“And . . . the rest of the consuls—” Pain caused Tristan to retch, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up. When he could speak again, he whispered, “What . . . of them?”
“Safe and sound, I assure you,” Nicholas answered. “And obediently awaiting the Confluence.”
Tristan took a short, deep breath in a final attempt to beat back the incredible agony, but it was unrelenting. With a supreme effort of will, he managed to lift his face from the marble again.
“I refuse to believe that my seed could have vomited forth upon the world something as evil as the being that now stands before me,” he whispered, the words dripping from his tongue like venom. “Even though you were the product of rape, and forcibly taken before your time from the womb of a sorceress.” It had required every scintilla of strength he had left to speak the words without passing out.
Then, completely beaten, left with nothing with which to fight, he placed his head back down on the marble, certain he had spoken the final words of his life.
Nicholas examined his father closely, as if Tristan had suddenly evolved into some kind of sick, twisted experiment. “ ‘Evil,’ Chosen One?” he asked curiously. “History is written by the victors—don’t you know that? And our history—that is, yours and mine—shall be recorded for all time as the story of a father who failed to realize the importance of not only the past, but the future, as well.”
Nicholas turned his attention to the hatchling that had brought the prince to the Gates. It stood quietly to one side, waiting. “I can feel the influence of another’s endowed blood within the bird,” he said softly. “Fascinating. I am unsure of how this came about, but it is of no consequence.”
Slowly, he raised his right hand toward the creature, and pointed his index finger. A bright azure bolt shot from his fingertip and screamed across the Gate to slam into the hatchling’s breast. The bird exploded. Bits of leather and offal rained sickeningly down on Tristan as he lay there, his body twisted in excruciating pain.
Nicholas lowered his arm and smiled. “And now, if you will be so good as to excuse me, I have a great mission to complete,” he said quietly. “I leave you to die alone. But you are young, and strong. You may even live long enough to have the pleasure of witnessing their coming.”
Standing, the young adept turned to walk across the top of the Gate, back to where the gleaming, silver objects rested.
Through his pain, the prince looked away from the beautifully sweeping curve of the Gate, out toward the snow-covered fields of his beloved Eutracia. He then looked down, wondering if he might be able to manage killing himself without the use of the brain hook.
Even from this angle he could see the hungry, black masses of beetles. Perhaps he could roll himself off the Gate. At least the fall would kill him, rather than the scarabs. Either way, what did it matter? The pain would stop. He curled up a little tighter, the torture cascading through his nervous system in nauseating, unbearable waves. His mind teetering on the edge of madness, he looked toward his son.
Ignoring his father’s plight, Nicholas stood calmly before three silver goblets that glimmered beautifully in the gathering rays of the sun. Arranged in a row, each of them rose in height to about the level of his knee. Even through his pain, Tristan knew what they held.
The fluids required for the Confluence.
One goblet would contain the endowed blood of the children, one some waters of the Caves, and the last would hold his own, perfect azure blood, taken from him that fateful day by Nicholas’ wraiths. The final ingredient—the other brilliant, azure blood of the Heretics—was already held within the marble of the three Gates, silently waiting to be called upon. When combined with the power of the Paragon, these seemingly disparate elements would allow Nicholas to separate the heavens, bringing forth the Guild of the Heretics.
It was clear to the prince that his son was about to begin.
Closing his eyes, Nicholas turned his body to face the rising sun. Bowing his head, he raised his arms in supplication.
Almost immediately the first of the glimmering goblets began to rise into the air. Rotating slowly, it poured forth its contents: the dark red waters of the Caves. But instead of falling through the air and splashing down upon the Gates, the waters gathered hauntingly into a thin, flat, square sheet that hovered gracefully before the young adept.
Then, just as slowly, the second goblet began to rise. It too poured its contents—the blood of the endowed children—into the air. Another square sheet of fluid formed, moving down to hover against the first. And finally, the third goblet rose. Pouring forth the azure blood of the prince, it formed yet another sheet, which layered itself against the first two. The three goblets came back down to rest at Nicholas’ feet.
Struggling to control his mind against the pain, Tristan tried to think back to Faegan’s explanation of the Confluence. First . . . the necessary fluids would somehow be joined. Then Nicholas would use them to empower the Gates. And finally the heavens would literally part, allowing the Heretics to come through. Their endowed blood, locked within the marble for eons but now charged and alive, would animate them as they flew between the legs of the three structures. The returning Heretics would then reclaim their original forms, free to walk the earth once more, just as they had done ages ago. But this time their circumstances would be different. This time the Ones Who Came Before would not be here to defy them.
Tristan watched, spellbound even within his agony, as the unified sheets of fluid rose higher into the air.
Nicholas opened his eyes and gestured with his hands. First the enchanted, twinkling square turned to stand on one of its four corners. Then, like a child’s top, it began to spin.
