteen had never harbored woman nor wife in recent memory.
And when Cook had demanded audience with Lord Stringenfeld to plead for the freedom of the unlicensed songcasters taken into Guild custody, rather than trying to stop him, Cowell had seen fit to accompany him.
It had been Cowell’s practical remark as to how, if the unlicensed lads had actual talent, they might be pressed profitably into service for the Guild, which had found favor with the Lord.
When they finally hauled the prisoners out from the Guild inner chambers, Cook had recognized Richardson as the drunken blond boy whom he had seen in Lambert's company on that long-ago Friday night at the Silo, after the Guild meeting. There’d been a flash of recognition in Richardson’s blue eyes, also - clearly the lad hadn’t been as drunk as he’d then appeared.
Richardson turned out to have a fine tenor voice, and Cowell had been pleased to sign him on as a journeyman. The Guild had agreed to a bond for his year's wages, and Cook had tried not to gnash his teeth at the stripes the Guild's jailors had already taken out of the lad when he'd been in their custody. The same arrangement applied to the mild-mannered Frenchman, Matthew Giraud, who had also been captured in the Silo raid and who boasted an interesting, reedy baritone.
Cook knew the dour Master had a certain fundamental decency about him, and it was this which had prevented Cook from storming into Sony's offices and leaving the Guild for good the day after the Bowery raid. Cook could live with being pledged to the Guild's strict rules of conduct - lest Congress decide to implement even stricter song licensing laws - but he would not abide needless cruelty, and was gratified to have that reinforced by the strictest Master of House Nineteen.
Accordingly, Cook mustered some enthusiasm to respond, "We understand the timetable, Mr. Cowell. His Majesty arrives at House with his entourage at four o'clock and takes the tour, then has supper with Masters. Then they leave at seven o'clock on the special White House airship."
What Cook didn't mention was that the Anthemic would have left before then, to secure the Temple of Music site with the King’s elite guard for His Majesty’s secret late-night visit.
Cowell nodded and said, “Right, everyone, let’s get a good night’s sleep. Big day tomorrow, bright shining faces and all that.”
“We should really turn in early,” Cook said to his crew once they’d left the common room.
Predictably, this was met with derisive laughter. “No telling what’ll happen tomorrow,” Tiemann said. “Masters think they’ve got this under control, but I’ve a bad feeling about that damned World’s Fair and no mistake.”
Skib said, grinning, “Neal thinks we’re in danger of our lives, and I’m taking full advantage. It’s a late dinner at the Wardorf-Astoria for us, and everything that comes after.”
Cook groaned. “Fine. Don’t wear yourselves out; I want you both able to walk later.” He turned to Peek and Anderson. “And how about you lads, a quick dinner, perhaps?”
Peek blushed, and Anderson wrapped a burly arm around their drummer’s head. “Lad doesn’t want to die a virgin, so I’ll be accompanying him down the Broad Way to pay court to the fine ladies of the Bending Lilac tonight. Some of the boys from the Circle are comin’ with.” He paused, and looked more closely at Cook. “You wanna come too? Looks like you could do with some relaxin’.”
Cook was taken aback by his response to Anderson’s question. It had really been too long since he’d indulged the needs of his body. It took some effort to push the hot rush of blood away, together with the memory of a certain journeyman’s sleeping face against his shoulder. “Someone needs to keep a clear head tonight, damn it all! Everyone should still be able to use their hands and voices tomorrow, so I don’t want anyone to indulge in anything too strenuous.”
“Let the ladies do the work? I think I can handle that,” Anderson smirked; Skib said meaningfully, “You know Neal doesn't need to sing tomorrow,” and Cook couldn’t get them out of the door quickly enough.
Were they really in danger of their lives? Maybe Cowell was right - the Anthemic were just jumping at shadows, and there were in fact no dueling cult groups lying in wait to assassinate the King and to open a portal to old gods, or machines of war and death.
With such thoughts on his mind, Cook found he’d wandered into the journeymen’s common room, not-exactly in search of David Archuleta.
He hadn’t seen Archuleta for days. He’d exchanged a quick word with him the morning after the attack on the Silo, when he met Archuleta in the entrance hall, but for most part he’d been too busy to speak casually to anyone, shuttling to and from House Sony to negotiate the release of the rogue songcasters and planning the King’s itinerary with Cowell and Fuller.
Arch wasn’t in the common room. His friend, Castro, said he hadn’t been attending classes - “I thought he was still with you, doing the special study?” he asked Cook, laconically, and Cook shook his head.
Cook was wondering where Arch had gotten to when the lad himself came around the landing in his street clothes, pulling his coat off. He stopped when he saw Cook, his face brightening at first, and then clouding over slightly with an uncertainty that puzzled Cook.
“Arch, I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately. Come have dinner with me?”
“I’ve eaten,” said Archuleta, a little reluctantly, “But of course I’ll sit with you if you haven’t.”
“I was going to have a tray sent up to my chambers,” Cook said, entirely honestly.
Archuleta didn’t even blush. “Fine.”
The serving boy did enough blushing for the two of them when he set the dinner things out on Cook’s small table. Cook couldn’t imagine why: it wasn’t as if he made a habit of entertaining handsome young students in his rooms. Why, he was practically a monk.
The boy poured wine for them both. Cook watched Archuleta surreptitiously as the journeyman strolled around his rooms, inspecting the well-loved novels on Cook’s shelves, his lithographs of famed songcasters and the huge Union flag, the framed hand-drawn world map hanging above his modest bed.
"Is that your family?" Arch asked, peering at the silver-framed photographs that adorned Cook's ink-stained writing desk.
"Yes. My parents. My older brother Adam, his wife and children, my little brother Andrew, who's a journeyman in Missouri." Cook joined Arch at his desk and ran his fingers over the surfaces of the photographs, the familiar, loved faces smiling up at him. A songcaster by profession, Cook would never have a family of his own; in this moment the thought filled him with melancholy.
“I have four siblings myself,” said Archuleta: this was clearly the Utah way. “I miss them. It’s easy to forget that when you’re out here.”
“Well, I’ve had five years to get used to it.” Cook thanked the serving boy and then nodded Arch over to his battered leather sofa. “Are you sure you won’t have anything? I’m sorry I can’t offer you better fare.”
Arch smiled and sipped from his glass. “It’s fine. You took me to your club and offered me mountain lamb and it was delicious, but I like this kind of meal best.”
