Call of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 1) (29 page)

Axandra chuckled, remembering how pained Nancy Morton looked when she forced her thin lips to curl upward.

“It's a shame she makes your life so…well, unpleasant, to put it nicely,” he said.

“You make up for it all,” she told him. A little flattery didn't hurt.

Quinn slipped on his spectacles and began to peruse the shelves, pulling a few titles here and there and peeking at the prologues or printing details. “Is there an index to the books?” he questioned, thinking such would speed the search.

“Here,” she directed him to the small cabinet near the corner window. Index books lay in small sliding trays. One listed the collection alphabetically by title, another by author and a third by topic. Looking inside the third index, the thickest, they found these entries to be page by page, giving space for a detailed synopsis of each piece of literature and leaving room for additional entries as the Archivists added new works. “Will this help?”

“It is an antique method, but it will help,” he assured, turning directly to the P section of the index. “It will give us some idea what we have to work with. What are you looking for specifically?” he asked again.

She considered the man next to her for a moment, taking a step back from her growing love for him and her desire for him. Searching him, she looked for anything that might cause her to distrust or misjudge him. She thought of a way to test him.

“Quinn, I must ask something of you. I just want to hear it from your lips.”

Slowing in his progression of turning pages in the book, he tensed slightly, anticipating what she might ask him.

“Go ahead,” he granted.

“Did you attempt to find the Goddess? Were you a Believer?”

Turning to her fully, he straightened his posture. Removing his glasses again, he took her hands in his and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, I was a Believer; and yes, I made such an attempt. You heard this from someone?”

“From Morton,” Axandra said. “And from Marta and Sara after I asked them. It was quite a story, but I'm certain there is more to it than they know.”

Nodding, Quinn agreed to her assessment. “I was nineteen at the time,” he narrated. “I was young and impressionable and joined the Believers because I was looking for a place to belong. My father passed away when I was very young and my mother—well, she's never found me to be acceptable. I was talked into attempting to find the truth about the Goddess, that she was really a part of the Protectress, not just an invisible entity that watched over us. I succeeded in making an ass of myself. The last time I was apprehended by the Elite, I decided that I was done with the nonsense.”

He held back something. While he was not lying, he was not offering everything. “I see the story didn't scare you away.”

“No. Sara assured me that you had long since left the incident behind you.”

“She's a good friend,” he said with relief.

Axandra drew close to him, slipping her arms beneath his and circling his warm body in a welcome embrace. She tilted her lips toward his ear and whispered, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

His breath caught in his lungs, and the muscles of his back tightened in a nervous moment. He wouldn't lie to her, and she strategically asked a very specific question.

“Yes,” he replied very quietly. “But what I found was not what I expected.”

“It isn't what I expected either.” With her words, she sent her thoughts to him, how the Goddess came into her and the changes that took place since that day. Intrigued and appalled by the events, Quinn's face displayed his reactions. She tried to show him everything, holding nothing back. She didn't want to leave any unintended secrets. She didn't know how long the sharing went on. At last, he seemed to push her away. His lungs pushed hard in his chest. To let him catch his breath, she released him.

“I understand why you ran away,” he said after a moment of absorption. “I understand a lot of things now.”

“So, my quest is to find a way to get to them,” she said, returning to the index, “so that I can get rid of her.”

For many moments, he could only stare at her, as though he saw a different woman in front of him now, one more burdened than he could have imagined, and one stronger than he had ever suspected.

Axandra found that the sharing had gone both ways, because she could see in her mind a memory of his past. He had known since their first meeting that she was not alone in her body, for he had seen it in Elora. That distant day in the Palace, he managed to confront the Protectress, when he was still a boy sent on missions by adults who used him for their own purposes. Elora spoke to him as though she expected a casual visitor. When he looked in that woman's lavender eyes, he witnessed the creature that diseased her and robbed her of her youth. At that moment, everything in the Believers doctrine fell away as lies. He never went back to the sect. He never told anyone what he had seen—until now.

“Do you think the Prophets can do that?”

“I believe they are the ones who help keep her alive,” Axandra offered her conjecture. “They transfer her from one woman to the next, like pouring wine from one cup to another. What if they don't pour the cup?”

So they set to work, pulling references, reading passages, but found nothing that, between the two of them, they didn't already know. When darkness fell, they felt tired. Asking for a light dinner, Axandra took Quinn back to the Residence and, after eating, retired to bed. Quinn stayed, as he promised he would. He lay spooned behind her as she stared out the open window at the bright stars.

