by Ian Withrow
Foreword
As with my other works of writing, a portion of the proceeds of this book will go to support suicide prevention efforts and research. I want to thank each and every one of you for buying this book, and for helping support a cause that is very near and dear to me.
Furthermore, I want to encourage all of my readers to look into other ways they can help, whether that means starting a dialogue locally, or simply taking better care of your own health. Together, we can make a difference.
Acknowledgments
It is hard to imagine that three short years ago I had only just begun writing the Tragedy of Power. Dozens of friends, family members, and a plethora of kind and generous readers helped make the dream of becoming a novelist a reality.
I’d like to thank my beautiful wife, who supported me every step of the way. You really are the most gracious person in my life, and I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.
To Dan, who tirelessly quarreled and bickered with me night after night, you helped me become a better writer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I want to thank my readers. To everyone who helped make the Tragedy of Power a success, I hope you’ll find the sequel even more fulfilling. I can’t possible thank you as much as you deserve.
Finally, dad, this one’s for you.
Chapter One
Weyland listened, committing the sounds around him to memory. Waves lapping at the shore, birdsong, the rustling grasses of the Greek countryside.
He listened to the whisper of the low-burning oil lamps providing light in his opulent chambers.
He listened to the gentle breathing of the woman sleeping next to him. Her graceful curves softly rising and falling with each nearly silent stirring of her lungs.
Her slumber was a sight to behold. Not a single line of worry creased her alabaster face or furrowed her light brown eyebrows. He often spent these morning hours staring at her as she slept, drinking in her curves as she lay beside him.
Inevitably though, the urge to wake her and have her fully with him would become unbearable and he would either succumb to it or be forced to walk away.
Today he chose to leave.
He slipped from beneath the silk sheets of their massive bed, his feet warming the cold tile as he touched it.
He padded along with a silence that seemed impossible for a man his size. He towered over his peers, yet he moved as quietly as some great cat.
He didn’t hurry, but his long legs took him quickly into the hallway. The empty stone passages were still quiet, the tapestries on the walls not yet touched by the morning sun.
Rounding a corner he surprised a pair of servant girls. They dropped immediately to the ground, prostrating themselves before him. He could hear their heartbeats quicken as he passed, but he paid them no mind.
They were beneath him.
The grand temple had no door, only an archway leading out into the cool mediterranean morning. The sun crested the horizon just as he crossed the threshold.
The scratching of a straw broom across the paved courtyard intruded on his treasured daily ritual. He looked around with irritation. A servant boy some twenty yards distant was diligently sweeping dust, his back to Weyland.
As though alerted by the heat of Weyland’s gaze, the boy froze and turned slowly around. Upon seeing Weyland glaring at him, he prostrated himself as the others had.
With the annoyance gone, Weyland returned to the sunrise. His favorite part, when the city first felt the light of the sun, had already passed.
Ruined.
His temper, always simmering just below the surface, flared for a moment. The faint smell of ash wafted into his nostrils and he calmed himself.
Taking a deep breath, he continued walking until he reached the edge of the Acropolis.
Weyland looked out over the bustling roofs and busy streets of one of his favorite cities; Athens. People filled the streets, ebbing and flowing like the current from some massive, sluggish river. From his place upon the plateau all the sounds, sights, and smells of the city were diluted, reduced to a soft hum nearly 500 feet below. He closed his eyes, soaking in the warm summer sun. The shining rays warmed his deep brown skin and filled him with peace. He breathed deeply of the salt air blowing in off the coast.
A dull thump sounded in the depths of his mind and a tremor flickered through the ground. He opened his eyes, startled by the unfamiliar sensation.
The people down below didn’t seem to have noticed.
His brow furrowed. Certainly if he had felt it then the masses before him should have. He looked around, trying to find something, anything out of order. But the gulls drifting in the sea breezes kept their lazy course, the waves on the distant shores kept their steady beat, and the hustle and bustle of the city went on undisturbed. His paradise was unchanged to his keen senses.
The soft sound of rustling feathers drew him from his contemplation, making him turn.
She was as radiant as he had ever seen her. The woman standing before him was tall, lean and tan. Her golden hair looked like rays of sunshine brought to earth, her eyes were the deepest emeralds flecked with bronze. A cream colored silk dress accented her most noticeable feature; A pair of snow-white wings, covered in broad, sleek feathers. She flashed him a dazzling smile from across the marble courtyard.
The sight of his beloved against the backdrop of the massive stone columns of their estate cleared all worry from his mind. Truly she was a goddess, and a worthy companion for his own station.
He stepped towards her, his own face breaking into a smile from her infectious grin. As he crossed the smooth stones of the courtyard he reached a hand out to her.
Thump.
This time the sound hit him like a fist in the gut. He stumbled from the blow and shook his head to clear the ringing it had left in his ears. Worried, he looked back up at his bride.
She looked different, the smile on her face seemed more forced, less warm. The air lost a bit of its heat as the sun seemed to pale for a moment.
