The House of Grey- Volume 4

by Earl, Collin

  “So why don’t you ask your grandfather for clarification on some of this stuff? Like, how did he come up with ‘Path to Power’ and what’s it referring to. It seems like a lot of this could be answered if you simply asked.”

  Grayson laughed. “Great question. Grandfather isn’t exactly with us.”

  Monson was about to ask the most obvious follow up but–

  “He isn’t dead or anything - he is just indisposed at the moment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Monson gestured to the journal and with mock annoyance replied, “Are you seriously saying that I wouldn’t believe you?”

  Grayson chuckled again. “You’re right you’d probably believe me, but we’ll discuss it another time. It’s a long story which has a lot to do with what I am currently telling you.”

  Monson nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Monson changed gears. “So what about the strange events you mentioned—what kind of stuff happened to them in the cave?”

  “The kind that you don’t expect to come across in legitimate history books.” Grayson shifted tensely. “The ethereal kind.”

  “Oh….” said Monson, looking reflective.

  Grayson eyed Monson, and with a small twitch of his lips he said, “You don’t know what ethereal means, do you?”

  “Not a clue.” Monson flashed a cheesy grin.

  “Most would call what they saw or experienced supernatural.”

  “As in ghosts?”

  “Unknown. They weren’t very specific. What Grandfather did say in the record was that the men were having strange visions and hearing voices.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “Despaired, mostly. We know exactly what he was thinking since he wrote about it extensively,” replied Grayson. “They were about to start back to the entrance when something renewed his conviction. He had a dream.”

  “A dream?” Monson’s eyebrow shot up. This was getting into his territory now.

  Grayson continued. “The journal details the dream in all its strange glory. Much of it is incoherent babble. Paths, gatekeepers and powers, all connected to states of being that manifest as the natural, heightened and perfected. I would be here all day if I tried to describe everything he wrote, and to be honest, none of us really understands it. It’s all here though, so maybe someday. Regardless, the dream did give him a direction: up. He then decided to do something drastic.”

  “Drastic?” said Monson, now thoroughly caught up in the story. “Like what? Try and blow it open?”

  “Too dangerous, though it certainly crossed his mind. No, the dream told him to go up. So up he went. He decided to scale it and see if that might lead to anything.”

  “Scale it? As in climb it? How was that going to help?”

  Grayson flipped back to the drawing of the Tower.

  “This doesn’t depict it very well, but the Tower wasn’t totally smooth and flat on its surface.” He pointed to a darkened spot about half way up the Tower. Monson stared, straining to see. There looked to be something there, just beyond the surface of the tiles. Grayson again spoke up.

  “My grandfather thought that this point right here could be wide enough for people to walk along and that there might have been some type of access to the higher points on the Tower. So he thought he’d try.”

  “What did they find?”

  “A great deal.” Grayson’s voice regained its enigmatic quality. “However, things started to get progressively stranger. Grandfather’s record early on, before they were even able to scale it, indicates that his men were starting to behave oddly and do totally bizarre things. One committed suicide, another ran from the Center into the caves and was never seen again, and two more got violently ill to the point where they couldn’t be moved.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Monson, shocked. “Why didn’t they leave?”

  “Because all of them, including my grandfather, thought the discovery was too important to leave without a complete work-up of what might lie there. When I was younger my dad and I used to speculate on what would have happened if they had just stopped. This single event has dominated the path of my family for over half a century. It’s funny how those things sometimes happen.”

  He shook his head as if to bring himself back to reality, then continued.

  “Grandfather was able to scale the Tower with the help of his remaining men and just like he’d hypothesized, they reached a ledge or landing about four feet wide. Once on the landing, they found a staircase hidden behind a large statue. This staircase took him up many floors, eight in all. He remarked that the paintings and statutes on every level seemed to each be devoted to a different being. He didn’t know if they were gods, demons, ravings of a deluded mind, or a combination of the three. He just remarked that these floors were a representation of something greater….”