“Quinn, did I tell you about the first time we talked?” she asked him, trying to remember through all their time together if she had shared the reclaimed memory with him. Even recent days seemed like distant past, her recollections fuzzy.

“No, not really. You mentioned we had met that day that everyone seems to remember differently.” His words sounded hurried, indicating that he harbored a deep curiosity toward these memories and a lingering uncertainty about the reality of them. He accepted his own memories of that week as true and factual, for nothing seemed out of place to him. He worked at the dig and he talked with her at the dinner party, invited by his friend Sara Sunsun. When Axandra attempted to disorder his memories of that time by implying that something completely different had taken place, he resisted. He struggled with the implication ever since. He wanted to believe her.

Axandra tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear and watched the flicker of candle flame by the window as she concentrated on what she remembered. She rolled onto her back in order to explain face-to-face. “I can only remember that evening,” she began to explain. “I know I wasn't feeling well. I was on the sofa in Sara's house, after dinner.” As she noted the time in her story, she noticed Quinn's eyebrows wiggle with puzzlement. “I remember you coming in. The others ducked away somewhere. We were alone.”

“Alone?” he asked. He still tried to compare these new details to his memory of the dinner party.

“Yes, alone. You sat next to me. You said you wanted to make sure I was all right.” Her fingers absently brushed the collar of his shirt as she watched him. “As though something had happened earlier that day, at another time we had been together.”

“Maybe something that caused you to feel under the weather?” he proposed.

“Perhaps,” she said with a light nod, her thoughts turning inward again as she attempted to pull something new into her mind.

Quinn captured her wandering fingers and pressed them to his lips. “What happened next?”

“I think we just talked for a little while,” she said, this part of the memory blurred. She could picture his face and his hands, but could not remember any words spoken. “I remember that I laughed at something you said to me. And you told me about your love of archeology. I know that when you rose to leave, you asked if you could see me again and I said I would like that. I was struck with such a strange sense of déjà vu at the dinner party that next night. I think our conversations must have been very similar. I just wish I could remember earlier that day.” She sighed, laying her own cool hand on her cheek. She thought her cheeks must have looked very red, as warm as her face felt. “I'm certain we'd seen each other somewhere, for you to ask about me the way you did. Sara said she was going to take me to your dig, but we arrived so late—”

Suddenly, something new appeared in the center of her mind, something very clear. She saw the dig in her memory, the tents, the people, all below her as though she stood on a high ridge.

Quinn leaned forward into her line of sight. “What is it, Axandra? Is something wrong?”

Without a word, she leaped from the bed and dashed into the great room.

Where is it? Where is Eryn's drawing?

Now she concentrated on remembering where she put the roll of paper. She hadn't looked at the sketch for a couple of days, not since Quinn's surprise arrival. All she could remember was how happy she was to see him. Everything else slipped away from her. Striding toward the sitting furniture, she looked at the table, on the floor, then on the shelves along the walls.

“Where is it?” she hissed, frustration peaking.

Quinn followed her across the large room. “Where is what? What are you looking for?”

“A roll of paper,” she explained, making a vague gesture with her hands. “A drawing. Eryn gave it to me. She said it was mine. I didn't understand what she meant at the time—”

Spinning to her right, she kept looking, frantic to try to find it. She needed to see the picture. The drawing would help solidify the rest of the scene.

Quinn searched the far side of the room. “Here!” he called out. “Is this it?” He turned from a table in the corner and held out a loose tube of paper.

“Yes! Yes! Look at it!” she urged excitedly, hurrying over. “I remember this now.”

He unfurled the heavy paper and oriented the drawing to be right side up as they both examined it. “This looks like my dig!” he exclaimed. “What in blazes is that thing?”

The large graphite-gray orb dominated the image, tucked into a trench in the center of the dig site. Workers dug all around the object, holding buckets and tools. Tents shielded their finds from exposure to the sun. As Axandra looked at the image, she felt as though she walked straight into the scene. She stood on that ridge, the wind tugging at her braided hair. Sara stood beside her, pointing out what the diggers had discovered. Suzanne sat down to sketch a drawing much like this one.

“Sara did take me to the dig,” Axandra told him. “They brought me to see this… thing. But something made me ill—there was… a vibration in the air or in the ground and I—”

With a flash of light, her brain split open. That pain only lasted a moment before being overtaken by the burning in her head. The Goddess, the cat, broke free of her cage and scratched at her, shredding the pieces of her mind into ribbons that slipped away into a swelling fog.

“Ouch!” she cursed, rubbing the boney protrusion above her left eye. “Stop it, you wretched thing!” She slammed a mental box down around the Goddess again, this time in a sealed trap without seams, one the Goddess would not be able to remove on her own.

