The Walls of Jericho

Circles

Even though they’re made from textiles made in Northern Ireland, the tapestries aren’t on the third floor of the Ulster Museum with the second half of the History Zone. The rest of the third floor is divided between the remaining exhibit zones, Nature and Art.

The Nature Zone has a vast display of animals that are found in Ireland as well as those that are close to extinction. There’s a fossils exhibit of animals that became extinct long ago, and finally exhibits on various paleolithic ages and about where certain elements are found on our planet.

Obviously, not much on dragons to be found in the Nature Zone, but as soon as we step foot in the third floor portion of the Art Zone, I hit paydirt.

There’s a small section here of heraldry items—shields, helmets, flags and banners, even tankards and plates—bearing dragons in the crests emblazoned upon them. Of particular interest to me is that often, the dragon is shown as slain. In more than one case, the dragon is show as slain by a wolf or dog.  And what’s really interesting is that all three wolves in my party—Damien, Ferdi and Channing—each admire these with a certain grim satisfaction and pride in their expressions.  

SOFie’s twinkly tinge on my finger is all the confirmation I need that I’m fighting an uphill battle with the wolves. An insurmountable uphill battle. Even tolerant as Channing is of my challenges, he’s made it abundantly clear his position on the dragons is inflexible—they offer no benefit he acknowledges to human or wolfkind and they’re to be hunted until they’re all gone.

Doubtless if the Alpha thinks that, the pack thinks that.

“The tapestries you’re seeking are on the fourth floor,” Fia advises, but she’s been more than generous in allowing us to peruse the exhibits at the Ulster Museum too.

“I’ll be right—.” I don’t get to finish my sentence.

In that instant, my eyes light on a single crest and a striking image flashes into my head. I must have given some outward sign—made a sound or visibly flinched—because all three men return to crowd close as I study the embroidered crest upon its banner.

It’s a quartered shield, with four plains of color. Clockwise around, it’s blue, then silver, then green and finally gold. Two unicorns, collared but with broken chains, are positioned facing opposite directions, one in the gold field, the other in the silver field. Each unicorn faces the creatures flanking the shield on each side—the  gold unicorn facing a red, winged dragon, and the silver one facing a black wolf. The entire thing is wreathed in grape leaves and crowned by crossed battle axes.

“What is it, Jericho?” Damien asks. “What did you see?”

“Words. ‘Duo militibus. Duo coniunguntur merito. Duo figura, qui in mundo.’ I don’t know what it means,” I reply, stumbling over the pronunciations, but seeing the words clearly in my head.

“It’s Latin,” Ferdi answers, thoroughly surprising me. “It means: ‘Two warriors. Two lovers or mates. Two who shape the world.’ This is the coat of arms of the family Jenkins. The design itself dates from 1362, but this sample was made in the 1920s.” He taps the protective glass as he reads the tiny plaque beside the tapestry. “The family name was later modified to Jenks,” he pivots to face me, “and Jinks.”

‘Two warriors. Two mates. Two who shape the world.’ Piecing together everything I know, I expect the two warriors must be the dragons and the wolves. Their two mates are self-explanatory. But even knowing since Rebecca’s discovery that there is a mage and a separate oracle, I don’t know what it means that they’d shape the world.

“I get everything else on here—,” Damien says, “—the colors, the meanings of the various symbols. What I don’t understand is why there are two unicorns.”

Beside me, Channing curses vehemently and paces a few steps towards the third floor railing, crossing his arms over his chest. He glares at the willow-work dragons suspended from the ceiling. “It means there are two mages. And we only have one—the one we took from the dragon.”

“Mages? Dragons?” Fia fixes Damien with a hard stare. “Men that move with impossible speed. I think you’ve some explaining to do, sir.”

“You had to say that out loud. Couldn’t use the wolf link,” Damien grumbles with annoyance. Removing his glasses, he rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger. Then he lifts the hem of his t-shirt and uses it to wipe the lenses clean. “Obviously now I do. Thanks, Channing.”

A smile quirks one side of my mouth. Not because of Damien’s sarcastic jibe at Channing, but because of Fia’s expression, which apparently, I’m the only one who’s noticed. Her gray-blue eyes have gone wide beneath lifted brows, and they’re pinned to the exposed flesh above the waistband of Damien’s jeans, her pert mouth set in a stunned but appreciative ‘O’.  

Personally, I’m quite fond of werewolf physique—especially Channing’s and those divine abs of his—but he’s not lacking anywhere else as far as I’m concerned. In combination with the rest of his wolf traits, he’s a supremely delectable package.

Like humans, who wear masks to negotiate the myriad environments they face in daily life, a wolf’s real personality is hidden under his social position, which means Fia will have more to contend with than just what I know. But I find Damien to be a great deal like Channing in many regards. He’s usually confident, quite tolerant and easy-going, and a generous natural leader, even if he’s not the Alpha. They’re both wild and playful, affectionate, and strong but kind.