  Grayson turned to another page, which depicted a full-page drawing of—

  “Is that what I think it is?” Monson scrutinized the page, not totally sure how to react to it.

  “If you’re thinking that the drawing has an awful lot in common with a biblical angel, then you would be correct.”

  This drawing, a copy of a painting from the first level, was done in greater detail than the Tower drawings. It displayed a being with long, dark hair, delicate hands, and large, fully spread wings, which were white except for their blue tips.

  Monson was not able to tell if the being was supposed to be male or female because its back was to viewer. It did not matter, however, because the artist’s intention was very clear: power and grace beyond all human comprehension.

  “The journal goes on,” continued Grayson as Monson examined the drawing. “There are six more of these images all humanoid, each with a different color theme. All of them are located at the same place on each of the floors. The themes and patterns of devotion are all there. Our angel there seems to be connected to the color blue, but it’s clear that each floor had a different being and color.”

  Monson interjected, ignoring the color reference. “I thought you said there were eight?”

  Grayson stared at him, confused.

  Monson explained. “You said there were eight levels, so why are there only seven beings? Or was that eighth level spared the worship décor?”

  Grayson’s eyes popped in surprise.

  “You’re a sharp one, Grey. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Monson chuckled, letting out the building tension. “Yeah, I’ve heard that once or twice.”

  Grayson smiled at Monson’s lack of modesty. “Funny you’d focus on the eighth floor, as that is the exact topic of our current discussion. The eighth floor is really why we’re here. It’s the reason for everything—the organization, my grandfather’s current predicament, my family’s path and destiny—everything. Before I continue, you should know that when Grandfather arrived on the eighth floor he was shocked to see that it was completely trashed, like someone had been trying to hide what was there.”

  Monson cut in again. “Didn’t you just say that the eighth floor was the reason for…”

  Grayson put up a hand. “In the hopes of finding something, some idea of where this structure came from and why it was created, and why the eighth floor was destroyed when everything else was in perfect condition, Grandfather searched and searched and searched. Finally he caught a lucky break. He found a secret room. A secret room that he said contained the single most important discovery in the history of this world. He discovered this.”

  Grayson flipped to the very last pages of the book. What was on the page caused Monson to cock the eyebrow.

  It was a photograph of a colorful mural, which depicted crowds of perhaps millions of indistinct people.

  The mural was highly detailed in the oddest of places and less detailed in others. The being that stood foremost in both size and prominence among the crowds was surprisingly undefined, as if the artist was not quit
e sure what his model looked like. Above this rather strange figure were shadowy depictions of mystical creatures that Monson thought resembled beings or characters out of myth and legend—the hydra, griffin and yeti, to name a few. The likenesses were simpler, less detailed, as if the artist took the basic idea of every type of fantasy creature and stripped them down to their essence. Or maybe it was the other way around; maybe all notions of fantasy and myth originated with this picture. But the implications of that idea seemed ridiculous to Monson—that all thought was from a common source; there was no way that was the case.

  He pulled the book closer, tracing his finger towards each of the seven distinct beings illustrated in the drawing. They were placed methodically around the mural, equidistant from the center. A faint grayish haze spread out around the central being as if he was using his spirit or existence to draw the others towards him. As if he was making them a part of him. As if he was...

  Realization struck Monson. “This is the reason for your organization. You’re trying to find the being in this picture.”

  “They call him the Being of Seven Bloods,” answered Grayson quietly. “The rest of the mural drawings have been lost. They are the missing pages you see at the back of the book. Supposedly these additional pictures depicted this being and its companions traveling; traveling to fix something that has gone terribly wrong. So wrong, that if it doesn’t get fixed we are all doomed. Everyone. You, me, everyone in this world, and at least a couple of other worlds to boot. We can only guess at its meaning. Grandfather usually added his notes and speculations right behind a sketch or photograph, but again the pages right after this one were torn out.”