Cook grinned back; the lad’s lack of artifice was immensely appealing. “When this is over, I’m going to take you to the best restaurants in all York City, and you’ll find a better meal than meat and potatoes from Nineteen’s dining hall, I can assure you.”
“When what’s over?” Arch asked innocently. “Am I in for a long wait?”
Cook started in on his steak. “The business with King Edward. He’s coming tomorrow, the Masters are all a-fuss over it.”
Arch was silent. Cook continued, “Which is why I haven’t stopped by - we’ve been busy with arrangements. It’s just been a madhouse lately.”
Between forkfuls, Cook gave an abbreviated account of his Bowery exploits, and his efforts on behalf of the Smithsons and the unlicensed songcasters. “So we’ve finally managed to get them released, and all’s well,” Cook concluded.
Arch finally spoke up. “I’m glad the Guild didn’t harm anyone,” he said. “I was worried we’d played a part in that, you know.”
“You and me both,” Cook said sourly, pushing his plate away and taking a long draught of wine.
Arch continued to look down; Cook could see the tension rolling off the lad’s skin.
“I need to tell you something,” Arch said quietly. “I tried that day, but you rushed off, and I haven’t had the chance since.”
Archuleta was clenching and unclenching his left hand unconsciously; Cook took Arch’s fingers in his own to still them. Arch glanced nervously at Cook when he did so, and the dark, cautious gaze was unaccountably moving.
“I went to the Bowery the same night as you did, to help like you did,” Arch said softly, and Cook’s heart twisted in his chest.
“You went to the Bowery? By yourself? But you hardly know the City!” Cook realized he was clutching Arch’s hand tightly, and made an effort to stop shouting. “You could have fallen prey to God knows what!”
A smile pulled at the side of Archuleta’s mouth. “Why, it’s good of you to be concerned! I did manage to find my way, though, and saw the Silo burning. And I saw your friend, Mr. Maroulis.”
“You did?” Cook tried to focus. “Really? I’ve been looking for him since that Saturday, to warn him: the Guild’s on the lookout for him, he needs to lie low.”
“Well, he was lying pretty low when I saw him,” Arch said. “Mr. Maroulis is an Anachronist. There is a group of them, including Mr. Daughtry from the opera. They think another group, which calls themselves Anarchists, is going to assassinate the King when he comes here. Maroulis said the Chronomicon is the key to protecting the King.”
“Wait, what? You saw these men, these Anachronists, on Saturday? Did they harm you?” Cook knew he was shouting again; at this point he didn’t really care. Archuleta had willingly met with men who’d tried to hurt Cook and the others in Free Man’s Alley that first night. It had been Maroulis who had sent Cook out to meet the Anarchists - if Maroulis was really an Anachronist, had he been using Cook as bait to try to trap Lambert and Hickson and the other Anarchists? It was all most confusing, and instead of trying to unravel this mystery Cook found he was frantic with concern about Archuleta’s well-being.
“I wasn’t harmed!” Arch protested. “They were trying to get away from the Guild, too; I helped them!” He pulled his hand away from Cook’s. “They said… they said, the King isn’t human, but descended from Old Ones, which is why the others, the Anarchists, are trying to kill him.”
Cook remembered Lambert’s blue stare, remembered that beautiful singer’s voice saying, “Kill the breed of Kings, or the Old Ones will walk again.” He heard his own voice now saying to Arch, unevenly, “The Anachronists told you Edward isn’t human? And, and you believed them?”
Arch finally met Cook’s gaze. His eyes were bright with some emotion Cook couldn’t read. “Yes,” he said. “I believed them. We cast the spell again, and it showed me the world will end without the Old Ones - men will build machines and an explosive device. The Anachronists want to stop them. They want Edward to choose to bring the Old Ones back.”
Cook put his hands on Arch’s shoulders. Arch’s breath was coming fast, and Cook found that his was as well. “They want to bring the Old Ones back?” he echoed Archuleta. “Listen to yourself, Arch! Can you really believe that’s a good thing?”
“Yes,” said Arch. His hands made fists in the front of Cook’s shirt. “Yes, I can, when the alternative’s death. Cook, you didn’t see - I saw everything dying. My parents, my brother and sisters; I saw you dying - I knew I had to do something to stop it from happening -”
Arch’s eyes were so close that Cook could see the bright sparks in their depths; he could see the determined set of Arch’s jaw, but didn’t recognize the emotions underneath until Arch moved in, all in a rush, and kissed him fiercely on the mouth.
And for a shining moment, with Archuleta in his arms, everything that was confusing to Cook became as clear as day.
Archuleta kissed him like Cook was everything he ever desired; he made frantic noises, holding tightly to Cook, shivering - from his fear for Cook, from the days and weeks of their careful dance around each other to finally reach this place.
They were both breathing heavily when they broke apart. There were bright, disregarded tears in Arch’s eyes. “I had to do something,” he repeated, thickly.
“Ah, God -” Cook cupped Arch’s face in his hands, rubbed the wetness away with his thumbs. His heart was pounding. “You could do that again; you could do it forever. Arch…”
He pulled Archuleta in and kissed him again, feeling his blood rise to every part of him. He knew he should take matters slowly, chivalrously; for all he knew this was the first time Archuleta had kissed anyone. But it had been a long time for Cook, he had wanted this for so long, and Arch’s inexperienced ardor was undoing all his restraint. He found he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting his tongue more and more deeply into Archuleta’s mouth, couldn’t withhold from pressing himself, hard and insistent, against Arch’s eager, unschooled body.
When the pounding at his door came and didn’t stop, Cook was furious, but also relieved - it gave him the chance to pull away from Arch and try to recover whatever vestiges of control he had left.
“God damn it, not now!”
“Mr. Cook, there’s someone to see you!”
“Send him away!” Cook called. He tightened his hands at the back of Arch’s sweat-damp hair, readying himself to set a more gallant pace with the lad.
“Says it’s urgent! It’s about tomorrow!”
Cook hesitated. He looked down at Archuleta. Arch’s eyes were huge and wet. Somehow he’d managed to undo the first few buttons of Arch’s shirt; Archuleta’s throat was bare under the low lights and flushed with arousal. It was damnably difficult to draw himself away from the warmth of his sofa, and of Archuleta’s mouth.
“I have to go,” Cook said. It transpired that his own attire was in disarray; he started to straighten and refasten his clothing, watching Archuleta do likewise.
When he was done, he reached down, touched Arch’s cheek; he found he didn’t want to be parted from Archuleta, not just yet. “Come with me,” he said softly.