Where Fia benefits in Damien is agreeableness. Compared to Channing’s resilient and dignified but stern persona, Damien is generally relaxed, loveable and seldom harsh. He has a better balance of aggression and cooperation, but in Channing’s defense, he’s responsible for safeguarding the entire Avernus pack.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I snap a quick picture of the crest on the banner. As I head towards the next section of Art exhibits, I pause to pat Fia on the shoulder and whisper in her ear. “Wait until you see what’s under the rest of that wrapping. You’re going to love it.”

“Are we still looking for dragons?” Channing asks, trailing after me. “Or now we’re looking for more?”

“Still dragons,” I confirm, “but I suspect now we’ll find them often associated with wolves and unicorns.”

He pulls me aside, leaning back to check the proximity of the rest of our party. “What’s going on with Damien and that girl?”

“’That girl’?” I repeat, a little disappointed. “Her name is Fia, Channing, and you’d best remember it. Those two are mates.”

His face splits in a wide grin. “No way! You saw that too?” He leans back again, taking another look at Fia and Damien where they stand together, talking quietly.

I nod. “The past and the future.” Heaving a heavy sigh, I take his hand and pull him into the next area to scan for tapestries. What I don’t see is a dragon or a dragon’s mate.>

What does that mean?> he demands. Why does it even matter?>

You said the dragons use a diviner to choose their mates for them.>

Yeah. So?>

I debate whether I want to answer his question, then decide it’s probably best if I do. I think it means I’m not that one.>

I still don’t see why that matters.>

It means the dragon can still find the mage who is, and despite the efforts of Avernus, find his mate.>

Jericho, the dragon thinks the mage he needs is you. As long as he believes that, we’re still in good shape.>

Ignoring the fact that he’s using me as bait, I make one more pass through the remainder of the third floor art area without seeing anything else with dragons and no tapestries. “We need to go upstairs.”

Channing grabs me and pulls me aside before I get past him. “You had no comment to the last thing I said. Why?”

“What is there to say?” I shrug. “I get your strategy. Keep him focused incorrectly on me, then he can’t find his actual mate. Essentially, it becomes a game of keep-away that lasts until either the dragon, his mate, or the other mage dies.”

“You, who wants me to avoid an outright battle, disagree with that?”

Side-stepping, I go around him. “Didn’t you say we’d have this conversation somewhere private?”

“Fine, but it’s not over, Jericho. I will circle back around,” he warns, trailing after me.

Whatever. I roll my eyes, trudging my way back to the stairs. Damien and Fia follow, still talking softly, and Ferdi meets us at the stairs. He grabs my arm and stops me as I start up.

As I pivot to face Ferdi, behind me, Channing gives a warning growl that Ferdi acknowledges with a single nod. When he looks into my face, his icy-blue eyes are troubled and he swallows hard. “Damien, you and Fia go on ahead,” he says softly.

When they board the elevator and the doors have closed, Ferdi continues. “We killed her, Jericho. My family. Me, and my uncle.”

My eyes narrow, peering at him. “Killed who?”

“Jillian,” he replies. “The woman you saw in your head, and stuck in mine. That was the dragon battle when Rebecca and I lost our parents. Cadmus killed my dad before we could finish him. But, afterwards, we dragged her out and killed her too. I’m sorry.”

Confused, I glance over my shoulder at Channing, but he has nothing more to offer either. “Why are you sorry?”

Again, Ferdi swallows hard. “Because we didn’t have to. My uncle assumed control when my dad died. He had us kill her. To wipe out the mage bloodline.”

I stare at the intricate tattoos along his thick neck, the way blend into the ones visible at the neckline of his shirt. “I still don’t understand, Ferdi.”

“Cadmus had taken a mate previously. When my dad and uncle were young. Jillian was only the fourth generation removed from the mage who’d brought him that mate.”

I swear I’m not stupid, but nothing he’s telling me makes any sense. I’m certain the wolves have killed mages before, and if I’m any indicator, I’d bet odds they’ve lost a few of their own to the mages over the years. It's war, and it's foolish and ugly. It’s only when Channing speaks that it starts to become clear.

“You knew she wasn’t the right mage.” His brows are drawn together in a frown and he stares hard at Ferdi. “You killed an innocent. Who was she?”

“Her name was Jillian Jinks. She was your great-great aunt, Jericho.” Ferdi’s head hangs. “That crest we just saw. It’s not just your family’s. She made it. I watched her embroidering it when we were stalking Cadmus.”

Suddenly, I can’t look at Ferdi anymore. Facing up the stairs again, I stare blankly at their rise. I had thought that Amber's weird trip to the past was about Cadmus. While that’s certainly proven educational, now, I’m not so certain it was about him at all.

My head’s starting to spin. If Jillian was the fourth generation from the oracle mage who’d found Cadmus’ mate, then that made her daughter—the one Cadmus told me went to America—she would have been the fifth.

Channing has already told me the technomage—the mage the wolves believe the dragon needs— turns up once every six to eight generations. Technically, that would make my previous life as Mia, the sixth in Jillian Jink's direct family line. In that form, I was born of a mage bloodline and in the correct generation, but not as the oracle the dragon needed.

