by Ryk E. Spoor
“So can you prove this story of yours?” I asked.
Kafan narrowed his eyes, then smiled—an expression that held very little humor. “I think so.” He turned and looked out the archway, towards the entrance hall where the stairs went to the second floor. “Gen? Genshi! Come in now, Gen.”
There was a scuffling noise with little scratching sounds, like a dog running on a wooden floor, followed by a thump and a high-pitched grunt. Then a small head peeked around the edge of the doorway, followed by an equally small body crawling along on all fours.
The little boy had a mane of tousled blond hair, bright green eyes . . . and a layer of honey-colored fur on his face. His hands were clawed, as were his feet, and canine teeth that were much too long and sharp showed when he gave us a little smile and giggle, and crawled faster towards his father. His long, fur-covered tail wagged in time to his determined crawl.
“Genshi! Walk, don’t crawl.”
Genshi pouted slightly at his father, but pushed himself up onto two legs and ran over to Kafan, jumping into his arms and babbling something in what I presumed was a toddler’s version of Vietnamese. Kafan replied and hugged him, then looked at us.
Sylvie was smiling. I was just speechless. “Can I see him, Kafan?” Sylvie asked.
Kafan frowned a moment, but relented. “All right. But be careful. He’s very, very strong and those claws are sharp.” He said something in a warning tone to Genshi, who blinked solemnly and nodded.
Sylvie picked up the little furry boy, who blinked at her and then wrapped his arms around her neck and hugged her. Syl broke into a delighted grin. “What a little darling you are. Now, now, don’t dig those claws in . . . there’s a good boy . . .” she continued in the usual limited conversation adults have with babies.
I finally found my voice. “All right. Can’t argue with the evidence there. I find it hard to believe, though, that you were the only product of their research. They couldn’t have built a whole complex around you alone.”
Kafan’s smile became once again as cold as ice. “They didn’t. When I went to kill him, I found that the Colonel was no more human than I am. Some kind of monster.”
“Crap.” I didn’t elaborate out loud, but to me it was obvious: if Kafan was telling the truth, these people were not only more technologically advanced than anyone I’d ever heard of, but they were also crazier than anyone I’d ever heard of. Attempting experimental genetic modifications on yourself? Jesus! I thought for a moment. “But . . . something’s funny about your story. If you were a lab product, what’s this about Verne being your father? And what about your training under this whoever-he-was?”
“That,” said Verne, “is indeed the question. For there is no doubt, Jason, that I did, indeed, have a foster son named Raiakafan Ularion—Thornhair Fallenstar as he would be called in English—and there is no doubt in my mind that, changed though he may be, this is indeed the Raiakafan I raised from the time he was a small boy. I knew Raiakafan for many years indeed; he could never have been the subject of genetic experiments. Yet here he is, and there is much evidence that these people he speaks of exist.
“These two things, seeming impossible, tell me that vast powers are on the move, and grave matters afoot. For this reason, I must tell you of the ancient days.
“I must speak . . . of Atla’a Alandar.”
CHAPTER 38
It was an Age Undreamed of . . .
The Sh’ekatha, or Highest Speaker, gazed in bemused wonder at the tiny figure before him. Beneath the tangled mass of hair, filled with sticks and briar thorns, two serious, emerald-green eyes regarded him. Across the back was strapped a gigantic (for such a small traveller) sword, three feet long with a blade over five inches wide. A bright golden tail twitched proudly behind the boy, who was dressed raggedly in skins.
Yet . . . yet, despite his appearance, there was something special about this boy, more than merely his strange race. The way he stood . . . and that sword. Surely . . . it was workmanship of the old days.
“Yes, boy? What do you wish?”
The boy studied him. “You are . . . in command here?” he asked in a halting, uncertain fashion. The voice was rough, like a suppressed growl, but just as high-pitched as any child’s.
V’ierna smiled slightly. “I am the Sh’ekatha. I am the highest authority that you may speak with at this time, yes.”