Archuleta paused in mid-button. His eyes met Cook’s - uncertain again, undecided. “I’d better not,” he replied at last. “You should go, Cook.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can. Please stay,” and Cook leaned in for a last kiss. Sweet and sure, everything Cook had ever desired.
This time, when the knocking resumed, he could barely pull himself away. He couldn’t catch his breath; he discovered he didn't want to be parted from Archuleta, ever.
He pressed his forehead against Arch’s brow. “When this is over, assuming we survive this, I am going to take you wherever you want. Away from this, if you’ll come with me. Anywhere.”
Archuleta ran his fingers over Cook’s lower lip. A beat, then he nodded.
Cook took hold of himself reluctantly, pulled himself from Arch’s arms and flung himself out of the room.
It was Richardson at his door, dressed in street clothes. Cook blinked at the sight. “You? What is it, who’s here?”
“You’d best see for yourself,” Richardson said quietly. He held Cook’s coat out to him.
*
Cook wasn’t entirely surprised to find the Anarchist, Lambert, waiting for him in the Nineteen coach house, embroidered coat matching the finery of Lambert’s blue eyes. Despite himself, despite his awareness of the illusion of stage makeup and stage presence, Cook was not insensible to the showman’s allure.
“I understand your lads are gunning to kill a King tomorrow,” he said to Lambert without preamble.
“That’s not entirely accurate,” said Lambert quietly. It seemed he was incapable of surprise.
Cook took a step towards him. “If any part of it’s accurate, you know my lads and I will need to stop you.”
Lambert lifted his chin; his eyes shone with secrets. “What if the King’s not human? What then? Would you spill my blood, knowing he’d summon the Old Ones back to our shores - Old Ones who would eat your flesh off your bones, who’ll suck your soul from your body as if it were an orange?”
Cook shuddered in spite of himself. The visions of a two-headed god, of tentacles uncoiling in the brimy depths - "You'll not take action against an innocent on my watch," he said with a firmness he didn't feel. "And if it's true, we'll stop him. There's no need for you to kill anyone."
"There's not just him," Lambert said warningly. "There are Anachronists, also, human agents who will assist the King. They've reached inside Nineteen, you might be already breached."
Cook had to thrust away the memory of Archuleta's hot eyes, of hearing him say, I had to do something. The taste of Arch’s mouth - no. "I won't countenance killing anyone!" he said loudly, taking another step forward until he was toe to toe with Lambert. "I don't believe you came here to tell me this! I could have you locked away -"
Lambert shrugged. "I could try to out-sing you, David, but it won't come to that. You're an honorable man and so is your crew. You’ll leave me free in case I’m right. And I know you'll do the right thing, also, when the time's right. I know you'll choose to help us."
Lambert held Cook's gaze for a moment and then took his leave, coat swirling in the cold night.
Damn him, he was right. Cook let him walk away.
When he was gone, Cook turned to Richardson, who had been standing as still as a blond statue at the edge of the coach house. "You brought him in here? And I thought you’d want to repay the generosity we showed you," Cook told him coldly.
"You know I'm grateful, and I haven't sought to betray you or House Nineteen," Richardson protested; he looked miserable. "Captain Lambert knows what he's talking about, Cook. His father was an Anarchist, and his father before him - the songs and knowledge have been passed through generations. I've seen things, horrible things the Old Ones have done -"
"And I've seen a dead President, and men doing their best to kill themselves," said Cook bitterly. "You Anarchists think you're saving the world, but I doubt you really know what you're doing."
"We know the significance of tomorrow," Richardson said, and this brought Cook up short. "Tomorrow it’s Samhain: the stars align, the moon rises, and when the winds blow through the four corners of the dome, when a song is played on pipes and keys, the barrier between worlds can be brought down."
It felt as if the winds were blowing through Cook's heart. "We don't have the other half of the Chronomicon," he said.
"The Captain says the Anachronists have it," said Richardson. "There's something about a man from Germany called von Ahlen. But it seems they were very keen to get your half, with the summoning song."
Cook glared at Richardson. "And you're not?"
"No! I swear. We want to make sure the portal's not opened. If we have to kill the King to make sure of it..."
Cook knew he should drag Richardson back to the Guild's jailors, but he didn't have it in him. "I don't want to hear that kind of treason," he said tiredly. "You'd better leave, Richardson - turn in your uniform, we'll see what we can do about the bond. If Giraud’s involved with you Anarchists, I want him gone as well." He'd square things with Cowell later.
Richardson hesitated. "I'll always be grateful to you, Cook, and to Mr. Cowell. But you'll see we're right," he muttered, and then he too turned on his heel and vanished into the night.
*
When Cook returned to his rooms, he found they were empty. So was Arch's narrow bed in the journeymen's quarters.
Please wait - evidently, Arch had figured he couldn’t.
It was foolishness beyond belief, but Cook spent the night searching the streets of York, peering into the gas-lit shadows for any sign of Archuleta. His brain was a pounding, frantic mess; he felt as if something with too many joints and limbs was consuming him from within, something else on his heels that he was only just managing to outpace. Damn it, where are you?
At dawn, he returned to House, collapsed on cold, empty sheets and let the darkness drag him under.
*
He woke to bright daylight and realization. Holy God, love had made him take all leave of his senses.
He barged his way into Cowell's music rooms, usually under lock and key when its Master was away from the House as he was that day, playing escort to the visiting King of England.
The music room doors were open, and the Chronomicon was gone.
*
On the streets of Fifth Avenue, the previous night.
There was a cold wind blowing through Arch’s body as he walked through the night, clutching his tattered satchel. Its purloined cargo was a weight on his conscience as well as his shoulder.
He remembered the incredulous sound of Cook’s voice: “Can you really believe that’s a good thing?” Remembered how it felt to finally take action, reaching out to kiss Cook like he had wanted for so long, feeling the hungry pressure of Cook’s body against his own.
He shivered with adrenaline now, having been called to take this action, but it didn’t feel remotely the same.
He’d give anything to be back in Cook’s rooms, in the shelter of Cook’s arms. Cook had said, “When this is over, assuming we survive… I am going to take you away from this, if you’ll come,” and Arch had thought his heart might burst with hope and desire.
It was entirely self-indulgent to try to disclaim responsibility, though: the fate of the world rested with him - his life, Cook’s life, the lives of those he loved - under the circumstances, it was cowardly to want to rely on someone else, even as sure and certain a strength as Cook. He needed to be strong enough to take this step by himself.
Which was why he was here, at the Anachronists’ summons: committing to helping them, making a stand.