“Are you all right, Axandra?” Quinn's bifurcated brow expressed frightful concern about her sudden suffering. His hands reached out to steady her.

Patting his wrist, Axandra exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yes, I'll be fine. The Goddess does not like me knowing anything about this object. And it's apparent the Prophets didn't either.”

Confused, Quinn struggled with arguing about the orb's existence and just letting the subject be. He decided, with great difficulty, to set the matter aside and, instead, delve more deeply into enjoying the pleasant night in the company of the woman he was in love with.

“You're sure you're all right?”

“Yes,” she assured. Straightening her posture, she pasted on a smile.

“Tomorrow, I promised my services to the public food pantry,” he told Axandra. He combed his fingers through her dark hair. “And I left my trunk with my friends on the far side of the city, which I need to retrieve for my clothes. Shall I meet you at the Theatre before the show?”

Axandra felt mildly disappointed that they would be apart again. As the passing of Soporus grew nearer, she became more nervous about what unexpected trials might befall the people. Squeezing the arm that circled about her waist, she acknowledged his plans. “You are a model citizen,” she praised, though her voice sounded less than congratulatory. “Yes, I'll meet you at the Theatre.”

“I'll wait by the Dancing Fountain,” he instructed. He kissed her earlobe.

“All right,” she agreed.

Quiet moments passed as they returned to lay on the mattress, though neither was yet asleep.

Quinn spoke again, breaking the silence. “Why is the Protectress falling in love with me?”

She made a small laugh in her throat. “Some mysteries may never be revealed. Thank you for being here,” Axandra said to him, running a finger along his chin. The stubble of a beard grew in, rough against her skin like sandpaper. “You make me feel…safe and happy.”

“You're welcome.” He kissed her softly on the lips. Then they said goodnight to each other.

21st Octember, 307

At the appointed time
of the evening, Axandra descended the hill walkway to the Theatre. She donned a formal silk gown of violet and lavender hues, and she wore her hair pinned up at the sides but left cascading down the back of her neck. Over her bare shoulders, a silk wrap protected against the chill that blew in with the northern wind. Taking her time, she appreciated her surroundings. The leaves of the trees transformed from summer's green to reds and golds. Fallen leaves scattered in the breeze. The sunset cast the sky in pink and orange. Soporus did not rise until late in the evening, so the stars had an opportunity to show themselves early.

Below her, Axandra glimpsed the crowd gathered on the avenue in front of the performance hall, waiting for seating to begin. She hoped the people would use the opportunity to take their minds off strife and enjoy entertainment. The sight of the crowd imbued her with satisfaction, as well as doubt that she would be able to locate her companion with any ease.

The patrons stood grouped together as friends in various small circles on the brick walkway. A great deal of chatter and laughter filled the air all around. Smiling faces paused in their conversations to wish the Protectress a good evening as she passed among them. She made certain to return the consideration.

Vendors near the front of the building announced their offerings, from wine and ale to small sandwiches. Ushers in blue jackets with brass buttons guarded the main doors, waiting for the signal that the house was ready.

For several minutes, Axandra searched the crowd, unable to see the way to the fountain Quinn described to her that morning. She sought a statue of three dancers made of bronze, their arms and legs extended in vigorous action. Finally, she spotted Quinn from the back. He was engrossed in a conversation with a group of attendees, his voice carrying over the crowd as he told a story that produced laughter from his friends.

As the Protectress approached, the others in the group noticed her first. The conversation ceased and each began to bow to greet her. Quinn, realizing what was happening, turned in her direction. Smiling pleasantly, he bowed slightly, then raised his smoky eyes to hers.

“Protectress,” he greeted formally, remembering his manners in company.

“Mr. Elgar,” Axandra replied in kind. “I'm so pleased you accepted my invitation.” She knew her broad smile betrayed their relationship as something far more than acquaintances. She couldn't help herself. She reached immediately for his hand.

He drew that hand up to his heart, clearly throwing caution to the wind. The gesture grabbed the attentions of those gathered nearby, causing raised eyebrows.

“Protectress, allow me to introduce you to some friends of mine.” Quinn went around the circle of four women and three men. They served as historians, archivists, teachers and one as a tavern keeper. Quinn spent a great deal of time in Undun City, the hub of his travels, thus he had acquired many acquaintances in relation to his work—and some that weren't.

“You know,” said Ella Bercaw, swirling her glass of wine as she spoke, “the Protectress-Past used to sneak in the side door when she came to a show—if she came at all. She hated crowds.”

“Ella!” exclaimed Derrick, her apparent companion. “Show respect, please!”