What’s even more twisted is that when I died as Mia, I managed to be reborn into the same bloodline, just descended from a different ancestor. It can’t be coincidence, but I don’t know how it’s significant. 

Above me, Damien pokes his head into the stairwell. “Are you guys coming? We found the tapestry.”

Without hesitation, I climb the stairs with dragging feet. It takes only a couple seconds, then Channing catches up to me and Ferdi brings up the rear.

“Are you okay, babydoll?”

“I don’t know. I just want to see what they found. Then, to go do something mindless.”

The fourth floor of the Ulster Museum is entirely Art Zone. The tapestry Damien is talking about is displayed on it’s own, secured to a winding wall at eye level. Like other story-telling tapestries of the middle ages, it depicts significant events in the country from roughly the 1600s up until Ireland’s Civil War, about one hundred years ago.

It’s made of Irish linen sections, loomed during the period when the tapestry was extended with new events, and stitched together with fine cotton thread in varying colors. In addition to telling more recent stories in Irish history, such as the Dublin Lockout, the Easter Rising and the Irish War of Independence, it progresses backwards through time through other significant events for the country, simultaneously demonstrating the different techniques in linen-making and looming prevalent at the time.

There are seven story panels in it depicting wolves, dragons, or unicorns, including the event of Cadmus’ death, which is the only panel in which all three appear. Since I’m not much capable of straight-line thinking right now having been derailed by Ferdi’s earlier confession, I pull my phone and take pictures of each, then include the preceding two panels and the panel following, just in case I need more context.

I have no idea what time it is, but I do have enough sense to recognize that I’m hungry. When I take the final picture, I turn to Channing. “I’m done for the moment, beefcake. What do you say we grab a bite in the restaurant downstairs?”

“Aye!” Fia seconds, grabbing a blushing and stupidly grinning Damien by the hand and dragging him towards the elevator.

Ferdi’s still trailing along behind us at a respectable distance as we take the stairs to the first floor.

“How long is he going to mope like that, Channing?” I ask, not really certain what to do with him.

 He chuckles softly. “Don’t be so rough on him, Jericho. He’s just come face to face with the consequences of his own actions and that of his uncle, a man he knew he shouldn’t have supported for Alpha. The fact that it’s also a wrong done to his Luna makes it even worse. He’ll stop moping eventually, but he won’t forget he owes you. It might be the best thing that’s happened. Hopefully, there won’t be anymore of his shenanigans trying to kill you because you’re a dragon.”

“I’m not a dragon.”

“I know.” He nuzzles my neck. “You are pretty crabby though, babydoll. Let’s get you something to eat.”

**

We learn from Fia that the restaurant downstairs in the Welcome Zone called Wynne & Pym is named after the architect who designed the original classical 1920s building, and the architect who designed the controversial, modernist brutalist extension of the museum in the 1960s.

“The original café overlooked the botanic gardens,” she explains, “but they served the worst tea and the stalest buns in all Belfast. The sole redeeming features were the bullet holes in the windows from a gun battle during the Troubles. At least they gave it an air of historical significance. This one’s quite nice by comparison.”

For all I know of Belfast cafés, it might be the absolute worst, but hungry as I am, I don’t much care. As it turns out, she’s not wrong at all.

The restaurant serves traybakes and scones like you’d expect of a café, but also offers some quality Irish stews, a fine selection of salads and vegan and vegetarian offerings, sausage rolls, sandwiches, and wraps.

We watch the rain outside through the windows, comfortably slurping hot soups as appetizers. The tomato basil soup is both delicious and warms my insides and slows the pound of the headache that’s been building since Ferdi’s charming confession. I sample a small bite of Channing’s traditional Irish stew and find it’s not lacking either, then once we’re both done, we get a few private laughs watching Fia poking at Damien.

My salad with goats cheese and beetroot arrives shortly after the soup cups are collected, and then the rest of lunch is served, complete with local beers. Fia and I stick to the lighter items, and I’m not disappointed with the vegan sausage roll. It has a crumbly flake pastry wrapped around an overly-generous filling of quinoa, chickpeas and roasted squash. Channing gets his own Belfast bap made with thick slices of honey-roasted bacon loin and Ballymaloe relish, then wolfs down a second  one packed with Irish pork, black pudding and red onions.

The rest of the party has sausages and mash with gravy and a generous side of crispy savoy cabbage, though the only one who eats the cabbage is Fia. By the time we finish, the rain’s stopped, which allows us to get to Fia’s car and inside the hostel once we return without getting soaked. It’s all I can ask.

When we reach the room, I flop sideways across the bed, then extend my hand, palm up, to Channing. “May I have my ring now?”

He nudges a space between my knees, then walks himself over me on his hands until we’re face to face, horizontally, with him in a pseudo-plank above me. “What’s it worth to you, babydoll?” he purrs, obviously with no intention of letting me answer. "You did say you wanted to do something mindless, after all."