The District of the Cisterns, Constantinople
"Carefully, children, carefully!" The voice out of the darkness was fierce. Four of the Walach cowered on the walkway, clustered around a heavy pine crate. They had been trying to move the crate down a narrow path of stone and rotting wood. Oily, dark water of unknown depth lay under the walkway. Mist pooled in the air, making vision and breath difficult. "Those things are precious."
The Dark Queen appeared out of the fog, a black shape against gray mist. Lanterns hung from poles beside the walkway, throwing a shifting, fitful light across the mossy planks. Her face was a pale oval, white eyes gleaming in the darkness. The Walach crawled before her, pressing their faces to the wood.
"Two of you ahead," she hissed, looming over them, "and two behind."
The Walach boys took hold of the crate, musk glands oozing fear into the close, humid air. The Queen brooded, watching as they hauled the crate onto their shoulders. The walkway creaked alarmingly but did not give way. With careful steps, they inched down the path. The carved jadeite vases in the crate were absurdly heavy. Shaking her head in disgust, the Queen stalked up onto the platform. It galled her to have to move like this, in a hurry, rushed.
Her platform was empty, stripped down to ancient beech planks. The Chin vases, covered with coiling dragons, birds and mountains wrapped in delicate cloud, were the last to leave. Snarling to herself, the Queen drew a vial out of her cloak and wrenched off the cap. A hiss escaped and she quickly turned her face away. Preserving her beauty had cost too much already; she hated the thought of losing what little remained. A flick of her thin hand scattered silver dust across the platform.
She stepped back, the hem of the cloak over her face, and paced quickly away down the walkway. Behind her the platform began to smoke, sending up dark, curling wisps. Even in the heavy, warm air, she could feel the heat of the fire build. Within the hour, nothing would be left but the gorgon's heads, caked with soot. At the entrance, she leapt up the stairs, driven by anger.
These Fates will rue the day they trifled with the Queen of Night!
– |Her fury had not abated by the time she reached the highest point in the old acropolis. Zeus Pankrator had not visited his temple in millennia, but it remained a glorious structure, perched on a high hill overlooking the watery junction of the Golden Horn and the Propontis. From this vantage, the Queen looked out to the east. Below, in the harbor, her ships were putting out to sea, driven by long oars and the tireless backs of her children. There were six of them in all, fast merchantmen, and then the swift Helios pacing them as a guard. Huddled in their holds were the last of the surapa remaining in the city.
She had always expected this day would come. Her people had dwelt in the city for over a thousand years, living and hunting amongst the daywalker herds. Now they were few and driven into hiding. The Queen scowled, her fine-boned face transforming into a mask of hate. Pale fingernails, long and sleek, dug into the marble railing around the tower. She bent her head, concentrating, and felt power shift in the earth. She no longer had the strength of youth, but wind and air were still hers to command. Fog boiled up off the cold waters of the Propontis, spreading like a stain of ink in clear water. Within a few grains it covered the seven ships plowing south, then enveloped their masts and began to mount the massive granite seawalls. Beneath that shroud, her children fled.
She hoped that they would find safety in the west. Long ago she had made arrangements for their sanctuary, but who knew if such ancient trust would hold? The Queen turned away, drawing power back to her, letting the wind and the air and the sea resume their wonted course. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and began to descend the steps.
At the far edge of the water, where fog and mist crept towards the Asian shore, the tide of white suddenly stalled, boiling and seething. The Queen's head jerked up and she stopped, hand pressed against the crumbling wall. Something touched the fringe of her artifice. Even with her power withdrawn, she could feel an echo. Swiftly, almost without her thought, the air around her flickered and shaded to an impossible hue. She leapt back up the stairs, lighting on the railing, her feet bare on cold white stone.
In the east, at the edge of vision, lightning flickered in sullen clouds. At the edge of the water, power was working in the night. Her fog had disturbed some hidden pattern. A wind rose, and she could feel zephyrs rush across the cold waters, driving back the mist. For a moment, she considered putting forth her power to deny this. Then a strange sensation came over her, a flickering touch, riding on the wind. She knew it, recognized it, feeling memory stir. It was an old thing, something she had thought destroyed or banished. For the first time, the Queen knew the source of her dread and the strange feeling of doom filling the daywalker city.
The destroyer, she thought, feeling truly old. The Lord of the Ten Serpents.
Thunder rumbled in the east, echoing the dim flash of light in the clouds.
The Queen snarled, in defiance now and not simple rage. She was glad, lighthearted, even, knowing why she had waited. She would not flee to the west. She would wait and prepare. It would be interesting. Even the faint pain lingering in her blood seemed insignificant. How will you get over the water, I wonder?