Faster and faster it went, finally twirling at such an amazing speed that the wind created by its revolving sides threatened to blow Tristan off the top of the Gate. As it spun, the different colors of the three endowed sheets of fluid coalesced in his mind’s eye to create a solid cube of amazingly beautiful amethyst, glistening brightly against the almost-risen dawn. Then it began to grow to several hundred times its original dimensions. From where the prince lay, its gigantic magnificence seemed to blot out the entire sky.
And then came the noise. As the cube grew, the maelstrom of sound created by Nicholas’ creation howled, screamed, and shrieked to such an extent that it nearly tore apart Tristan’s eardrums, adding not only to the pain he was already being forced to suffer at the hands of his bastard son, but also to the agony of the poison swirling within his bloodstream. The rectangle was moving with such blinding speed that even its edges were only a blur of motion. Tristan tried to place one hand before his face to protect him from the blasting, relentless wind it was creating, but still could not move his arms.
Lifting his hands higher, Nicholas closed his eyes once more. The spinning dervish slowed, then finally stopped its frantic revolutions. Nicholas maneuvered it even higher into the sky.
It started to drip.
The drops came slowly, one at a time, landing softly on the very center of the apex on which Tristan lay. They came gently, quietly at first, and Tristan watched, horrified, as the fluid pooled, gathering more of its own glowing matter to itself. Then it began to slither across the smooth, black-and-azure marble in many directions at once.
The drops running from the sides of the magnificent, hovering square quickly developed into a small stream, which in turn became a rushing cascade. As it did, the amethyst fluid began to cover the entire curve of the Gate. Tristan’s body was soon awash in its warm, almost comforting slickness, and he could do nothing but let it cover him.
Nicholas continued to command the fluid, watching carefully as it ran down the sides of the Gate, until the entire structure was coated with the mixture.
Apparently satisfied, Nicholas lowered his arms. Without looking at Tristan he gracefully turned around to face the other two Gates behind him. Raising his arms again, he spread the fingers of each hand. Tristan held his breath, wondering w
hat would happen next.
A smattering of the amethyst fluid covering the first Gate leapt into the air and flew toward the second Gate. Covering the expanse between them in a heartbeat, it landed squarely on the apex of the second Gate, where it split, leaving some of itself behind before launching across to the third Gate.
The glowing square continued to supply what seemed to be an endless quantity of the mixture, bridging the Gates and at the same time dripping down to cover them. Then both it and the bridges disappeared. All three Gates carried the sheen of the liquid over their entire surfaces.
It has begun, Tristan thought.
Nicholas faced the east again, then calmly hovered up, crossed his legs in the air, and stretched his arms skyward. He closed his eyes and began to speak.
Tristan could not understand the language, but he was sure it was Old Eutracian, for it sounded very much like the words Faegan had read to him from the scroll Nicholas had sent to the Redoubt.
The Gates took on the glow of the craft—but this time the effect was different from anything Tristan had ever seen. Bolts of lightning were loosed from every area of the Gates, their branched, fingerlike tentacles flashing up into the sky. Each was followed by an earthshaking crash of thunder. It was as if the huge bolts had been ordered to swallow up the entire firmament in their menacing, relentless anger.
And then the sky began to darken. The rising sun was being blotted out by layers of black, fast-rolling clouds.
Tristan was surprised to notice that his pain lessened as the gloom increased. He could only imagine it to be due to the fact that Nicholas was focusing so much of his power on the Gates. With terrific effort, the prince sat up and looked to his son.
Nicholas seemed engulfed in a trance, his face lowered, his eyes rolled upward. His breathing was labored, as if he were struggling mightily with something. Then he slowly raised his head.
The lightning stopped, and the world became bathed in an eerie, almost calm silence. The three Gates of Dawn glowed spectacularly, silently, in the overwhelming darkness.
He has finished empowering the Gates, and is about to draw fully on all the power of the Paragon, Tristan realized. For the first time, a single being is about to summon the entire dynamism of the stone.
Nicholas still hovered over the glowing Gate, serene now, as if infinitely sure of himself. He waited for a few moments. Then, without warning, he extended his arms and spread his fingers.
A single, giant bolt of lightning flew from the apex of the Gate up toward the heavens. But this time, instead of flashing and then quickly retreating, as the others before it had, it persisted in the darkness of the sky, remaining motionless, the ends of its forked fingers lost in the gloom. And then it began to grow, spreading its lustrous branches as far as the eye could see.
It was parting the darkness of the heavens.
Tristan watched, his mouth agape, as the branches of the bolt pushed aside the clouds. Rays of soft, azure light descended through the opening. The lightning bolt fell away, and the thunder also ended. All went strangely quiet for a time, the only sight in the heavens the great gap with its descending rays, the only sound the restless swirling of the wind.
It was then that the screaming began.
A horrific chorus of human voices came down through the opening in the sky. On and on it came, the many voices shrieking, crying, wailing, and moaning all at once. Tristan managed to place his hands over his ears, but it did little to keep out the overpowering noise.
They are coming, Tristan realized. The Guild of the Heretics, the ancient masters of the Vagaries, are about to reclaim the earth.