A horse cart pulled up out of the curling fog. A bald head gleamed under gaslight; another tousled and blond one alongside.
“You’re here!” said Lewison. His handsome, boyish face was still bruised and bandaged, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. “Captain von Ahlen’s ship is arriving at midday, all our pieces are coming together at last!”
“Thank you for coming, David.” Daughtry’s eyes were as deep as a still winter lake. “Shall we ride?”
Archuleta nodded, and swung decisively up into the cart.
*
In the Royal Presence, Saturday, 31 October 1901
Edward VII of England, the most powerful man in the Western world, was addressing him, and Cook simply couldn’t focus. In fact, after the goings-on of the past two weeks, Cook wasn’t even sure Edward was a man at all.
Although it’s true he looked human enough in the low light of the House Nineteen drawing room: an older, bearded gentleman of immense girth with a pronounced brow and piercing eyes. Gold cuff-links, peacock-colored cravat, a huge ruby-encrusted stick-pin that was the exact same hue as the blood that had covered the floors in Cook’s dreams…
…Cook belatedly realized he’d been asked a question, and tore his gaze away from the Crown jewelry to meet the Crown’s steady gaze.
“I apologize, your Majesty. I’m afraid I didn't catch that,” he muttered.
Cook saw, at the King’s side, Cowell’s face twitch in a small wince of disapproval. He knew he must look rather less than presentable, sleep-deprived and gnawing on his nerves with worry. Arch, where are you.
The King smiled. It was a polite, amused, entirely human smile.
“We were just commenting about this year’s World’s Fair. We are told that the Exposition has used the steam turbine power generated via your Niagara River. It is a mighty river, which we last visited in 1860. Do you think that the same river would be able to generate sufficient electrical power to power the city, also?”
Cook frowned at the question. “Sire, I am not familiar with the new electrical technology. Though I hear steel manufacturers in Buffalo have been considering the switch from steam to electrical power for a while now.”
“Well, President Roosevelt’s White House is a marvel of the new electrical lighting, and we are fascinated by the Bell’s telephonic device.” The King looked down at his gold-topped walking stick and then up again. “Electricity is the wave of the future for us all, even for songcasters. Would you agree, Mr. Cook?”
Cook was interested despite himself. “Perhaps, your Majesty. I’ll own, I am curious as to the extent to which electricity can be used to amplify the sound of guitars and the human voice, and how this will affect songcasting in general.”
The King nodded. “Perhaps electricity will cause a renaissance of thaumaturgy, or songcasting will be made obsolete.”
His Majesty turned to address remarks about engineering to Master Jackson, leaving Cook to consider these last words. In the long run, how truly viable was the current songcasting technology, based as it was on the rigid stability laws of voice, strings and beat?
Of course, Neal would have been able to engage the King far more knowledgeably on such technological issues, but Tiemann and the other Anthemic fieldcasters had already departed for Buffalo to ready the Temple of Music for the clandestine Royal visit.
The away team had taken with them a member of the King’s personal field guard, a bald, bearded English beat caster named William Champion. The King's other fieldcasters - frontman and rhythm guitar player Christian Martin, stringcaster John Buckland and bass-caster Guy Berryman - stood flanking the King's person.
Like most of the songcasters in the Western World, Cook was familiar with the mighty Cold Play and their songbook, and they looked as impressive in the flesh, wearing short cloaks in the royal colors of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, insignia of rank on their collars and weapons held at the ready.
Cold Play continued on a state of alert during the short tour of House Nineteen’s treasures, staring at doorways and potential threats while the King conversed with Cowell and Fuller. Even when the King settled down to an early supper in Fuller's private dining rooms, the three did not relax and took turns to eat instead.
When it was Christian Martin's turn to come off duty, he put his guitar back in its case and seated himself by Cook. Conversationally, he said, "Mr. Cook, I must say that the Anthemic's airborne song is a particularly well crafted one."
"'Heroes'? That's very kind, Captain Martin, coming from such accomplished fieldcasters as yourselves."
“Your House is known for its rigorous training; I approve. I hear some of your journeymen are missing, though,” Martin said, and Cook nearly choked on his wine.
“Indeed.” Cook managed to keep his voice level. Cowell and Fuller had been similarly silent when Cook told them that Richardson and Giraud hadn't relinquished their Anarchist tendencies, and that Archuleta had likely taken the Chronomicon to the Anachronists.
"There isn't anything to be done until after the King's visit," Fuller had said resignedly. Then he'd peered at Cook's stricken countenance. "Mr. Cook, I'm not sure exactly what's between you and the boy, nor do I wish to, but under the circumstances, perhaps you'd like to consider stepping aside."
"I'm fine," Cook had said. He wasn't leaving his team to run this visit by itself. And if he stayed, he might be able to stop whatever the Anarchists or Anachronists had in mind, might be able to save Archuleta, or stop him. Cook didn't want to think about what it meant to have to stop Arch.
Martin frowned, now. He put down his fork. “We were told there might be rogue songcasters about, but that it was unlikely to be an issue. Do you think that's so, Mr. Cook? If the King’s safety is at risk, I will need to know.”
How much did Martin know? If the King wasn't human, was the team that defended him also tainted? Cook cast about for a counter attack.
"I gather His Majesty specifically requested there be only minimal security, for a visit to a place where President McKinley was assassinated a month ago. If there's a security issue, it's of his own making."
Martin held up a hand. "You may be right, sir, and I wasn't trying to suggest you weren't concerned about the King's safety. You'll forgive us for being more afraid for our liege than he is himself."
Cook pressed the point. “Riddle me this, sir. Why does His Majesty desire to find himself in the Temple of Music on a clear evening in Samhain?"
One corner of Martin's expressive mouth turned up. Damn it, of course he knew. "Mr. Cook, while His Majesty does occasionally confide in his humble servants, this is not something he chose to share with me. I'm sure he's keen to see the Exposition, that's all, without folks present and before it's disassembled."
Cook was rather sure that wasn't all, but Martin said nothing further on the subject.
They were both distracted by sudden movement in the room - Nineteen's head butler opened the door to admit a crewman in White House staff uniform, aviator's goggles pushed up into his hair. He was joined by a stooped woman, swathed in silk scarves and in a nondescript dark coat.
Martin and Cook got up quickly, the Englishman reaching for his weapon. Cook didn't recognize the woman at first, but as Fuller bowed to her and Edward reached for her hand, Cook realized this bent, elderly figure was Ida McKinley, the last President's widow.
