The being is here, Tristan realized. He wiped the sweat from his palms, contemplating his descent into the Caves. I can feel its presence in my blood, beckoning me to join it. He cautiously started down the rise.
Suddenly, he stopped. Looking at the dreggan in the moonlight he took a deep breath, recalling something the wizards had said. If Wigg and Faegan were right, had the thing in the Caves desired it he would probably be dead already. He slowly replaced the sword into its scabbard and climbed through the hole.
Standing at the top of the stone landing he could see that the vein into which the power of the Paragon was being drained now ran through the walls of this room as well. As always, the majestic falls continued to noisily spill the waters of the Caves into the stone pool at the bottom. The wall torches had been lit, and combined with the azure of the vein they gave the chamber an eerie, macabre look.
The deep glow he had seen before in Ragnar’s chambers was seeping silently outward from another hallway to the left. Tristan could not remember ever seeing that corridor before. He could only assume that the being had somehow recently created it. Just as it had perhaps also created the newly discovered chambers he and Wigg had been forced to navigate. Carefully, his senses alert, he continued down the stone steps.
Once upon the floor of the chamber, the overpowering effect of the waters on his blood made him dizzy. He was forced to go down on one knee, his breath coming quicker, more hungrily to his lungs.
“Come to me, Chosen One.” The voice was strong, yet somehow also soft and reassuring. It resonated deeply through the chamber and the hallway from which it came, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
Tristan stood up on shaky legs and started down the hallway to the left, following the glow.
The corridor twisted and turned. With every step he took the dynamism of the being called more powerfully to his blood. And conversely, the effect of the waters of the Caves lessened, finally vanishing. The corridor ended at a solid-black marble door. The azure glow seeped from beneath it, spilling out over his boots. Tristan slowly reached out and pushed the door open.
Before him was a man of about his own age and size, seated cross-legged in the air. His hands in the opposite sleeves of his fine, white robe, he stared peacefully at the prince. He was apparently unarmed. Long, dark, shiny hair fell down to his shoulders, framing high cheekbones and a sensuous mouth. But there was something else about him. Something that immediately unnerved the prince as he stood there, taking him in. It was his eyes.
Dark and sparkling, the eyes slanted upward slightly at the corners, giving the man an exotic, almost feminine appearance. They seemed strangely familiar to Tristan.
Looking around, he saw that the vein ran through the walls of this room also. To the right stood a black marble pedestal, on top of which was a small glass beaker.
“Who are you?” Tristan asked the man.
“You truly do not know?”
“Only that you are the being who is about to build the Gates of Dawn, unleashing the Heretics on the world,” Tristan said. “It is my duty to stop you.”
“Is it really?” the man asked, pursing his lips. “Are you quite sure of that? As the male of the Chosen Ones, he of the azure blood, your wizards have yet to completely tell you of your duties. But you still do not know that, do you? So much to learn, so little time left. In fact, both you and your sister have more in common with those in the heavens than you could possibly know.”
Understanding the reference to time but little else, Tristan pressed. “Why did you poison my blood?” he asked angrily. “If you wish me dead, why not just kill me and get it over with?”
“First things first,” the man said. He hovered closer, looking deeply into the prince’s face. “You truly do not know who I am?” he asked again.
“No,” Tristan answered simply.
Again the man smiled. But then the smile suddenly vanished as quickly as it had come. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Do you not recognize these eyes?”
Tristan hesitated, unsure of what to say. The exotic eyes were beginning to unnerve him. It was as if something in his subconscious was trying to convince him of an impossibility—that he had seen them before.
“They are somehow familiar to me, but you are not,” he answered. Suddenly he had endured enough. “No more games,” he said sternly, taking a slightly more aggressive stance. “Tell me who you are. Now.”
The dark-haired man before him took a short breath, then let it out slowly. “I am your son, Chosen One,” he said softly. “The boy-child you so casually left behind in the shallow grave in Parthalon. Do you not remember me? I am also the son of Succiu, second mistress of the Coven. One of the four women you and your wizard killed.” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I am Nicholas,” he finished softly. “And I have returned.”
Despite the similarity of the man’s eyes to those of Succiu, at first Tristan wanted to dismiss him as mad. But then a creeping dread began to overcome him. The longer he stood there, the more he could see Succiu’s eyes staring back at him. It sent a shiver down his spine. In fact, he could now see much more than that. It was as if this man somehow possessed the finest aesthetic qualities of both himself and the sorceress who had raped him.
“It is not possible,” Tristan whispered. “You lie. My son died. Succiu took him to his death, when she committed suicide by leaping from the roof of the Recluse. I excised the body and buried it myself, weeping over the grave. And aside from the impossibility of him being alive, you are far too old. No—this is some kind of trick. A cruel, sick prank. And I will have none of it.” He warily took a step back, wondering what to expect next. It was difficult to keep himself from reaching for his sword. But he knew in his heart that such a crude weapon would be completely useless against the creature before him.
“Are you so sure?” Nicholas asked, closing the distance between them. His dark, sparkling gaze was relentless. “If the Heretics, my parents of the Afterlife, can come back with my help, then what makes you so certain they could not save me from the grave, and return me to the earth?”