Finally Nicholas turned to look down at his stricken father. Using the craft to overcome the wailing coming down from the sky, he spoke, his voice carrying a thunderous power. “Behold, Chosen One,” he said calmly, the wind moving through his long, dark hair. “My parents of above finally return to the earth.”
Tristan looked up to the rent in the sky, his eyes wide with wonder.
Faces had begun to develop. Huge human faces, thousands of them, men and women alike, were being illuminated from behind by a celestial source of light such as the prince had never seen. Their eyes were exquisitely sad, their mouths calling out beseechingly to Nicholas. The faces soared and turned in the heavens just behind the edges of the great opening, as if waiting for something. The wailing coming from their open mouths became even louder.
Nicholas stood upright in the air, his form still hovering over the Gate. The glow all about him was nearly blinding.
He will bring them now, he thought. There is no force that can stop him.
As Tristan watched, the energy and glow of the Paragon imbued into Nicholas’ being increased wondrously, as if it had finally come to the bursting point.
The wailing, beseeching faces of the Heretics crowded forward to the very edges of the gigantic rent in the heavens.
And then Nicholas screamed. As if gripped by some horrific, unexplained agony, he covered his eyes with his hands.
The faces in the heavens did not descend; their wailing grew even louder and more pleading.
Removing his hands from his face, Nicholas looked down at his palms and screamed again. It was a plaintive, helpless, agonizing sound that tore through the heavens, drowning out even the wailing of the Heretics. Tristan looked at his son, aghast.
Nicholas was bleeding from every orifice of his body.
From his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and groin poured shimmering, azure blood. It streamed down the length of his white robes and dripped onto the Gate, where it mixed with the fluid already there.
Screaming madly, his face registering nothing but abject astonishment and pain, Nicholas fell, landing on the apex a short distance away from his father. The adept looked pleadingly into Tristan’s face. And then his eyes, the eyes so reminiscent of Succiu, slowly closed, and the aura that had always surrounded his being slowly faded away into nothingness.
Stunned, Tristan looked back to the hole in the sky. The faces of the Heretics were slowly retreating, their wailing and crying subsiding. With the unexpected collapse of Nicholas had apparently come the cessation of his spell. The great rent in the skies eventually closed; the faces of the Heretics disappeared. But the rolling darkness that had preceded it all remained, and the deafening thunder began anew.
Trying to marshal whatever strength he had left, Tristan found that the pain Nicholas had been torturing him with was gone. But the poison in his veins, and the illness that went with it, were still with him. He forced himself up, knowing what his mission must be.
To reach the antidote.
He put his right foot slowly forward and nearly collapsed with the effort of that single step. As he shook his head in pain, the thunder crashed relentlessly, making it even harder to concentrate. Lightning again tore across the heavens, occasionally illuminating his path to Nicholas in ephemeral, ghostly snatches of light.
He took another agonizing step, determined to cross the distance to his son’s body and remove the life-saving vial from Nicholas’ robes.
Another step came somehow, and then another.
Four more paces, he told himself. Only four more!
But just as he began the next step, the Gates of Dawn shuddered.
Smoke, dark and acrid, rose from the apex of the Gate he was on, and a fissure opened in the surface of the fluid-ridden, marble curve, directly between the place he was standing and the inert body of his son.
With a terrible, wrenching, cracking sound, the crevice widened, its branches threatening to creep toward the sides of the curve and extend down into the legs, sending the entire structure tumbling down. The structure shuddered again, and Tristan lost his already shaky footing, falling facedown on the disintegrating Gate.
Looking up amid the smoke and noise, he could see that the crevice was far too wide for him to cross. Even if he had been healthy, he could never have made the jump required to land safely on the other side. Looking to his right, though, he s
aw that the jagged sides of the crevice rejoined about ten meters away. With what he was sure would be his last reserves of strength, he somehow pulled himself upright again. Weaving drunkenly, the Gate cracking beneath him, he shakily started to make his way, one agonizing step at a time.
But it was not to be.
In the midst of his second step, excruciating pain enveloped him. Foam erupted from his mouth, and he crashed woodenly to the sticky, disintegrating Gate, his body trembling.
His fourth, final convulsion was upon him.
He knew he would never reach the antidote in time. Twisting in agony, he reached down to his boot with his trembling right hand, finally coming upon the pearl handle of the brain hook he had hidden there. Just as he grasped it and pulled it out, the three Gates of Dawn began to collapse.
The tops of the second and third Gates cracked open entirely, their marble blocks crashing to the earth. With an agonizing, torturous sound, the Gate he and Nicholas were on shook again, and the cracks in its top split open from end to end.
Raising the brain hook to his right ear, he felt his tongue begin to slip down the back of his throat, choking the life from him. He looked to the tattered handkerchief tied around his left arm, and then down at the gold medallion around his neck as blocks nearby tumbled to the ground.
He placed the end of the brain hook into his ear, his final thoughts resonating through his mind.
The Gates of Dawn Page 58