"Your Majesty," the former First Lady said querulously as the King of England bent over her fingers. "This will be a perilous journey for you."
"No more than it had been for you, Lady," said Edward. As if no one else were in the room, he continued, "I am deeply sorry for your loss. You cannot know... My own Alexandra, this is her abiding fear: that what happened to your William will happen to me."
"It should have been me," Ida murmured, incomprehensibly. "Men are so cruel, Edward, as cruel as our fathers were to them. You know you should not have come here."
"I had to see it for myself: the Temple, which your Americans managed to recreate." The King shrugged. "And I'm in trusted hands. Will you come with me, to see if you can see also?"
Mrs McKinley shook her head. "I'm not as brave as you, Sire. You should depart. The President's Airship Two is rigging up to take you to Buffalo, and I have an errand to run in Manhattan."
Edward nodded, and pressed her hand tenderly. "Stay well, then, my dear, until we meet again." She nodded and left the room, leaning on her escort's arm.
His Majesty elbowed himself to his feet, the serving boys rushing to hold his chair for him. Once upright, he turned to Fuller: "We stand at ready, sir."
"Then by all means, Sire, let us depart," said Fuller.
Cook looked meaningfully at Martin, who didn't meet his gaze.
*
Ordinarily, Cook would have found it an unalloyed pleasure to speed through the early evening sky in the White House's state-of-the-art airship.
The setting sun briefly turned the white silk balloon of the White House's second airship to bronze and gold. The narrow-prowed gondola was fashioned in a new aerodynamic design which could lift off quietly from the Nineteen courtyard and tear through the air at a speed far exceeding that of the normal dirigibles.
Cook gripped the brass railing, the wind racing through his hair. The roar of the dirigible's engine was insufficiently loud to drown out his roiling thoughts.
The ship was aimed like an arrow across the Hudson Valley, toward the World's Fair Exposition in Buffalo. Cook knew they were heading towards the resolution of the mystery of these past weeks, of McKinley's assassination, the strange half-book and dueling cults and the tableau of Edward VII and Ida McKinley standing with joined hands in House Nineteen. Towards what waited for them, now, in the Temple of Music.
He knew they were heading towards the Anarchist whom Richardson called Captain Lambert, and on the other side, Anachronists Constantine Maroulis and the bewitching Frenchman Christophe Daughtry.
I know you'll do the right thing, also, when the time's right. I know you'll choose to help us.
And, God willing, they were also headed towards David Archuleta: young and courageous and driven half mad by dreams of blood and war, desperate to do the right thing. I had to do something. Cook hoped he'd be in time, either to help Arch or stop him, he wasn’t sure which.
You didn't wait, David. But I'm coming anyway.
Night fell, and an ancient, cloudy moon rose above them, golden with secrets. Below them were wavering pinpoints of light as they passed over cities and towns on the Southern Tier. Cook had never seen a dirigible with night lights, but the White House airship had them aplenty: gas-powered running lights that winked on and off, giving the brass trimmings and white balloon of the ship an air of unreality.
Behind him, Cowell kept up a running commentary; the King’s good-humored responses were snatched away by the sound of the engines. Cold Play were silent, waiting for the final act to commence.
*
The World’s Fair, Buffalo.
Buffalo appeared on the horizon a good half hour before they actually docked, the brightness of its street lighting powered by Niagara steam turbines - a true city of lights at the turn of this century. Cook would have marveled at the sight if he hadn't been on edge of his nerves already.
The Airship Two aviator landed on a field platform brightly lit with electric lights. The aviation crew busied themselves with the rigging, communicating with the ground crew in quiet tones that were at odds with the usual casual hollering ways of dirigible operators everywhere else.
A uniformed officer approached the airship and ripped off a stiff salute.
“Sire, on behalf of the City Mayor and the President of the United American States, welcome to Buffalo. It’s an honor to have you here.”
“We thank you, Major,” the King said, a little breathlessly. He managed to climb with assistance from the gondola and descended the short flight of stairs to the ground.
Beyond the field, the brilliance of the Pan-American Exposition rose above them, and the curved dome of the Temple of Music.
“Everything has been readied for your Majesty’s visit as you’d asked,” the major continued. “A small escort has been prepared to take you to the Temple of Music. If you please -”
His Majesty was ushered into a small steam-motored car with the White House crest on its side. Cook got into the second car with Cowell and Beresford, the King’s footman, and the uniformed driver put her into gear.
The armed forces of the United American States had closed the World’s Fair to the public this evening. As they drove past, Cook saw tents had been pitched around the gates by ejected masses waiting for the Fair’s re-opening on the morrow.
The streets of the Exposition, which Cook had last seen teeming with vendors and exhibitors and holidaymakers, were quiet. The wheels of the cars made gouges in the pedestrian tracks as they pulled up outside the colorful octagonal walls of the Temple of Music.
Outside the Temple was another small receiving party: two men in uniform, beatcaster William Champion, and the four other members of the Anthemic. Tiemann found Cook’s gaze and nodded imperceptibly: all was as well as could be expected.
“Everything’s secure, Sire,” Champion said, as Martin assisted the King from the car.
Cook reached out to his people; Skib grasped his hand in welcome, and Peek said, excitedly, “Cook, there was a contingent of soldiers that swept the Temple, they had the new long-nosed rifles!”
“Lad wanted to hold one and nearly got his arm shot off,” Anderson said, grinning.
Cook rolled his eyes. “You need both arms to drum, Kyle. All right, let’s go in and have this done with, then.”
The major and other uniformed men had taken up positions at either side of the Temple’s Northern entrance, under the golf leaf “MVSIC” emblem. Cook and the Anthemic passed under the cherubs in the archway, guitars in hand.
The great chamber was deserted. The scanty gas lamps bracketing the intricately painted walls proved insufficient illumination for the massive breadth of the octagonal-shaped hall. The moonlight streamed in through the windows and portals at each of the cardinal points of the hall, and left swathes of shadow across the marble floor.
The King had stopped in the north-eastern corner of the chamber, before the largest pipe organ in all the United American States.
“This is a marvel,” he said. Although he spoke quietly, his voice echoed around the hall, amplified by the acoustics of the dome and the octagonal walls.
The King stepped forward to inspect the pipe organ, whose brass pipes stretched above his head. Then he stared at the huge red-gold panel beside the organ, a shiny, mirror-like surface which Cook recalled depicted a mass of angels playing instruments, although it was now very difficult to see clearly in the shadows of night.