The boy frowned, trying to decide if that met with whatever requirements he might have. Then his brow unfurrowed and he nodded. “My Master sent me to you.”
V’ierna understood what he meant; he had been being taught by a Master of some craft, and now this Master wished the Temple to continue and expand his education. “But there is no certainty that there will be an opening here, young one. We select only a small number of willing youngsters, and then only when there is proper room for them.”
The boy shook his head. “You have to take me. You have to teach me. That is what he said.” He blinked as though remembering something. “Oh, I was supposed to show you this.” He reached over his back and unsheathed the monstrous blade. Holding it with entirely too much ease for such a tiny boy, he extended the weapon to the Sh’ekatha.
Puzzled, V’ierna studied the weapon. Old workmanship, yes, and very good. But that didn’t . . .
It was then that he saw the symbol etched at the very base of the sword: Seven towers between two parallel blades.
His head snapped up involuntarily. He scrutinized the child more carefully now. Yes . . . now that he knew what to look for . . .
He gave the blade back. “Have you a name, young one?”
“Master said that you would give me one.”
“Did he, now?” V’ierna contemplated the scruffy figure before him. Certainly born of no race in this world. He smiled. “Then your name is Raiakafan.” He reached out and gently pulled a briar free of its tangled nest. “Raiakafan Ularion.” He turned. “Follow me, Raiakafan. Your Master was correct. There is indeed a place for you.”
“It has never been done!”
V’ierna shook his head. “In the ancient days, there were no such distinctions made, milady. None of these separations of duty or of privilege. I am not at all sure that the comfort brought about by such clear divisions is worth the price paid in inflexibility. Be that as it may,” he raised a hand to forestall the First Guardian’s retort, “in this case, it will be so. The Lady Herself has so decreed it. If Raiakafan can pass the requirements, he is to be trained for the Guardianship.”
Melenae closed her mouth, the argument dying on her lips. If the Lady decreed it and the Sh’ekatha concurred, there was nothing more to be said. “As the Founder decrees, so will it be,” she said woodenly, and turned to leave.
“Melenae.”
She looked back. “Yes, Sh’ekatha?”
“I will not tolerate any manipulation of the testing. If he is held to either a higher or lower standard than any other trainee, I will be most displeased. And so will the Lady.”
Her mouth tightened, but she nodded. “Understood.”
V’ierna watched her leave. He sighed, and began walking in the opposite direction, down the corridor that was open only to himself, the corridor that led to the Heart. How long had it been? Three thousand years? Four? Ten, perhaps? More? Long enough for mortal memory to fade, and for cultures to change even when the one who founded them tried to retain that which had been lost. Even the name of the city was, to them, little more than a name. To him, it was so much more; Atla’a Alandar; Atlantaea Alandarion it had been, “Star of Atlantaea’s Memory.” But he was one man. Highest Speaker, yes. Blessed in his own way, noted in ritual and in action. But even his longevity was nothing more than a faded echo of the Eternal King, and he had no Eternal Queen, save the Lady Herself.
He emerged into the Heart. The Mirror of the Sky glinted as a wind ruffled the sacred pool’s surface. V’ierna knelt by the Heartstone and closed his eyes.
Time changes all things, V’ierna.
I
know that, Lady. As always, he felt warmed by the silent voice within his mind. Her limitless compassion and energy lightened the world simply by existing. But is it so necessary that I see loss as well as change? Have we not lost enough already? Atlantaea—
—was as near perfect as a society of humanity shall ever be, V’ierna. But that very perfection was its destruction. If your people are to attain such heights again, they must work themselves through all the difficulties, all the perils and hatreds and disputes, that are part of growing up. You are all part of nature; I am loving, but a stern teacher as well. Even to my most favored, I am not without requirements or price, as you know well.
V’ierna knew. I understand, Lady.
He could see her now—night-dark hair enveloping the heavens in a warm blanket, her face simultaneously reflecting the hardness of the mountains and the softness of the fields; beautiful and terrifying and comforting all at once. And Raiakafan? What is his place in this?
