“You talked of Father Someone, who was an old man?”
“That’s true,” he said. “And there was a Chinese mandarin rescued just after I was— Shi-liu. About the same age as me, from the Tang Dynasty. He’s aged steadily and looks his seventy-or-so years now; I expect he’ll stay that way from now on.” He smiled at her surprise. “His culture respected age, so that was how he wanted to be. Father Julius is much the same. He sees himself as an elderly shepherd guarding his flock, so his appearance didn’t change. My good friend Gervasse looks like Benjamin Franklin. Not all societies worship youth. And there are limits, even in Mera. A woman or a man rescued in old age never gets truly youthful— but they’re all strong and healthy.” Things were howling up and down outside, gurgling howls dying away in chuckles. Something was tapping persistently on the door.
She must keep the conversation going, it kept her panic down.
“Tell me about Killer,” she said. “Why was his birthdate so important to you?” He shook his head and frowned, and for a moment she thought he would not tell tales about his friend. Then he gave a slight shrug. “It’s guesswork. He’s a Thespian.”
“You mean an actor?”
Jerry smiled. “No. Drama was invented by a a man named Thespis, which is why actors are called Thespians. It also means a citizen of Thespiae, which was a city northwest of Athens. Do you know any Greek history?”
“Not much,” she confessed.
“Thermopylae?” he asked. “You must have heard of that? 480 BC. After Marathon, it’s the second date in European history; not counting fictional dates like the founding of Rome.”
“Persia?” she said doubtfully.
“Right. The Emperor Xerxes invaded Greece and he was held up at the pass of Thermopylae by the Spartans. They died to a man defending the pass against impossible odds, and even then, the Persians only won because of treachery by other Greeks.” He fell silent for a while, and she suddenly realized that in Mera history would be very real. Probably you could find eyewitnesses to most of it, to the Black Death or the Crusaders; meet people who had fought in the great battles. Killer? Born in 500 BC, and Thermopylae was in 480, when he would have been about twenty.
“There was one Spartan who missed the battle,” Jerry said. “He was sent away— under orders— so he missed it and did not die with his friends.”
“Killer?” He shook his head impatiently. “No, he was a Thespian, not a Spartan. That one Spartan was so overwhelmed by shame that he killed himself. Can you imagine that, Ariadne? It wasn’t his fault that he survived, and any of us would be happy and relieved, and our friends and relatives would congratulate us, but to the Spartan it was a disgrace he couldn’t bear.” Maisie suddenly appeared, silently, a shadowy figure looming in the uncertain lamplight. She stood there, looking down at Killer and fingering her beads.
“The children are both asleep,” she said. “Or else unconscious…”
“Thank you, Maisie,” Ariadne said. “Thank you very much. I have all this blood on me— I thought I would frighten them if I came.” Maisie nodded, still looking at Killer. “Is he dead?”
“No,” Jerry said, looking up. “The wand will save him.”
She nodded again doubtfully. “That was what you used to lift my purse, is it? It was invisible?”
“You can only see it if you believe in Mera, because it is a part of Mera,” Jerry said. “You can see it now?” Obviously she could, but she didn’t say so. She crossed herself. “Graham and the other man?”
“They’re tied up in the other room,” Jerry said. “You come and sit with us.” She muttered something about the children and wandered back to their room; she was clearly in shock.
The gibbering they must keep talking. “You were telling me about Thermopylae.”
“Yes,” Jerry said. “The Spartans had a very good press, as we would say nowadays. Mention Thermopylae, and everyone thinks of Sparta. But a thousand Greeks died there, defending Greece from the Persian horde— three hundred Spartans and seven hundred Thespians.” So there it was. The man lying at her feet might have fought at Thermopylae, the second date in European history. And incredibly, she could believe.
“Only a thousand men, out of all Greece,” Jerry growled. “Some had gone over to the enemy, but do you know where the others were that day? At the Olympic games! No, I’m serious. You see why I think of them as children?
“Thespiae had the shrine of Eros,” he continued, “but it did not have as good publicity as Sparta did. If we come out of this alive, Ariadne, you must never mention this conversation to Killer!”
“No. Of course not.” He was trusting her. She had forgotten what trust felt like.
“So I’m guessing,” Jerry said. “I think there was one Thespian who survived, one of the seven hundred. I just can’t imagine Killer running away— although I suppose that’s possible, and it might explain his insane courage now, constantly proving himself— but I speculated that his scar was a wound from Thermopylae, that he awoke among the carnage and wandered away. The Thespians as a whole were not as bloody-minded as the Spartans, but Killer certainly was— he wouldn’t be able to stand the shame, either. I thought the scar was his mark of Cain… But now he says that he’s had it since childhood, so I was wrong on the scar.”
“The date fits,” she said.
He nodded and suddenly forced a laugh, breaking the spell. “Probably he just missed the battle because he was worshipping Eros with someone else’s wife. He’ll never tell us, that’s certain.” He was telling her that Killer had a dark secret and he had said that he had one himself. Was he hinting that her shame was her passport to Mera?
As though he had read the thought he said, “There are many people in Mera who will not discuss their past, Ariadne. Only the Oracle knows.”
“That wand,” she said. “It’s glowing!” He did not reply, and she looked at him and saw fear in his face.
“Why?” she asked. “Why is it so bright?”
“What is a wand?” he replied. “I don’t know. Killer believes they have spirits in them. I tend to think they are machines, that the Oracle charges them up somehow with power, with faerie, like batteries. When they’re working really hard, they shine like that.”
“Keeping him alive?”
“Certainly.” He glanced uneasily around the shadowy room. “But it’s also keeping this cottage in existence, because this place isn’t truly real. The faerie is holding the daemon out… and the demons’ power is growing. Can’t you feel it? The air stinks of sulfur.” She wished he hadn’t said that. He was more frightened than she was, because he knew more. This time she put her arm around him.
“Can the wands overload?” she asked.
“Maybe,” he muttered reluctantly. “Or run out? If they do, then that might explain the rescues that fail— the ones where nobody returns. It must be taking a lot of faerie to keep Killer alive.” The light flickered. He pulled out of her hug and jumped up. He grabbed the lamp on the table, muttered a curse, and went to inspect the one on the piano.
“We’re almost out of oil!” he shouted. Then he strode over to the oil can, picked it up, and shook it. There was no sound. “It was half full!” They stared at each other in mutual dismay as the lamp on the piano guttered out.