The King beckoned his footman, Beresfold, and said, “See you this, now.”
Beresfold peered closely as well, and said, “Do we have light, Captain Martin?”
The Cold Play bandcasters had stationed themselves at each of the cardinal points of the hall, but at Beresfold’s words they all approached the pipe organ, swinging their weapons to the fore.
Champion’s bare hands found the beat against the tight skins of the battle drum he’d slung around his body, Berryman’s bass joined the rhythm line, and Buckland’s strings filled the hall with effortless thaumaturgy.
Martin’s light, cadenced voice sang, softly:
“Light and dark Bright spark/Light and dark and then light/Light, light, light, light…”
The end of Martin’s guitar burst into a concentrated ball of light, and he stepped close to the King’s side, holding it high for his monarch to see.
As one, Cowell and the Anthemic pressed close to see as well.
And see they did - a great figure, wide wings spreading to the heavens, rising above a mass of supplicating hands and bodies. For the first time, Cook realized that the limbs he thought were those of many angels actually belonged to the same figure: jointless, coiling, muscular limbs that held instruments of music and that reached out to clasp and to caress.
Edward let loose a great sigh, and incredibly, the figure in the panel almost seemed to move in welcome.
Bring to the Temple the true King.
Cook felt the pressure from Champion’s drum-casting build in his body. The great dome a hundred feet overhead felt as if it were weighing down on them. The blue clouds and personages painted on its curving surface stared down at Cook - it was as if the sky itself was falling…
…and, like a slice of cold steel, another rhythm inserted itself into the chamber.
Out of the shadows, figures emerged, one after another, through the southern entryway where the guards had been. Beat, bass, guitar strings - and a familiar, unearthly-beautiful voice.
Richardson, Giraud. Two other men: one with a drum platform, a smaller, platinum blond one with a guitar. Tay Hickson, white-haired and menacing, a guitar slung around his shredding robes, trailing little rats that skittered on the marble floor.
And tall Lambert, leading the charge in basic black.
The Anarchists’ thaumaturgy lanced through Cook like a hail of Spanish War bullets.
Cold Play had been distracted - Martin barely had time to twist around and fling up a song shield around the four of them and the King, and the effort of it drove him to his knees. The footman, Beresfold, collapsed and lay still.
Dimly, Cook heard Cowell shouting, “Cook! Damn it, man, get to your feet; ward the King!”
Damn it, man, did I not tell you this would happen? thought Cook, muzzily. It was an effort to fight past the pain. Lambert was laying down a powerful attacking spell: his sinuous voice mingled with strings and beat, and flung power that shook the domed roof.
“The future I cannot forget this aching heart ain't broken yet/I know this flame isn't dying - nothing can stop me from trying/It’s time, it’s time…”
The Anarchists’ power didn’t directly target Cook, though, and after a moment of disorientation, the Anthemic's front man pulled himself to his feet.
Cook glanced to his left: Tiemann had managed to keep his footing and was holding Skib upright. At Cook's glance, his tall Second's hands moved to the strings of his guitar.
To his right, Anderson was too shaken to move, but Peek's youthful resilience had stood him in good stead. He was holding to his battle drum, insinuating himself into the rhythm, unobtrusively building a beat which Cook and Tiemann could use.
Cook's hands still felt weak, but he took hold of his fighting A chord and flung thaumaturgy at the Anarchists' unguarded flank.
“Now that you're wrong, you don't know how to defend/You are your own end”
Giraud stumbled and fell to the ground; the Anarchist drum-caster howled. Tay Hickson snarled, taking up a second song line (“It’s time, time, time”) and continuing to hurl power at the protection set up by Cold Play, while Lambert flung up a ward against the Anarchists’ flank and turned his attention to Cook.
Cook reached for his own shielding song, but Lambert didn't attack. Instead he shouted, "Cook, I'm not your enemy!"
Lambert shouldn't be wasting voice on idle talk; he should be singing strength into the flimsy shield. Cook could sing it down in one bar.
Instead, he chose to speak as well. "I told you not to try this!"
Lambert's eyes were impossibly blue in the shadows. "And I told you he was no innocent! Cook, look you, look at the King!"
It was a trap. A trap - but Cook couldn't help it, he looked over to where the King and his guards were huddled -
- and, hellfire and damnation: he saw the massive bulk of something that still looked like Edward, but it had more arms than any ordinary human should. It had four muscled, tentacular limbs; things holding it upright, that rippled on the ground -
- "Oh God," said Peek in a thin voice, and the beat fell away and Peek bent over and threw up.
So the Anarchists were right. Tiemann's face had gone bone-pale; beyond him, Skib grasped his shoulder. Cook saw Anderson pull himself together and shoulder his bass guitar.
Anderson's bass line caught hold of the rhythm, and Cook shouldered his resolve and opened his throat.
This time, Cook aimed the Anthemic's power straight at the Cold Play song shield.
“Find a new way to feel right between this time a fistfight/I can read the circles 'round your eyes”
Martin's shielding song shuddered, faltered. Cold Play might be the mightiest songcasting band in all England, but even they would have difficulty fighting on two fronts.
The Englishman met Cook's gaze with an exhausted glare that held nothing of surprise. Bastard knew I suspected him, Cook thought. Cook wondered if Cowell might protest, as well, but Cook had no attention to spare for him - it was hard enough to keep singing, keep pounding an attack on the tall blond man and his crew that shielded a monster.
“This is life, this is no rhyme/Find a beat, find the right time/Over my head to straight ahead…”
Buckland collapsed; Berryman slid to his knees, the thaumaturgic bonds slowly fraying. The Anarchists readied themselves for the killing push --
-- and a fourth song reached into the chamber, raw and raucous.
This was the encounter Cook was expecting, was dreading: the Anachronists.
From the northern door came Constantine Maroulis, who had been missing from the Silo for days. He was followed by a taller, bearded man with long coarse hair. A shorter man, blond and unshaven, who used his voice to create a hissing, snaking tempo, and a dark-haired man on a levitating drum platform.
Together, they slid into the Cold Play shielding song, knit it together with strings and beat and Maroulis’ gravelly voice:
“Be my mirror, my sword and shield, my missionary in a foreign field…”
Christophe Daughtry walked in from the east entrance, his bald head and fair skin shining in the darkness. In one hand, he held a guitar that looked like it was made of metal. In the other, he held the battered copy of a songbook.
At Daughtry’s side was David Archuleta.
Arch looked wild-eyed, like an animal caught in searchlights. His arms clasped the familiar leather-bound shape of the Chronomicon.
