by Earl, Collin
“That’s where I came in.” Ignace slowly approached them from a side door leading from backstage. She stopped directly in front of Monson and took a knee, bowing low. “There were books written, songs sung, and legends told of you, the Being of Seven Bloods. It is an honor to kneel before you.”
Monson spat at the ground, ignoring Ignace. “OK Baroty, let me ask you this before we go any further. Tell me about the bridge. What exactly happened?”
Ignace answered the question. “The Magi and the Brotherhood is what happened. You and your grandfather were caught in the crossfire. It was a fight that they started and you finished.”
“I finished? What are you trying to say?”
Marques Grey’s voice fell to a penetrating whisper. “I think you know what she is trying to say.”
“You’re trying to tell me that I broke the bridge?” Monson was proud that his voice did not crack. “That I killed all those people?”
Marques Grey moved slowly to Monson’s side placing a hand on his shoulder. “You have a Pathway like no other, Monson Grey. Your potential is beyond the comprehension of most. No one so young should have so much power. It is unnatural. You tried to wield too much too fast and in doing so created the mess you see upon your skin and in the deaths at Baroty Bridge.”
Monson closed his eyes ever so briefly, trying to hold back tears, trying to remain strong. It was no use. The images of men, women and children floated before his eyes. Smiling faces forever lost, people whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He thought he was going to be sick.
There was a pause in the conversation, which continued as the group of commandos rolled in a sheet-covered mass. Monson watched with little interest.
“It is time for you to return to my side, young one. To regain what you lost.” Marques Grey clapped his hands and in response, the mass was unveiled.
It looked like a futuristic combination of a torture device and a dentist chair. Silver needle-like appendages jutted from large robotic arms that circled a padded sitting space, and wide leather straps dangled conspicuously from the arms and legs of the chair. Large casters clicked and clinked as the contraption skidded across the floor with a foreboding sound. Monson examined it and again felt sick. This was not a machine he wanted anything to do with.
“It appears much worse than it is.” Marques shrugged towards the device. “It will hurt a bit, but it is the only way for us to move forward to return what has been lost.”
Monson raised the eyebrow ever so slightly, asking the question but at the same time not.
Marques Grey’s face broke into a wide grin. “Your memory, Monson. This machine is the only way to reclaim your memory.”
“What did you say?” asked Monson in disbelief.
“This machine,” Marques pointed at the freaky dentist chair, “can bring back your memories. It can bring back your normal self.”
Monson reeled. His memories, his past, his identity, the real him…back...all of it.
He could not move, could not breathe, he could not think, finding the possibility too surreal to be true. The conflict began brewing within him. After living as this Monson Grey, could he really go back to the person he had been, especially if what Marques Grey said was true?
“The choice is yours, Monson Grey, but I need you if I am going to protect this world. Only you have the power to stand by my side.”
Involuntarily, Monson took a step towards the machine. He stared down at his legs as if they were something foreign and not part of his own body. Then he found himself walking towards the machine. The soldiers parted as he neared and Aaron Gibson sized him up.
Monson spoke over his shoulder to Marques Grey. “So how does this machine work? You say that you can bring back my memories; how do you know?”
“It is very simple actually.” Marques Grey neared Monson as he held up a glove-covered finger. “We believe that the scar wrapping your body is a special type of seal—one that is made to keep things in, not out.”
Monson cocked the eyebrow. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”
“This magic,” Baroty gestured to the whole of Monson’s body, “is an incredibly advanced spell truly like no other. It is a spell that disconnects a user from his Pathway. The Pathway is a manifestation of the very core of a person’s power potential. The body rune you are now encased in is able to separate the parts of a being without hurting the whole. If you understand that, then it is not difficult to understand the flaws in the rune and the spell and maybe how one can defeat it.”
“And how would we do that?”
“By going off a very basic assumption. As I said, I believe the rune is made to keep power in, not keep it out. If we apply enough power to the foundation, the rune should crumble in on itself, thus allowing you to again access your power, your memories, and your personality. In other words, you should become you again.”
Monson felt a droplet of desire against a torrent of mistrust and apprehension. The possibility was unreal. He would be scar-less with all his memories returned; he would know what happened at the bridge and why. He would know his reasons for going to Coren in the first place. He would be able to look in the mirror and see himself.
Something tugged against the flow of his imagination.
“What’s the catch?” asked Monson suspiciously. “What is it that you aren’t telling me?”
Marques Grey laughed. “No catch, Monson my boy. We just have to hook you up to the machine and affix the source in place.”
“The source? What source? The source of what?”
Marques laughed again. “So many questions, Monson. How do you plan to accomplish anything if you have to know every detail of an operation? Delegation, my boy—that is the way a hierarchy works.”
The tugging in Monson’s head became stronger. He glared at his grandfather. “How about you answer my question?”