Tears began to gather in Tristan’s eyes. Not because he was ready to believe, but because of the horrific memories that came with having to speak of it with a stranger. “But you are too old . . . It . . . it would be impossible,” he stammered.
“Very little is impossible with the practice of the Vagaries, Father,” Nicholas said. Hearing himself called “Father,” Tristan felt something inside of him slip. “It is true that I first returned to your world as an infant,” Nicholas continued. “But I also came with certain preordained knowledge, granted to me by my parents above. There are certain advantages to being dead, you see. At least in the unenlightened way you understand it. As I said, so much to learn, so little time. But I digress. The most important of these abilities was the taking of the power of the stone. Think of it, Chosen One. All the power of the Paragon—imbued into a single being. When I began to harvest the dynamism of the stone, my knowledge, power, and physical stature grew exponentially, resulting in the man you see before you.” He paused for a moment. “I am truly your son of this earth,” he said softly. “Why do you think you were so drawn to me?”
Tristan shook his head back and forth, trying desperately not to believe. But inside his heart of hearts, he was starting to have doubts. He lowered his head. “No,” he whispered softly, his voice cracking. “It simply cannot be . . .”
“You are indeed as stubborn as your reputation claims,” Nicholas said. “Therefore I shall provide proof. Behold.” With that, the adept narrowed his eyes, and an incision opened in his right wrist. His blood began to run slowly from it. He placed two fingers against the wound and collected some, then held it up to Tristan’s face. The prince’s breath came out in a rush. The blood was azure.
“The wizards told me that I was the only being in the world with such blood,” Tristan whispered, barely able to get the words out. “How can this be?”
�
�The answer is really quite simple,” Nicholas answered. “If you were at one time the only such being in the world to possess it, and you fathered a child, then . . .”
Nicholas left the sentence hanging, watching amazement and pain blend in Tristan’s expression.
Shock nearly caused the prince to faint. He lost his balance, collapsing slightly, going down to one knee. He finally regained his legs, standing before Nicholas with some difficulty. Tears ran down his face.
“There, there—steady, Father,” Nicholas said almost compassionately. “You mustn’t take it all so hard. In fact, there is a great deal of very important work still remaining we can now do together. That is if you will simply choose to cooperate.”
Nicholas reached out his hand, caressing one side of Tristan’s face. “You see, I am no monster. I am simply a messenger. A constructor of worlds, if you will. I do not need your help in these things I must do, but the Heretics and I would prefer it. You will find our methods not to be so crude and clumsy as those of the Coven.” He smiled wickedly. “My late, extremely perverted but very beautiful mother being no exception. I’m sure it must have been very interesting when she coupled with you.”
Nicholas produced a small piece of parchment from a pocket in his robe and allowed a drop of his blood to fall on it. The blood immediately began to convolute into its own distinct signature. When it was dry, he tucked the parchment inside one of Tristan’s boots. “When you return to the Redoubt, show this to your wizards. They will know what to do. After that, you shall have no doubt. And when you are finally sure of my identity, there shall then be decisions you must make. When you have done so, you need only to come back here to find me.”
“What are you talking about?” Tristan asked.
“I can see that the stalker’s dried brain fluid is already taking effect in your bloodstream. Your veins are turning black, just as I am sure the wizards told you they would. Soon the pain in your shoulder will begin. By now you have most certainly lived through your first convulsion. An interesting experience, no doubt. Tell me, Father, do you know why I poisoned your blood?” Nicholas asked, backing away slightly.
“For the only reason there could be,” Tristan snarled. “You want me dead.”
Again came the twisted smile. “I knew your wizards would not grasp it,” Nicholas said. “Their view of the world is so limited. Indeed, Father, the reason I poisoned your blood was because I wanted you to stay alive.”
“I don’t understand. What you are saying makes no sense.” Tristan’s heart was telling him to leave, if indeed Nicholas would let him. He desperately wanted to be gone from this place—gone from the being who called himself his son. But his mind told him not to leave yet. He must try to remain calm, keeping the adept talking for as long as he could. He had promised the wizards he would bring them back as much information as possible.
Nicholas glided to the black pedestal, holding out his hand. The glass beaker left the table, slowly levitating into his grasp. “I poisoned your blood as an incentive, Father,” he began quietly. “As you know, the dried stalker fluid works very slowly. Even more slowly than usual, due to the great strength of your magnificent blood. This gave us both time. Time for me to construct the Gates, and time for you to become increasingly ill . . . and to make up your mind.”
“Make up my mind about what?” the prince countered.
“About joining our cause, Chosen One,” the adept said. He glided closer, continuing to look straight into Tristan’s eyes. “Join us, Father. It is the ultimate goal of the Heretics above to rule the world. With you to lead us. Just as it should have been eons ago, before the Ones with their ridiculous love of the Vigors started the War of Attrition. Both you and your twin sister are of their blood, Father. Just as I am of yours.”
Stunned, Tristan took a step backward. Ask the important things only, he told himself. Ask the questions that will help you defeat this monster that has somehow sprung from your loins.