But she was there, still waiting for him.
He struggled towards her, his legs growing heavier with every step. His temper rose, and he shook himself. His powerful muscles flexed and suddenly he was free of the unseen burden upon him. The sun was once again warm and bright, he could move just as easily as he ever had.
The sweat dotting his brow and his heavy breathing were the only physical side effects of the strange momentary weakness he had experienced.
He looked down at himself, but everything appeared in order. His towering, seven-foot physique was as muscled and strong as it ought to be, his dark skin tight over sculpted flesh.
He recoiled when he again laid eyes upon his wife. Her shining gold hair had been replaced with wild, lightly curling darkness. Her eyes matched her new hair, as did her wings. The snowy feathers that he was used to looked like they were fresh dipped in the deepest black he had ever seen. Her smile was a faint, cruel curl at the edge of her lips. Her arms were outspread, waiting for him, but he felt no welcome there.
He took an involuntary step backwards.
As he did so, she spoke.
“Weyland please, I need you.”
Her voice was velvet to his ears, enticing him.
“Weyland.”
As she spoke, she returned to the form he was used to. His shining maiden was again before him. She sounded desperate, like she needed his help.
A mere 20 feet separated them.
He sprinted towards her, driven by a sense of urgency he couldn’t quite explain. His strong legs propelled him at inhuman speeds but the distance between them seemed only to grow.
Frustrated, he pushed himself further, running harder and harder. She was speaking, but the wind rushing past his ears d
rowned out her words.
Thump.
This time, the sound was like a clap of thunder directly on top of him. It drove him to the ground and cracked the marble stones around him. He looked around in a daze. He was at the center of what looked like a small impact crater, surrounded by a spider web of cracked stone.
He closed his blurry eyes, drew an unsteady breath and composed himself.
When he opened them again, there was blood running between the cracks in the stone around his hands. But it wasn’t his own.
He looked up, shocked at the sight of his bride’s broken, crumpled form in front of him. Her wings stuck out at odd, impossible angles, her feathers cracked and matted with dark blood. Her once pristine features had shattered like a china doll.
It could not be; it simply was not possible that this could happen. Not here, not in this protected place.
Steeling himself, Weyland turned inward. He began the unfamiliar but not forgotten work of unmaking the paradise around him. The lush sounds of the Grecian landscape faded, the brilliant warmth of the sun grew distant, his senses dulled until he was floating in nothingness.
Weyland returned to reality with a frustrated snap, his head was pounding and his joints felt stiff.
He opened his eyes and was annoyed to find his chambers unlit. Still, he had no trouble seeing in the pitch blackness of the ancient temple.
From his perch upon his throne he could see the dense layer of dust and detritus that coated everything in the room. It was several inches thick and lay equally upon the fallen, once-proud columns of broken stone, the disintegrated furniture, the long-decayed tapestries, and the ornate marble floor.
He must have slept for decades this time, centuries even to have been so thoroughly ignored. Grumbling his discontent, he slowly stood and stretched the kinks out of his joints.
His movements sent a cascade of dust pouring off of him and swirling out into the crypt-like silence of the decrepit building.
The entire temple was in a state of disrepair, many of the rooms had fully collapsed.
This will not do.
The ancient fabric of his clothes disintegrated as he strode confidently towards the exit, but he didn’t mind. It was clear nothing had disturbed these halls in many lifetimes. Turning a corner he saw that the stairs that had once led upward to the surface had collapsed as well, replaced with a wall of fallen stone and dirt.
Well, that explains that.
No matter.
Weyland concentrated; he hadn’t done this in ages. Thick veins stood out on his arms, a fierce orange glow emanating from them as he focused his long-dormant powers. A split second later he vanished with a sizzle, leaving only smoldering stone behind.
A few hundred meters away, a patch of bare stone high in the mountains reddened with heat, unnoticed by the occupants of the small camp nearby.
The brisk mountain air did little to stifle the heat in Natalie’s cheeks as she lost herself in a trashy romance. The confines of her tiny tent seemed overly warm as the book heated up.
Janessa wiped a tear from her eye and turned away from her lover. She took a step across the pearl-white beach of Isla Pasion and towards the waiting boat.
“Wait, mi amor!”
Ricardo grabbed Janessa’s arm, pulling her close to his smooth, muscular chest.
“Don’t go, I cannot bear to live without you, not even in this paradise.”
His thick latin accent lent a sensual feel to his words, and Janessa found herself unable to resist him. His large powerful hand snaked up her back and into her hair, pulling her head towards him.
She let him move her without any resistance.
Their lips met and Janessa felt her legs go weak. The heat between them was a rival for the volcanoes rising in the background. Her passion built until she felt she might erupt, she had to have him…
A loud crackling boom startled Natalie Schreiber from her book with such suddenness that she let out a terrified squeak. Clutching her novel to her chest, she slowly crawled out into the Changbai Mountains of southern China.