“Respect?” Ella scoffed. “It's difficult to respect someone who's been hiding for twenty-one years. But now you're here, acting as though you were never gone.”

“Ella!” Derrick admonished a second time.

“I've made no excuses for my absence,” Axandra reminded, trying not to take personal offense at the woman's accusatory tone. “I have returned to fulfill my duties, and the people have welcomed me. That's their choice.”

“Not everyone welcomes you back,” Ella spat.

Derrick tugged at her arm, pulling her back. “Ella, stop this!” He struggled to draw her away, while Ella hissed at him. The others stood by awkwardly, unaccustomed to such uncouth displays.

“We—Uh, we apologize for our friend, Your Honor,” the tavern keeper said. “She gets unruly when she's had too much wine.”

“You don't need to apologize,” Axandra assured them. “Everyone is entitled to her opinion.”

“Well, since my companion has arrived,” said Quinn to excuse them from the uncomfortable scene, “I am obligated to fetch her some refreshment. Enjoy the remainder of your evening.” He bowed to his friends and walked away, towing Axandra with him. A short distance away, he apologized as well. “I'm sorry about Ella. She holds a grudge against the entire Protectresship.”

Quinn led her toward one of the vendors and procured a glass of wine, a small burlap bag of roasted nuts and a piece of fruit. She devoured them readily, her stomach rumbling. Lunch suddenly seemed a day ago, and she hadn't snacked during the afternoon while joining Healer Gage on rounds to see several of his regular patients. As she ate, Quinn pointed out the architecture of the building, which was similar to the design of the Palace, with many decorative finials and castings around the windows and doorways. As they wandered around the promenade, the Elite struggled to keep her surrounded. The pair changed direction often and had no exact destination at the moment. This made the guards nervous. One surged ahead to clear a path to the main doors. The other two marched behind her. The three felt relieved when one of the blue-suited ushers finally approached the Protectress.

“Good evening, Esteemed Protectress.” The graying man bowed in greeting. “Please allow me to show you to your seats. We have prepared your private box on the second level.”

Axandra thanked the usher as he led them in. Seemingly out of nowhere, two more Elite appeared. Narone sent them ahead to secure the interior of the Theatre, clear of any apparent threats. She wondered if the scrutiny of the guards produced the wait for seating. Directed up a flight of stairs, she and Quinn passed through a wide curving corridor around the outside of the performance hall to a narrow door. Here a compact enclosure contained two comfortable chairs upholstered in gold fabric, complimenting the deep reds of the carpet and curtains that draped the viewing portal. Along one wall stood a small rectangular table set with a green plant and a chilled bottle of wine. Two fresh glasses and finger napkins rested next to the bottle.

“Compliments of the starring actress, Your Honor,” the usher explained of the wine. “She hopes you will enjoy the show.”

“This will be appreciated,” Quinn assured, reading the hand-printed label on the blue glass bottle.

The usher quickly tied back the curtains, opening the small alcove to the main hall. They peered down at the darkened and shrouded stage and at the main gallery of seats below, which began to fill as the ushers allowed the audience to enter from the avenue. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, shedding dim light below. To enhance the focus of the stage, the walls of the hall were lacquered black. The pit conductor prompted the attention of a small ensemble of brass and woodwinds and directed them in a lively prelude.

Axandra stood near the edge of the box, looking down upon the other spectators. Whispering to their companions, several looked in her direction or pointed her out. Many rumors circled the City about her attending or not attending the play. The Protectress' seats had remained empty for a few years now. Some didn't believe the new Protectress would actually show, considering the multitude of crises occurring at the time and the wavering of public opinion. As Quinn peeked over with the Matriarch, some gazers became more inquisitive, wondering who accompanied her and the tone of the relationship.

Axandra felt confident that she sent the right message to the people. She was a citizen, just like them, and she enjoyed a good distraction now and then.

“Have you ever been to this Theatre?” Quinn asked, handing her a fresh glass of the wine and relieving her of the empty challis.

“Once,” she replied, noting how the hall, which moments ago echoed with each noise made by the ushers and musicians, was now muted by the bodies filling the seats below. “When I was a little girl, my parents brought me to a concert.” She moved a short distance to the chairs and sat down. Her full skirt filled much of the space around her. The air inside the theatre felt just as cool as the air outside, so she drew her wrap more tightly around her shoulders.

Quinn settled himself into the seat beside her and reached for her hand, holding it firmly in his grasp. “Axandra,” he whispered, relishing the sound of her chosen name, even though, in public, the spoken word breached etiquette. No one was around to hear him. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. I really appreciate coming to the show.”