  Monson gulped. “What happened to them? What do you think was on them?”

  Grayson hung his head. “I wish I knew.”

  He looked back up, making eye contact with Monson. “To conclude the story, Grandfather was the only one to make it out of that cave alive. Something attacked them. Not even Grandfather knew what, but the rest of his men sacrificed themselves to allow him to live. While his men fought whatever it was that attacked them, he ran, and found himself in a place he deemed The Caverns of Salt. Grandfather wrote of the screams of his men echoing off the enclosed spaces, and how shortly after he left them, the only sound he could hear was the thump of heavy footsteps coming towards him. Cornered in the Caverns of Salt, he said his final prayer. It was in that darkest hour that something rescued him—a woman, Grey, a woman like you have never seen.”

  Trembling fingers pulled at a previously unseen, final sheet of paper.

  Monson released a huff of air in awe. He gazed at the portrait of a woman unlike any other in the history of the world. She was like a goddess given physical form, with beautiful platinum eyes and long platinum hair. Her clothing was just as ethereal, like a liquid metal that did not hang on her body but hovered just above it. Monson’s head became fuzzy. He wanted to ask who she was, but words, they seemed so unimportant right now. What did he really need words for? All he really needed was to sit—

  Grayson interrupted him this time. “Sariah. She called herself Sariah.”

  Sariah, thought Monson. What a beautiful name.

  Grayson concluded his story. “Sariah is the key, Grey, the key to all of this. It was through her that H.U.M.A.N.E was created, that we have the limited amount of knowledge we currently possess. It was all her. She told Grandfather that everyone must travel his own pathway to power, fulfill their destined fate to bring about the salvation of all worlds. And that finding the Being of Seven Bloods was the only way to bring that salvation.”

  Monson Grey and Grayson Garrett sat in silence, allowing the words and their significance to sink in.

  After several minutes, Monson made a decision. “Grayson, I hope you haven’t gotten tired of me. Because I think it’s about time I tell you a story. I hope that together, our stories will make sense.”

  Monson talked, and talked, and talked. He talked for the better part of an hour, leaving as little as possible out of his story. He talked about the weird happenings surrounding his interactions with Casey, Artorius, Kylie, Cyann and all the rest. He told him about how he had this weird knowledge of stuff that he could not explain or comprehend and that it kicked in at the most unexpected times. He told him about the scars, both emotional and physical, that weighed him down. He spoke of his past and what little he could remember of it. Finally, he told him about the times when he looked at his reflection and his reflection would look back at him.

  “Wait, stop there,” said Grayson with a thoughtful expression. “Clarify something. What do you mean your reflection would look back? Isn’t that what a reflection is supposed to do?”

  “No, a reflection should mirror the original. That’s the definition of a reflection. This one did not.” Monson shuddered as he recalled the experience. “Sometimes I look at my reflection in a window or mirror and it looks back at me. I can see it in his eyes, my eyes. It’s not me. I thought I was going crazy until the other night when I had a dream where I actually spoke with my reflection. I actually spoke with myself.”

  “Amazing….” Grayson rubbed at his face thoughtfully. “And that’s what led to what happened in the Atrium.”

  “Ahh...yeah, sort of,” said Monson, his suspicions finally confirmed. “So you were there?”

  “Yeah, but I was lucky, that’s all,” answered Grayson, smiling. “Happened to be there when Taris came running in. Don’t worry, I don’t think she saw me,” he added after Monson gave him a sharp look. “I was about to leave when I saw you come in, talking to yourself. I admit my curiosity got the better of me.”

  “You saw what happened?”

  “Yeah, I saw what happened, but before we get into that, first finish telling me about your dream.”