Natalie had been enthralled by her book when Weyland arrived, but now it slipped forgotten from fingers numb with shock. Just a few feet away from her stood a total stranger. The tallest, most muscular, most handsome man she had ever seen. Stranger yet, he was standing in a smoldering crater, a few inches deep, that certainly had not been there the day before.
The junior archaeologist stared dumbfounded, blinking at the naked Adonis in front of her.
Weyland inspected his new surroundings. A collection of smallish tents and piles of digging tools, tables covered in maps, and mounds of excavated dirt filled a clearing about 60 feet across.
Good, these servants clearly understand my importance since they are digging out my temple.
Taking his time, he looked more closely at the camp. The materials were all foreign, not the leather and animal skins he had seen when last he walked the earth. One of the mortals was looking at him from within a tiny shelter, clearly petrified.
“Child, what century is it?”
He spoke in perfect Korean, but the young woman furrowed her brow, clearly not understanding.
Hmm.
He tried again, cycling through Welsh, Breton, and finally Latin before he got the reaction he was looking for.
“You speak Latin?”
The girl’s words were sloppily pronounced, and her grammar imperfect. More importantly, she was asking him questions, rather than providing the answer he required.
“As do you, poorly. What is the century?”
He repeated his question, his annoyance building.
“Um, the 20th, er sorry the 21st century. Who are you?”
Weyland hid his surprise well, he had slept more than a millenia. No wonder this girl couldn’t speak properly. More likely, it was he who was using outdated language.
His first question answered, he set about getting more information from the girl. Weyland took a step towards her, causing her to scurry slightly backwards.
“Do not fear, child.”
She was still afraid. She looked like a cornered mouse, her breathing erratic and her eyes darting to and fro.
“Come out here.”
Natalie’s curiosity overtook her caution.
Come on Nat, you’re a scientist.
Slowly, she crawled out from inside the tent and approached the giant before her.
Weyland took a look at the diminutive figure in front of him. She had the look of an intellectual. Certainly she could be no warrior.
“I need to know if you have seen something. But first I must show you what to look for.”
She was furrowing her brow again.
“I don’t understand.”
Weyland reached out a hand, eliciting a flinch from Natalie.
Slowly, delicately, he placed his index finger on her temple.
Natalie found herself standing in a courtyard in the middle of magnificent temples and marble statues. She recognized the place immediately. It was the Acropolis in Athens. What she didn’t understand was why it was new, filled with servants, and not a crumbling ruin like it should be. She spun in a slow circle, breathless at the impossible sight.
Could it be a dream? If it was, it was the most realistic she had ever experienced. She could feel the ocean breezes, hear gulls in the distance. Sights, sounds, even the stone beneath her feet felt more real, more tangible, than she could have ever imagined. Her desire to explore nearly overcame her.
“Focus,” Weyland’s powerful voice rang out in her mind.
His words drew her eyes to a low throne across the stones. A woman sat in it. As Natalie approached, she could see the woman was being fanned by handsome men and beautiful women. They held large peacock-feather fans and wore the finest silk garments, but around their ankles were golden chains. They were slaves.
She felt compelled to go to the woman, as though beckoned by some unseen power.
Her eyes widened the nearer she got.<
br />
There was no mistaking it, the woman in the throne was Lauren Corvidae, the miracle who had so upset the balance of the world. She was laughing brightly at some unheard joke, conversing quietly with her servants.
Even chained, the people around her seemed filled with joy and adoration, as if it were truly a blessing to serve her every whim.
“You know this woman?”
Weyland’s voice again intruded on her mind.
Natalie didn’t have time to respond before she was again standing in China. Disoriented for a moment, she could swear she still felt the warm Mediterranean sun on her back.
Natalie looked around, her eyes wide. Sure enough, she was back at the excavation site she’d called home for the past year. Her bleary-eyed fellow scientists were beginning to emerge from their own quarters, drawn by the unexpected commotion outside.
“Nat, what’s up? Who’s this?”
Weyland paid them no mind. His attention was entirely on the still bewildered young woman before him.
“I asked you if you knew that woman,” Weyland insisted, this time in Natalie’s mother tongue of German.
Her mind scrambled to make sense of what was happening. She settled on an unexpected revelation.
“How can you... how do you speak my language now?”
Natalie was amazed. The being, for he was certainly no normal human, seemed to have pulled the language from her mind.
“Answer me!”
Weyland’s voice rose with impatience. The faintest smell of cinders wafted into Natalie’s nose and she grew warmer, as though Weyland was exuding heat. Some uncharted, primal part of her mind sensed unquestionable danger.
“Y-yes, That’s Lauren Corvidae. She’s, well she’s a miracle. She heals people.”
So she is real, and not merely a product of the Dream.
“Where is she?”
Even here, in this remote corner of the world, news of Lauren’s exploits were widely known. However, it had been several days since she’d heard anything. Natalie wracked her brain, what had she heard most recently?
“I-I’m not really sure. Last I heard she was headed to the States, Chicago I think.”