Chapter 79 : Eternal Tragedy
"Did you sleep well?" Newton asked when Evan came downstairs.
"Very. I was going to take a walk and post a letter."
"Let my man handle the letter. Come eat first." Newton waved over a servant, gave him instructions for the post office, and turned back with the manner of someone who had been up for hours already and was pleased to have company. "I owe you an apology — last night I got so caught up in our conversation that I never thought to ask what brought you to Rotterdam in the first place."
"Nothing dramatic. I'm passing through on my way to Nabos. Hollingburton Academy is apparently looking for instructors, and I have a letter of introduction from Leonardo Calvin in Waltersdorf. I thought it was worth trying."
"Leonardo Calvin." Newton's expression lit up. "I've heard his name — he developed that blood transfusion method last year, had his title elevated over it. Never met him, but I've been meaning to. The man seems to think in interesting directions."
That afternoon Newton produced tickets — a gift from a friend, several seats for the performance at the Rotterdam Grand Theatre. He offered them with genuine enthusiasm.
"Eternal Tragedy," he said. "Waniz's most famous work. Personal fate, love, the kind of forces that make both look fragile — it's been called the greatest tragedy written in any language. You shouldn't leave Rotterdam without seeing it."
"I've heard of it for years," Evan said. "I'd like to."
Shuang, from his shoulder: "I'm coming. I've always wanted to see human theater."
They took a light two-wheeled carriage through the afternoon streets. Newton asked the driver to take the long way and kept up a running account of the city's history as they moved through it. They swung past St. George's Cathedral along the way.
Evan looked at it without appearing to look at it. Enormous — a full hectare of stone, the main dome rising to a three-story height with eighteen white columns supporting the bell tower above it, a mechanical clock face at the crown, the Creationist Church's star-cross emblem at the very top. The bells rang twice daily, Newton said, and the sound carried across the entire city.
What Newton couldn't tell, because he couldn't sense it, was what Evan was feeling as they passed the gates. The church held presences — multiple strong ones, at least several that registered as serious practitioners. Fifty guard knights under Holy Knight Madonel, a Great Knight, the minimum rank among them a full Knight. And deeper inside, the hermit monks: people who had given everything to their faith and received, in return, spiritual power of unusual concentration.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Evan kept his eyes forward and let the carriage carry him past. This was one of twelve Holy Cathedrals on the continent. He had no interest in testing what fifty devoted knights would do if they identified what was riding past their gate.
Somewhere deep inside the building, an old monk raised his head from prayer. His eyes went to the wall. He frowned, held the frown for a moment, and then shook it off. "Peace of the Maker. I'm being too sensitive. A trace of something doesn't mean anything."
Evan had no idea this had happened. If he had, the carriage would have been moving considerably faster.
The Grand Theatre was three dozen steps up from street level, six marble relief-carved columns flanking the entrance, the forecourt already busy with carriages stopping and passengers descending. Newton nodded to several acquaintances as they went in. Their seats were in the front section.
At three o'clock exactly, the lights changed. The orchestra filled the space the pre-show had left.
Evan had seen film, read literature, engaged with more art than most people in this world would encounter across several lifetimes. He watched Eternal Tragedy with the appreciation of someone who recognized quality while remaining somewhat outside its emotional reach — the structure was sound, the language elevated, the music genuinely moving. He could see why it was considered the greatest work of its kind here.
Shuang was weeping by the second act.
The story followed two people from opposing peoples in the middle of a territorial war, their love making them traitors in the eyes of both sides, until escape became impossible and the only exit left was the one they took together. When peace finally came, they were already gone. The music swelled, the curtain fell slowly, and the audience rose in a wave of applause.
Shuang wiped her face and looked at Evan, who was applauding with everyone else. "You didn't cry at all," she said under the noise, sounding mildly offended on the play's behalf.
"It was a good play," he said, which was true.
She gave him the look that response deserved.
He thought briefly about the plays and films he remembered from his previous life, most of them in fragments now — whether any of them were worth transcribing, whether he retained enough detail to do it honestly. He concluded he didn't. He was a lich who had been running for his life for over a year. Writing plays could wait.
Nabos was the right next step. The Creationist Church's grip was looser there — Druidic practitioners and smaller denominations existed openly alongside the mainstream. Hollingburton's reputation was for genuine intellectual openness. Getting there and spending some time on the work he actually cared about seemed like a better use of his immediate future than anything the theater district offered.
He stood with the crowd and kept applauding until the curtain was fully down.