“He’s talking about the source of power required for the operation in question.” Ignace was suddenly at his side. “He’s talking about the Kei source needed to implode the construct of the spell. Without the power the operation won’t work.”
Monson turned his attention to Ignace. “And where do we get the Kei necessary to power all this?”
“From the only other available source, since Baroty does not currently possess any Creation Stones. Namely, the people in this room.”
Monson and Marques Grey, Ignace Ikeco, and Aaron Gibson all turned in surprise to the source of the voice, who was none other than….
“Molly?”
***
“I guess I should have expected that.” Monson watched his guardian closely, all at once registering the sudden turn of events. “What do you mean ‘the people in this room’? And what are Creation Stones?”
Molly did not answer him, but rather glared at Marques. Marques, on the other hand, looked neither concerned nor surprised, though the curl of his lips told Monson that he was annoyed for some reason.
“Hey there, Monson honey.”
“Hi Molly, what are you doing here?”
“Don’t you ‘hi Molly’ me, young man. You had me so worried. You’ll be getting a severe scolding later for coming here at all. And don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. I’m here to save you from yourself.”
Molly strolled from the same side door through which Ignace had previously entered. She was composed but obviously irritated. Marques looked spitefully at her. “The lawyer finally makes her appearance. How charming.”
“Marques,” said Molly in a mocking tone, like the name was an insult. “It is certainly surprising to see you. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Me? Dead?” Marques Grey shot her a suave smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Besides the fact that I executed your will?” answered Molly contentiously. “How about the body I pulled out of the Pacific Ocean? The one that was identified as yours?”
Marques touched his face contemplatively. �
��That does seem odd. Well, I assure you that I am fine, still alive and kicking.”
“I’m sure you are. Monson, don’t be fooled by this imposter. This man is not your grandfather.”
The statement did not startle Monson. Somewhere inside his head, he had been expecting it from the moment Molly arrived. He knew that she had come for a specific purpose and seeing as he was having problems believing all this himself, it was not difficult to make the jump that the Marques Grey in front of him may not in fact be the real Marques Grey.
Marques, or whoever he was, remained unperturbed. He started to laugh. “Very funny Molly. You know very well that I am Monson’s grandfather.”
“You are not Marques Grey and I can prove it.”
Molly addressed Monson. “You were asking about Kei and the sources of Kei, were you not?”
“I was, but how is that going to prove—”
“Shh…don’t interrupt.” She stole a glance at Marques Grey before continuing. “Let me tell you about Kei. Kei is the true enigma of the worlds. It’s in everything, in one form or another, some being more pure than others. For mortals, it’s vital to our bodies as the very glue that holds the three attributes together. On a cosmic level, without Kei creation isn’t possible. There are only two natural sources of Kei in this world. The first is a special type of gem called a Creation Stone. They are mined from the four great worlds and are the only real source of pure power found in nature.
“And the second?”
Molly hesitated slightly. “The second source is the Seven Great Races themselves. They alone have Kei as a natural part of their body. So unless they have the stones, Baroty’s source of power is going to be….”
She let it hang.
Monson inadvertently stretched his gaze over the length of the Coliseum. His classmates and teachers, as well as staff, reporters and world leaders, were all watching from behind blue-hued force fields with a variety of expressions. Fear, pain, anticipation, anger, loss…the answer touched Monson in the most intimate of ways. He knew the answer and he did not like it. “You were going to use the people in this room so that I could get my memory back?”
Marques Grey sighed heavily. “Monson, lines have been drawn, alliances made; we need to move quickly before it is too late. I am your grandfather, your blood. You need to listen to me, not to some woman you barely know.”
Molly interrupted him, her voice quiet but penetrating. “The question that you have to ask yourself, Monson, is this: Would Marques Grey, your grandfather, actually sacrifice innocent people in pursuit of some untested technology, or better yet—would he sacrifice them in pursuit of anything?”
Monson ran a hand through his hair. “Molly, you know I can’t answer that. I don’t remember my grandfather.”
“The secrets rest with me, Monson,” cut in Marques. “Join me. It is the only real option you have.”
He pointed to the people around the room. “Cattle, these things are cattle. They are the lowest of the Seven Great Races but they hold themselves up as masters of the universe, acting like gods when they are in fact so powerless. Despite this, I am trying to help them, trying to keep something much worse from occurring. But the only way for that to happen is if you get in this chair and undergo the procedure.”
Monson, standing at a crossroad of loyalties, looked between the only two people who had ever really counted as family. He examined their faces and demeanors but found no answers, no inkling of the truth. He had no idea what to believe. Monson replayed the conversation in his head; everything that the two had said in their brief verbal battle. He could not make rhyme or reason out of any of it. They were battling for his loyalty, but why? Because of the Being of Seven Bloods? Because he was family? Because he was evil? Was Marques Grey truly standing in front of him? Was Molly lying? He just did not know and he had no way to find out.