Daughtry and Archuleta moved to the pipe organ, behind Cold Play and the King. Cook saw Arch open both books - both halves of the same whole - and slide onto the seat, and the first tentative notes of an entirely new song began to play.
Cook stopped singing; he couldn’t help it. It was clear what Arch was going to do: he was about to cast the spell that sundered worlds. “Arch!” he shouted. “For the love of God, don’t do it!"
Arch looked frantically for an instant over the Cold Play shield, at Cook and the Anthemic. Then Daughtry whispered something in his ear, and he turned resolutely back to the keys.
“Save your breath, Cook!” Maroulis shouted, as the Anachronists and Cold Play tore into the strings portion of the shielding song, buoyed now by the notes of the Chronomicon’s spell. “It’s not too late to join us!"
“Arch doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Cook panted. “Neither do you! Damn it, Maroulis, there’s another way to stop the war!”
“No, there isn't,” Maroulis said, stoutly, swinging back into the verse.
“It’s no use,” Lambert said to Cook. “You need to refocus your energies. We need to hit the pipe organ before the spell breaks the barriers. Aim there.”
“No! I’m not risking Arch!”
“You risk the entire world,” Lambert said.
Cook roared, "I said I won't do it, damn it! Arch, please!"
Arch's voice seemed to waver as he lifted it:
"To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall."
The world shivered, and a lithe figure entered through the western door.
A uniformed man, not tall, wearing a captain’s stripes, aviator’s goggles atop his peaked cap. He held a silver pistol cocked in one hand.
"Captain von Ahlen!"
Daughtry leaped to his feet, coming around the organ to the front of the song shield, one first raised in triumph.
“The Silver Key,” Maroulis crowed, his hands blurring over the strings of his guitar.
Daughtry pointed over at Lambert. “Captain, over there, that’s your target - Lambert of the Anarchists!”
The newcomer turned to the huddle of Anarchists and the Anthemic. He stood close enough that Cook could see the blue flash of his eyes.
Cook readied himself to redirect his song energies at the new Anachronist Captain, who had a guitar at his back but otherwise clothed himself with no thaumaturgy -
- and Captain von Ahlen raised his weapon and fired a shot. Through the song shield.
At the King.
With almost preternatural speed, Daughtry flung himself in front of Edward, and the Captain’s shot took him high in the chest.
“No! Oh, God -” The blond man who had been grounding the beat with his voice broke off and ran over to Daughtry’s side. Maroulis cursed loudly, and realigned himself in front of the King, beside Chris Martin.
“We’ve been betrayed,” Maroulis’ long-haired companion ground out. “Constantine, quickly, we need -”
Not quickly enough. Captain von Ahlen, Anarchist double agent, slid calmly behind the Anarchists’ shields beside Cook and Lambert. He raised a hand to his cap in greeting.
Lambert said, "Guten tag, Herr Kaptain. What kept you?"
"My apologies. I had some difficulties getting past the soldiers at the gate, although I see you knocked over the ones on the south entrance for me."
“Nothing but the best for my Kristopher,” Lambert said, slyly, and Cook saw a boyish grin tug at von Ahlen’s mouth.
“It’s for this I risk my life? All right, then.” The Captain raised his arm and took aim.
Lambert said, “It’s not for me, it’s for Germany, and America, and the whole world, yours and mine,” and Cook hollered, “Aim low, damn it! No more bloodshed!” and Kristopher von Ahlen fired.
And they watched Constantine Maroulis deliberately club Chris Martin to the ground, and get out of the way.
Von Ahlen’s shot struck the unprotected King in the shoulder.
The King tottered. Green gouts of blood burst from his body. His many limbs clawed at the air in front of him, pulling his sodden jacket and clothing away from his chest. He made an inhuman, howling noise that sounded as if it came from more than one throat.
His Majesty’s face - still human, still ordinary - turned to look in horror at Maroulis, who was smiling.
“Oh no,” von Ahlen said, very quietly.
Maroulis called to him: "You thought to betray us, Captain? You serve us anyway! The King’s blood was always the key; yours was the only weapon that would pierce shields to do so. We tried this once with President McKinley, but our target and timing were wrong, and we didn’t have this weapon or half of the book. This time, we’ll do everything right.”
His evocative voice took up the song: "To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall."
Cook struggled to keep up. The King had been betrayed by the Anachronists. Maroulis had always intended to use von Ahlen’s pistol, the Silver Key, to spill the King’s blood and to open the portal. Daughtry hadn’t known, had tried to protect the King. Surely Arch would now understand he’d been lied to, surely now he’d stop casting the spell - damn it, Cook needed to reach him -
- The Temple shook under their feet. Daughtry was motionless, Lewison weeping over him. Three of the four Cold Play bandcasters were out of action, but Maroulis’ long-haired stringcaster and bass-caster and Will Champion were holding firm.
And Archuleta was still playing, and singing, and casting the Chronomicon’s final spell - the one which was holding up the song shield, and readying to breach the link between worlds.
“I have one last bullet,” von Ahlen said softly.
Lambert nodded. They all staggered as the walls swayed and a long crack ran through the marble floor.
Cook said tightly, “You’d better save it for me, then.”
“Cook, don’t be foolish,” Lambert began, as Cook ducked out from behind the Anarchists’ shields and started across the chamber to where the boy at the pipe organ was about to break down the barriers between worlds.
Cook did rather hope von Ahlen wouldn’t take his words to heart and shoot him in the back. He felt the Anthemic’s surge of power behind him and broke into a run, criss-crossing the room and pushing out of the eastern door like a combat soldier, guitar gripped in his hands.
Ducking out into the still moonlight, Cook raced around the octagonal walls to the northern door and weaved back into the hall. He emerged by the flank of the pipe organ and the edge of the Anarchists’ song shield - unbreachable to everything except that one silver bullet.
He looked across the shimmering barrier into Arch’s eyes.
Archuleta looked dazed, caught up in the spell. His dark hair was matted with sweat, his face pale in the moonlight. His fingers were a blur on the keys. His voice soared above the cacophony of the conflicting spells that raged around him in a song that would put an end to everything.
Beyond the pipe organ, Maroulis was on his knees, fists in the pool of green blood on the ground. The spell was making the walls of the Temple shudder violently; any minute now they were going to come down.
Cook took hold of his nerves. He spoke evenly, as if his heart were not pounding in his chest in triple time. “Arch, please look at me. Please.”