“You're welcome,” she said kindly. She watched his gray-blue eyes highlighted with candlelight. “And thank you for coming. I appreciate the company. I may always be surrounded by people, but I don't really have anyone I can share things with.”

“Well, some of those Elite are rather stoic,” Quinn pointed out. “I know they take their jobs seriously, but they could loosen up once in a while.” He crossed one leg over the other, aiming his body toward hers in the chair. He looked extremely handsome in his silk suit of dark blue, especially as it collected the dim candlelight and glowed back at her. The jacket boasted a high square collar cut out at his throat that dipped to reveal a pristine white button shirt with silverwork buttons. The tan of his skin seemed to be fading since he hadn't spent his working day outdoors for the last few weeks.

She reached up with her right hand and cupped his cheek, feeling the skin shaved smooth and soft. He smiled as she touched him and the muscles played beneath her hand.

“People sure do like to stare at you,” Quinn commented. Even he could sense the attention from the audience below.

“I'm sorry,” Axandra apologized, though she didn't remove her hand right away. She wanted to kiss him to show her appreciation, but thought he might be embarrassed to give everyone a show. “I'm not really used to it either. These last few months have been very … trying. I hope the play is more entertaining than we are.” She chuckled with him and let her hand drop away.

Very shortly, the overture ended, and the heavy curtains swayed as they swept aside. The room darkened all around until the couple could barely see each other except for the bleed from a tiny circle of light centered on the stage. As the female lead of the play came forward into the light and began a soliloquy that set the story, Axandra leaned over quickly and stole a kiss from her companion. He smiled at her and mouthed, “You're welcome,” then settled in to watch the play.

“Earth is behind us. We can never go back,” the character's voice projected with a sorrowful tone. “What lies in front of us is hope for the future. I feel…” She paced to one side, her lips to her clasped hands. Looking up again, she said, “I feel frightened! And happy. And sad!” The emotions played upon her face. “And excited. I look forward to the adventure, though I know I will never see what comes at the end of this Journey. Neither will my children. The New World is just too far away.” She looked into the imaginary distance, as though she looked out a window. The lights gradually illuminated the set behind her, the interior of a spaceship. “I know we will reach it. I see it in my dreams—the most beautiful world!” She closed her eyes and lifted her shoulders with a deep breath. “People will breathe clean air and swim in clean water. The little ones will run through the grass, like I did when I was young, before all the grass died.”

“Mama, do you see it yet?” A little boy in pajamas called as he scurried onto the stage from behind a set wall. He wrapped his arms tightly around the actress's leg and peered up at her hopefully.

She chuckled at his enthusiasm. “No, Darling. Not yet. But look! There's Saturn! We're the first ones to see the rings so close—and we'll probably be the last,” she whispered aside as the boy turned away and shouted, “Marta! Marta, come look!”

Now an older girl, maybe ten, appeared. She joined her mother and brother at the imaginary portal. Her mouth gaped in astonishment. “Oh, wow! It's more beautiful than I imagined!”

The family marveled at the imaginary planet through the pretend window in front of them, then the mother shooed her children away to get ready for school.

“I do wish I could see it,” she said earnestly, her hands clasped together in front of her. She rose on her tiptoes, pushing herself higher toward the audience. The stage darkened for the next scene.

+++

As the lights
brightened during the final curtain call, Axandra rose to her feet for the actors, joining the house in their ovations for the entertaining story and well-played characters. The applause lasted for several minutes, and the cast and crew bowed and waved graciously in thanks.

The door to the box opened to allow the usher to return. “Madam, I have been asked to extend to you an invitation to meet the company, if you would like.”

“That would be wonderful! Thank you!” She clapped excitedly. Turning to Quinn, she asked, “Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” he accepted loudly over the continuing applause. “Willa Caple is another friend of mine,” he said of the leading lady.

“You certainly do have a lot of friends,” Axandra commented, adding a false note of jealously to tease him.

“It comes with the travel,” he explained, hardly phased by her tone of voice.

The usher led them down through the corridors to the backstage doors. Backstage, the lavish interior appeared markedly absent, replaced by the utility of ropes and weights, cables and lights and pieces of the set that rolled on and off stage. They followed the usher to a large greenroom, where he asked them to wait. A short table sat with beverages and a small selection of fresh fruit. A meager offering for a reception, but with recent mandates to store more food for winter due to flooding and drought, this was all that could be spared. Beverages flowed plentifully, as most of the alcohols had been fermented from previous years' harvests. Lately, many people found solace in spirits. The drinks helped people laugh.