He again gazed at the sight of blood from the wounded, which caused something to stand out above all that had been said during the last thirty minutes. It was a point that Monson had almost missed; that signaled to him like a brightly lit lighthouse. He said the word aloud to give it meaning.
“Blood…my blood…you are not my blood.” A bubble of anger resurfaced.
“My name might be Monson Grey, but I was not born that way; I was not born into the House of Grey. You are not my blood.”
Marques Grey narrowed his eyes at the implication, realizing his critical mistake.
“I see,” he said. “So be it.”
Monson had almost been taken for a fool and now he knew it.
He again glanced at Molly, just now noticing the encroaching commandos. Marques Grey stared on, appearing unconcerned.
Monson walked over to Molly. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“It’s OK. Monson honey, are you ready?”
“I am, but how are we going to get out of this?”
“Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of that.”
Monson took deep, steadying breaths, attempting to not immediately attack the man he now knew was merely claiming to be his grandfather. “If you say so. You do realize we’re outnumbered like fifty to one, right?”
“You are so cute when you’re worried.” Molly hugged him, her hands jerking behind his back as she whispered a single phrase. “Combat Spell Eleven: Tiny Tremors.”
A small earthquake shook everyone in the room senseless, the vibrations causing mass panic. Molly and Monson alone seemed unaffected by the teetering floor. All sorts of destruction ensued as paintings, statues and equipment crashed to the ground, sending shards of debris in every direction. Molly and Monson made their move as soon as the floor stopped shaking. They raced back towards the stage and their only means of escape.
Large blasts from the commandos’ hand cannons shot in their direction. Burning balls of trembling fire flew parallel to streaking four-foot daggers of ice and rock. Right behind these elemental missiles were blade-wielding commandos, all sprinting their way. Molly bellowed a second phrase, hitting her hands, “Combat Spell Fifteen: Box of Protection.”
The missiles slammed into a rock wall that shot up from the floor, causing more debris to pepper the area.
“It looks like we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.” Molly’s fingers slashed through the air, leaving traces of magical runes in front of them. After a brief pause, she stuck out her hand, plunging it forward, her arm disappearing completely up to the elbow. It was as if she had submerged her hand in water. Ripples emanated from a mirrored, liquid surface at the point where her arm breached the plane. An expression of intense concentration found its way on-to Molly’s face, which captured Monson’s attention so fully, he barely heard her uttered phrase.
“River’s Serenity.”
Several more blasts from the commandos’ guns struck the rock wall, ripping off some large chunks and hurling them into the air. Molly pulled a dark blue-tinted blade from the liquid space as a chunk of rock three feet across fell from overhead. Monson’s warning call was lost in the report of cannon fire.
A flash of cooling mist sprinkled over Monson and he opened his eyes. He watched as the rock split in two.
Molly called out to Monson authoritatively, speaking to him in a way he had never heard from her.
“You retreat before he comes for you. I don’t know what he needs you for, but—”
Molly stopped talking and coughed up a great deal of blood.
“Molly!” called out Monson. “What happened? Why are you…?”
It was then that he noticed the tip of the blade protruding from Molly’s chest. Monson’s heart pumped so loudly that it seemed to drown out all other sound. He could not hear the gun blasts, the angry shouting, the crumbling rock; he could not hear anything. Molly’s eyes spoke of unspeakable pain and certain loss. Small tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, starting to run as she looked over her shoulder. She gnashed her teeth as the blade slid from her chest. Monson’s guardian slowly dropped to her knees, revealing the face
of a sneering Marques Grey holding a Magi Blade.
“You Magi trainees always take too long to cast your blade.” He ran a gloved hand over the blade, wiping from hilt to tip. The Breath of the Dragon sizzled as his hand caressed its surface. He looked down at the dying woman. “You should not have messed with my plans. This world is mine and I will destroy anyone who stands in my way.”
Marques Grey turned his attention on Monson. He stalked forward, moving through the air, chilling it with his deadly intent. Monson stared up at the face of a devil that was partially hidden by the curve of his deeply hooded cloak.
Monson shook his head uncomprehendingly. The man before him was not wearing a cloak! But then why had he seen a cloak?
Then it hit him. Monson recognized the man standing in front of him. Not the face of Marques Grey, but the smile of a dark, cloaked man; a smile that he had seen repeatedly during his personal nighttime hell. The replay of a recurring dream flipped on before his eyes.
A dark, cloaked man walked towards the defeated and battered form of a second man lying on the ground. Cruel eyes lit up and were thrown into stark relief by the glow of an object… a blade…a Magi Blade. The black-cloaked man walked to where the second man lay on the ground, panting. He raised his arm to strike.
The vision cleared right as Marques Grey’s blade started its decent towards Monson’s head.
Monson caught the blade, his hands glowing with a nimbus of light. The dual quality returned to his voice, as if he were two people talking in complete synchronicity.