Archuleta looked up at him, finally. A small frown pulled at his brow, as if he were seeing Cook for the first time tonight.
“I asked you to wait last night, but I suppose I shouldn’t have.” Cook swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have left you, either. If I’d stayed, I might have been able to convince you there’s still beauty in the world.”
Arch’s eyes flickered, and his hands faltered on the keys.
Cook reached out, placed his hand against the barrier. “I know you think men will put an end to everything. We might still do that, it’s true. But bringing the Old Ones back isn’t the answer. Maroulis lied to you: he planned to kill the King all along. And, just look at the King! Do you think we’d be better off enslaved to gods like that?”
Arch glanced over to where the King lay on the ground. The massive figure was majestic and terrible. Its human head turned to Arch and Cook, and, very distinctly, it spoke into their minds.
I do not wiszh it either. I never did. The rule of the Old Ones is past. It izs the time of Men, now.
Arch froze, his sweat-damp face filled with disbelief and indecision. Cook finally understood, and tried to push past the disorder which the King’s mind-touch had left in his head, to form words that reached out to Archuleta.
“Arch, you heard the King. The world belongs to us now. We can choose to make it beautiful.” Cook pressed his forehead against the barrier. His voice was shaking. “I think you’re beautiful. I love you. Please let me take you away from this.”
The echo of last night, the dampness in Arch’s eyes then and now. The way Arch’s curving mouth trembled - and, with a convulsive movement, he stopped singing, and his hands fell from the keys, and the Chronomicon’s final spell died away.
“I’m sorry,” Arch whispered, and then, “What have I done?”
“Saved the world,” murmured Cook. His heart was full; he gazed into Arch’s beloved face.
*
It felt as if he were waking from a dream, his usual dream of blood and death.
Of course, it wasn’t usual to be waking to more blood and more death, which was why Archuleta felt as if the world was in fact coming to an end. There was a concussive blast, the walls around him shuddering violently, and then the song shield had disappeared and he was falling forwards into Cook’s arms.
Someone screaming behind him - Maroulis’ voice - Arch twisted around to see -
- in time to witness the one Anarchist - Captain Lambert, Maroulis had called him - aim a blast of song at Maroulis and Bice that stopped them cold.
The shield was down - Arch saw Lambert take a tentative step towards the King, saw a man in uniform come to stand beside Lambert, a long silver pistol in hand -
Archuleta hauled himself out of Cook’s embrace. He jumped over the organ stool and flung himself in Lambert’s path in front of the King.
“Don’t kill him! The King means no harm! He doesn’t want to bring the barrier down!”
Lambert blinked, but lowered his hand, and in the next instant Cook was at Arch’s side, too.
“Lambert, it’s true. I heard him - your Majesty, did you speak to us?”
Lambert and Cook knelt by the King, who had levered himself up into a sitting position. Arch could hardly look at him. There were so many limbs, tentacles, moving and sliding in the moonlight...
“Yes,” said the King’s human voice, and Yeszs, the King said in their minds. “We wished only to come here on this day because we had heard that the human architect, Mr. Esenwein, one of our faithful, had built a temple that conformed to the Chronomicon’s song. On this day, we hoped to see our Mother’s face one final time.”
“You mean her Majesty Victoria?” Master Cowell probably wouldn’t usually discuss importuning the deceased, but anything seemed possible today.
King Edward raised his head. “No,” he said, and then he gazed at the panel beside the pipe organ, and his mouth fell open like no human mouth should.
Arch and the others turned to look.
They saw a great fastness, dreadful and majestic; eyes like rubies of great worth. Long, sinuous tentacles shifted restlessly in velvet shadows.
A mellow voice declaimed, MY SSON. YOU WILL SSEE US, WHEN THE WORLD ENDSZS. BE PATIENT, AND WAIT. FOR ME.
The terrible scent of the brimy depths filled them all.
Arch realized the other songcasters were all on their knees, vomiting the contents of their stomachs onto the marble floor. He wondered why he was not similarly affected. He supposed after weeks of dreams and death he was now accustomed to the presence of old royalty.
Then he remembered watching Daughtry fall, and he spun around.
Lewison was silent now beside Daughtry’s supine body. Archuleta bent over as well, and saw that the spark of life yet clung to the Anachronist who had been his friend.
“You lied to me,” Arch said, quietly, putting a hand to Daughtry’s cheek, and the dying man’s eyes opened.
“They lied to me too,” Daughtry said. “I’m sorry, David.”
“I forgive you,” said Archuleta, and he did. He knew Daughtry had been trying to do the right thing, like Arch himself - Daughtry hadn't been aware of Maroulis’ intent to slay the King; he had tried to protect Edward, and was now dying for it.
Daughtry’s cheek was cold to the touch. “That’s good,” he said. “The book…should be destroyed, I think.”
“I’ll do it,” Arch said, and watched the blue eyes slide closed as if in sleep.
He wasn’t aware that he was crying until Cook came over and held on to him as if he were the last thing in the world.
Around them, people were stirring. There were those who might not stir again. Arch didn’t want to see if that included Maroulis, or Journeyman Giraud. He watched instead as Journeyman Richardson took Blake Lewison by the hand and helped him rise.
Cold Play assisted the King to his feet. Edward had fully recovered his human form - there was nothing to suggest his Old One blood save for the emerald on his white shirt, the bloodstains on the marble floor.
Lambert and von Ahlen stepped forward to meet him, unarmed. “Forgive us, Sire,” von Ahlen said quietly. “We were afraid you were party to this. We didn’t know.”
“Now you do,” said Edward VII. “Those of the Old Blood have never sought to restore that world order. Anarchists and Anachronists both would be well advised of this. There need be no more bloodshed over the Old Ones from across the seas.”
The King looked at Cowell, Archuleta, and the Anthemic. “This goes for all of you. The time of the Old Ones is truly over. The world now belongs to you. Use it wisely.”
He nodded once, an ageing monarch who would endure more years of toil before he could finally rest.
Cook’s beard was rough against Arch’s forehead. Archuleta leaned back against Cook’s broad chest and felt his own blood pulse hotly in his veins.
In his mind’s eye, Archuleta saw the horrors of war, the people he loved dying. But this time, he also heard Cook’s promise: We can make the world beautiful.
It was up to him to make a start.
“We need to burn the Chronomicon,” he told Cook. “And I think we should take an axe to that damned pipe organ, also,” and a fierce grin stole over Cook’s face like a sunrise.
Prologue & Cast of Characters : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Epilogue, Footnotes & Full Cast list (spoilers)