She smiled. He has a higher destiny than he knows. His people are filled with violence, a race of savage killers; yet by being born here—his mother landing here, on this world, and giving birth to a child—it was permitted that I touch upon him. He is a part of me, a part of the Earth for all time. He will become my Guardian, as you are my Speaker, and Seirgei my Priest . . .
It will not be easy.
The arguments of the Guardians will be overcome by his ability. Jealousy cannot be helped. Evil will come of it. But no choice worth making comes easily. The Power fades, my love; those who destroyed Atlantaea bent all their power to sealing it away, and Zarathan, our sister world, now lies beyond our reach. Without something truly extraordinary, even I shall fade from the world, and then . . . her phantom face looked forlornly into the distance . . . then only a miracle will restore that which was gone. And you will have to provide that miracle.
V’ierna’s heart froze within him. This was the first time the Lady had spoken so clearly about the possibility of her own death. I? What can I possibly do? If you go, Lady, will I, too, not pass from this world? For I am nothing but a man blessed by your powers.
Her smile lit the world again, driving away the ice in his heart. V’ierna, to the one who held to me beyond death itself I have given all that I can. You are tied to this world more strongly than I, and by the Ring that symbolizes the Blood of Life, you carry my blessing. You are a part of Earth’s life, and so long as this world lives, so shall you, though the quality of that life may well change. Through you, some part of me will survive though all other magic be sealed away from the world by the actions of the ones who destroyed Atlantaea. If the worst comes to pass, still will there be you, to find the path to the miracle that will bring the Spirit of the Earth back and let Eönae, the Lady, be reborn.
He stood, feeling her presence fade. But he felt ready now. The Lady was right; he could do no more for these people than he had already done. To force them into a mold of his own vision would deprive them of the full understanding of the reasons behind that mold. Better a return to barbarism than the iron dictatorship he would have to create.
CHAPTER 39
But Wait, There’s MORE!
“I wonder if I would have thought that,” Verne concluded, “had I known what would come to pass.”
For the second time that night, I was speechless. After battling vampires and werewolves, I’d thought I was ready for anything. Even Kafan’s story was, well . . . modern. Elias Klein had been a twentieth-century vampire. Virigar, the Werewolf King, was at home in this world of computers and automobiles. Kafan’s mad scientist and secret labs were just a part of the more paranoid tabloid headlines.
But this was like opening the door to my house and finding Gandalf and Conan the Barbarian in a fight to the finish with Cthulhu and Morgan le Fay.
Syl, of course, was in her element. Lost civilizations, Eönae the Earth Goddess, magic, no problem. “So what happened?”
Verne explained, “Raiakafan, naturally, was perfect to fulfill the role of Guardian—one of the warriors whose job it was to protect the Temple and the priests and lead the defense of the city. The fact that he wasn’t a woman caused great opposition, but even his worst enemies had to admit that in pure fighting spirit and skill, he had no equal. He had difficulty with the more diplomatic and intellectual demands of the position, but he was by no means inept and he passed those requirements as well. In the end, not only did he become the High Guardian, but he married Kaylarea, daughter to the High Priest Seirgei. Kaylarea, in turn, became the High Priestess, chosen vessel of the Lady, so that, in truth, one could say that Raiakafan married the Lady Herself.”
I could see Kafan blinking. Obviously, much of this was as much news to him as it was to us.
Verne stared off into the distance, seeing something in his distant past. He looked slightly more pale and worn than usual. “Then came the demons. The same ones, I thought, who had destroyed Atlantaea so long ago. In the fighting, Kaylarea was killed, Raiakafan and his children, Sev’erantean and Taiminashi, disappeared, and Atla’a Alandar was devastated. Five years later, just as we were finishing the reconstruction, the Curse fell upon us.”
“Curse?”