  Monson finished his story. He told Grayson about Dawn, Yari and Gi, though he made sure not to speak Yari and Gi’s names aloud, and about the three requests that Dawn made. He also discussed the Magi Blades and the strange process to call upon them including the vague gestures and odd posturing. Monson knew what he was doing was dangerous. He hardly knew Grayson, and yet he was disclosing a great deal about himself. It was a chance he felt he had to take, even if his thirst for knowledge was dulling his good sense. Grayson had the knowledge and his story seemed somewhat credible. This was his chance; his big chance to find out what was going on. He had to leave everything on the table. No secrets it was quite possible that he needed the information Grayson had and if he was forced to expose himself to gain whatever tidbit he could, then so be it.

  “Monson, it’s got to be you,” said Grayson with total conviction. “You’re the only one who could—”

  “Grayson, you’re so convinced, but you haven’t given me a single reason to believe that I’m this Being of Seven Bloods. What has you so sure?”

  “Power, Grey. The part of the prophecy we have says that one of the signs of the Being of Seven Bloods is ‘power untold.’ Think of it this way.”

  He pulled out a piece of paper and drew a line across it. He labeled the start of the line “1” with “100” at the end. He looked up from the paper.

  “I told you earlier that AOI, or the sphere of influence, is a magical method of using your Kei.”

  Monson nodded.

  “Good. But manipulation isn’t the only thing that AOI can do. It can also be an indicator of the potential or residual power of a given individual. The most powerful non-scripting magic user currently alive is a man named Graven. He’s head of our tactical forces. On this scale he is considered a seventy-five. There were two power users in the past, former members of H.U.M.A.N.E. in fact, who had greater raw power. We don’t know what happened to them, but they were both at one hundred. So that’s how our scale works—based on our strongest reference point. Understand so far?”

  Monson dipped his head once in a sort of half-nod.

  “Good, now understand that the readings we got on Baroty’s Bridge were hundreds of times higher than seventy-f
ive. They were so high, in fact, that they broke the Counter.”

  Grayson paused briefly to let Monson think about this. “Monson, you are the only known survivor from Baroty Bridge, which means the readings had to have been from you. Look, to be completely straight with you, I’m not even really sure what all...”—he pointed to everything in his room—“this means, but my grandfather worked very hard to get this journal, information and relics to us. I gotta believe there is something to this.”

  “I don’t know, Grayson,” said Monson, looking around the room and trying to make sense of his feelings. “If I’m supposed to be some kind of prophetic savior for worlds unknown, then why am I here, living a normal life?”

  “I wouldn’t call freezing a huge fountain in the middle of a heated Atrium ‘normal,’ Monson.”

  Monson scowled. “No, I wouldn’t either, but what you’re saying doesn’t make sense! Why am I doing here at Coren if I am who you think I am? I don’t know anything about magic. Heck, up until yesterday I didn’t even believe it existed. Grayson, if I’m supposed to be some kind of hero whose destiny is to save millions of people, then wouldn’t you think that I would be locked up somewhere in some bunker protected by… protected by...” Monson stopped talking. He remembered something, which made him feel like he had been punched in the gut.

  “Grayson?” said Monson, looking straight into his eyes. “Does the word ‘Guardian’ mean anything to you?”

  “Guardian...guardian…” Grayson whispered reflectively, his eyes straying towards the journal. “Hang on.”

  He grabbed the journal and opened it to one of the last pages, which showed a simple drawing of a grouping of symbols surrounding one central large symbol.

  “These seven symbols,” said Grayson, pointing to the ones placed evenly around the large center symbol, “correspond with the seven murals I mentioned earlier. If you reexamine the pictures you can see their faint outline next to the individual beings. I think they may be the names of the beings shown in each painting. But these two...” he said as he pointed to two large symbols on the edge of the page, “aren’t included in any of the murals. But look at this.” He flipped the journal back to the page with the Tower and central chamber, then reached behind his chair and grabbed a magnifying glass. He turned back towards Monson and the journal. “Look here,” he said, pointing at the very base of the drawing. “What do you see?”