“Why would you want me?” he asked carefully. “My blood is not yet trained, and therefore of little use to you. You and the Heretics are already vastly more knowledgeable than the wizards of Eutracia, so there is nothing you could learn from me. How does my joining with you help your cause?”
“You forget something, Father,” Nicholas answered. “Despite the fact that you are not trained in the ways of the craft, you are still the Chosen One. You and your sister are the only two such beings in the world. You possess the finest blood in the universe. Even I, your direct progeny, do not possess blood the equal of yours, because mine is diluted with that of the sorceress Succiu. Have the wizards ever told you what the word ‘Chosen’ really means? Or who it was who truly placed that title upon you? Or why the same blood and moniker were also given to Shailiha, your twin sister and my aunt? Ah, I can see by the look upon your face that they have not. Your wizards know far more than they are telling you, Father. Unless, of course, they mentioned your eventual joining of the two sides of magic. That was the ultimate goal of the Ones. But never the goal of the Heretics. In fact, it was this schism that started the war. The act of joining the two sides was to be just the first of many such deeds only you—or my aunt, if need be—would eventually be able to perform. But the Heretics do not want them joined, you see. They do not wish their pure, perfect art to be adulterated by the weaker, compassionate side of the craft. And it is the Heretics, because of their ability to return before the Ones, who will come to employ you first.”
Tristan’s mind was suddenly awash in new worlds, new horrors, and vast new dangers. “And just what is it you would have me do, assuming of course that I agreed to join you?”
Nicholas smiled. “Lead us,” he said simply. “After the return of the Heretics, we shall eliminate all the others of this earth. Our world shall become one barren of all human life other than that which is sufficiently gifted. A true paradise of the craft. Following that we will return the power from my consciousness to the Paragon. You will then be trained by the Heretics in the ways of the Vagaries.”
“Why would you do such a thing willingly?” Tristan asked. “Once you have it all, why would you choose to return the power to the stone?”
“Because the Heretics, unlike you, cared for me. I am bound to their wishes in ways you could never imagine.”
“And after I am supposedly trained?”
“Together we shall destroy the Vigors and their orb forever, leaving only the true, sublime teachings of the Vagaries that we have so come to love. The Heretics and I could eventually accomplish this ourselves, but it would take eons. That is why we need you, and your perfect blood. The Coven only attempted to use your sister to complete their self-indulgent ritual, and to employ you to propagate your seed.” Again came the knowing, twisted smile. “An understandable desire, but shortsighted. We intend to put you to a much higher use. We shall train you to become one of us. You will come to know the more perfect, exquisite side of the craft, leading us for eternity.”
“And if I refuse?” Tristan asked.
“Then you and all your loved ones will perish,” Nicholas answered. “If you do not join us in this, the female of the Chosen Ones, my aunt, must also die. Despite the fact that she is one of the Chosen, she is not of azure blood, and is of no use to us. As I said before, we would prefer to have you with us, since your azure blood makes our task so much simpler. But should you choose not to do so, your end will be quite gruesome, I can assure you.”
Nicholas held out the small vessel that he had taken from the pedestal. It contained a white, milky substance. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“How could I?” Tristan answered caustically.
“It is the antidote to your illness, Father. Swallow this, and in a mere two days your disease disappears forever. Agree to stay here with me, submit to my mind so that I know your intentions are true, and it shall be yours. Perhaps the wizards have told you of the technique used to test the quality of one’s heart? A simple use of the craft, but also
quite effective. That is to be my proof that you mean what you say. Come to us, and bring your sister and her girl-child. They too are welcome, but as with you, the quality of their hearts must be tested first.”
Tristan was familiar with the technique Nicholas had just mentioned, for he had watched Wigg and Faegan perform it on Geldon to be certain the dwarf did not side with the Coven. It will do no good to lie to him, the prince realized. He would immediately know, and there would be no way to stop it. His face became dark with defeat. “And if I refuse?” he asked.
“Then you condemn yourself, your sister, her daughter, your wizards, and the rest of the endowed of your world to certain death,” Nicholas answered casually. “The existence of all of the unendowed has become quite academic, since they are to die whether you join us or not. So the choice is simple, don’t you see? It is only a matter of taking your rightful place in the world, thereby allowing your loved ones to live.”
Tristan’s mind reeled. “The wizards will find the cure,” he said tentatively.
“Wrong, Father,” Nicholas gloated. “The wizards are quite incapable of finding the cure. First, the calculations required are very probably beyond their gifts. Secondly, the antidote, as are so many antidotes of this world, is partially made of the very thing that poisons you—the brain fluid of a stalker. Wigg and Faegan have no access to this most important of ingredients. With everything else that is going on I cannot envision them, one blind and the other crippled, combing the woods to find and kill another stalker, can you? No. Therefore, do not rely on those two relics of the past to cure you, for they cannot.”
He paused for a moment, his exotic eyes boring directly into Tristan’s. “You will soon see that I cannot be defeated,” he said menacingly. “Things have been put into motion that even I cannot stop. The only choice you have is to relinquish yourself to us.”
The Gates of Dawn Page 39