Verne nodded. “An enemy of mine devised a . . . punishment . . . for my daring to oppose him long ago. The curse he placed upon my people was what produced the race of vampires of which Elias Klein was born. It was a mockery of the Blessing of Eönae; I drink blood to remind me of the intimate ties between all living things; I partake on occasion of the life force, freely given, of others because that life-energy is what separates the world of matter from that of spirit. I am, or was in the beginning, harmed by the Sun because I am tied wholly to the Earth and other powers are excluded from me; only when I grew into my strength, could I face the power from which other life drew its strength. And only things living or formerly living things can harm me, because only life may touch that which draws upon its very essence. All these aspects and more were twisted and mocked in the Curse. My people . . .”
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw for some moments before he continued. “My people, for the most part, destroyed themselves in the madness of the Curse; the few who ‘survived’ were twisted by the magic into becoming something else. The Curse sustains itself by life-energy, so even when virtually all magic disappeared, it continued, though its sufferers were weakened. And, in the end, I myself became so embittered that for a long time, I very nearly became the same as those made in my twisted image. A diabolical and, yes, most fitting vengeance.”
I shook my head and looked up. “Okay, so let me see if I get this story straight. You were the high Priest . . . er, Speaker for Eönae, what we’d call Gaia. The spirit of the Earth itself. And Eönae talked to you, for real. That’s where you get your power. And Kafan, here, was a little boy who trained to become palace guard. How long ago?”
“Approximately five hundred thousand years.”
I gagged. “What? Half a million years?! Are you completely out of your mind, Verne? People didn’t exist back then—at least not human beings like we know today!”
“I told you,” Verne said calmly. “Much of what science knows about that era is wrong. Not because your scientists are stupid or, as so many foolish cultists would have it, are looking in the wrong places or ‘covering up’ the truth. No, the truth is far, far more frightening, Jason. Your scientists are looking at falsified evidence. The geological record . . . the traces of the greatest civilization ever to exist . . . all of that was erased and rewritten to make it as though they never existed at all, to expunge from all memory the knowledge of what was.”
I tried to imagine a power capable of such a thing; to wipe out every trace of a civilization, to remove fossil traces of one sort, replacing them with another . . . I couldn’t do it. “Impossible. Verne, you’ve flipped your vampiric lid.”
“If only it were so. Do you understand now, Jason, why even after all this time, I must be terribly, terribly careful not to reveal the truth to any
save those who absolutely must know it? Power such as that is beyond simple comprehension. Although much of that power would now be useless here, with magic closed off from this world, still there remains the potential for unimaginable destruction.”
I searched Verne’s face, desperately hoping for some trace of uncertainty, insanity, self-delusion. But there was no trace of any of those; just a grim and haunted certainty that this was truth, truth known by one who had lived through it. With a delayed blow, another fact slammed into my head: this meant that Verne was that old—older not just than any civilization we knew of, but older than the very species Homo sapiens should ever have been. Old enough to have seen the mammoths come and go, to have watched glaciers flow from the north to invade the southern plains and retreat again. He became more powerful with each passing year . . . and yet remained terrified of the powers that had destroyed the world he knew.
I shook my head and leaned back. “This . . . this is awfully hard to take in, Verne.”
“I understand. Do you understand why it was necessary to tell you these things?”
I rubbed my jaw. “Not entirely. I see the connection—that is, that you’ve got two separate histories here for the same man, each incompatible with the other. But why it’s necessary that I be made aware of both of these histories . . . no, I’m not quite clear on that.”
“Neither am I,” Kafan said.
Verne sighed. “Because we need you immediately for something having to do with the first, and because the very existence of the second means that anyone involved in this may have to face the legacy of that past. Jason, think on what I’ve told you. Five hundred millennia ago, my adopted son and his two children vanished from the face of the Earth. Even with all my powers and those of the Lady, we could not tell where they had gone, or why. Kafan’s people are long-lived, but they age. Yet Raiakafan is scarcely older now than when he disappeared. His presence here is utterly impossible, as is this other life, but somehow he was returned here. And, if my son can return, I cannot help but worry that the enemies against which he guarded us have also returned. So I cannot, in good conscience, bring you into this without making you aware of what dangers you may face.”