Wigg raised his arms, beckoning the prince to come to him.
Tristan rose from his chair, tears in his eyes. But with his very first step toward the wizard came the horrifying, sinking feeling.
He fell to the floor, tremors jangling his body like a marionette. Spittle foamed from his mouth as his tongue slipped down the back of his throat.
Then everything went black.
48
Nicholas, his white robe billowing gracefully around him, sailed effortlessly above the Gates of Dawn, reveling in their beauty. The magnificent archways had been finished the evening before. As he gazed upon their soaring majesty, he knew he was close, so close now, to bringing home his parents of above. But still his other father, the father who had supplied the seed of his making, had not come to him.
But he would, Nicholas knew, if he desired to live.
Joyously, the voices of the Heretics had revealed themselves to his mind again, just as dawn had crept over the hills. You have done well, they whispered. The Gates of Dawn are perfect. You have also collected into yourself almost all of the dynamism of the stone, thereby rendering the Chosen One’s wizards nearly powerless. But you must wait two more days before our coming, for he of the azure blood may still bow to you. This he must do freely. We must either have him come willingly to our bosom or see him dead. If he does not come to worship you, it shall be time to destroy all that he holds so dear, before we descend to rule again.
After that the morning had broken cold and clear. The fresh snow below him was pure and unadulterated, just as he knew the Gates were. Rising two hundred meters into the air and curved at their tops, they had finally taken the form of three great archways. The azure veins running through them glimmered with the promise of an ascendancy that had not been seen for eons.
Satisfied, he looked above him to see that his second-generation hatchlings were still guarding the sky over the Gates. And looking down, he was equally pleased to see that his other powerful creatures of the Vagaries—the carrion scarabs—were arriving to guard the ground around the bases of the Gates, marching across the snow in an undulating, teeming mass of life. Covering the area surrounding the Gates for hundreds of meters in every direction, their greatly magnified numbers fanned out like an encroaching stain upon the ground.
Hovering closer to the Gates, the young adept laid his brow on the coolness of the stone, then caressed it with his cheek as if in the grip of some ravenous, sexual need. The marble seemed to welcome his touch, as if the blood of the Heretics trapped within could already sense the power he possessed. With the final construction of the Gates the three majestic arches literally called to him, silently begging him to perform the spell this very morn. Groaning softly but knowing he must wait, he finally spoke.
“Parents,” he whispered. “It is now to me that the most difficult part of the burden falls—the agony of waiting to enact the Confluence. I must desist for two more dawns. In your infinite wisdom you never taught me that the call would be so wondrously irresistible. But wait I shall, for you order it.” Nicholas continued to hover there, lovingly pressing his face against the coolness of the marble.
“It is to you I owe my allegiance and no one else, including the untrained one of azure blood who did nothing but unwillingly create me. Obey you I shall. In two more days, the Confluence shall be yours.”
He finally pulled himself away and soared off to the embankment where the blood stalker was waiting.
Standing in rows behind Ragnar stood the hundreds of consuls who had initially resisted the young adept, before his greater powers came to control their consciousnesses. Mindless, staring out at nothing in their dirty, torn robes, they waited silently for his word.
“The Gates are completed, my lord?” Ragnar asked. He pulled his fur coat closer, then sampled some of the fluid from his ever-present vial.
“Yes,” Nicholas answered softly. “All that remains is for the Chosen One to come to his senses, and join me. If he has not prostrated himself before me by tomorrow’s dawn, I will send my hatchlings to destroy his Minions. The following morn I shall enact the Gates.”
“And the rest of the consuls?” Ragnar asked hesitantly. “Those who joined us willingly—are they safe?”
“Again, yes,” Nicholas answered. “They are some distance from here, waiting for the return of the Heretics. I have also used the Forestallment necessary to test the quality of their hearts, just as my parents of above ordered me to do. They are mine, body and soul. You need neither fear them, nor fear for them.”
Nicholas glided behind the stalker to face the ones in the dark blue robes.
At the adept’s signal, Scrounge called a squadron of hatchlings down.
“Take them,” Nicholas said simply.
Nodding, Scrounge signaled for the hatchlings to begin the slaughter.
The great birds swooped down with their swords drawn and sliced the helpless consuls from neck to groin. The endowed blood of the Brotherhood poured out everywhere upon the white, snow-laden ground. Every remaining member of the Brotherhood of Consuls who had tried to remain true to the practices of the Directorate and the preservation of the Vigors fell dead.
Scrounge smiled, wheeling his bird around to face the young adept. “As you have ordered, Master,” he said.
Nicholas nodded once more.
Scrounge then ordered the hatchlings to rip away the dead consuls’ robes and organs. Once done, they flew the corpses toward the newly constructed Gates of Dawn, where they dropped them directly into the midst of the carrion scarabs.
The females immediately began to crawl up and over the corpses and deposit their eggs into the still-warm body cavities. The males stood guard nearby, their antennae sensing the air, their tiny, black eyes missing nothing.
Scrounge flew his bird back to his master’s side, awaiting his next orders.
“Well done,” Nicholas said softly. “You are to return to Fledgling House, to rest. Do not leave there for the remainder of the day, or the coming night. Tomorrow you lead the hatchlings against the Chosen One and his Minions. I will discuss my battle plans with you this evening.”
“Yes, my lord,” Scrounge answered. He nodded his leave, then wheeled his bird around and took flight for Fledgling House.
Nicholas turned his dark, exotic eyes upon the stalker. “Joshua is dead,” he said simply.
Ragnar stood in the cold morning sun, wide-eyed for a moment, his mind trying to digest the news. “How?” he finally asked.
“No doubt by way of the rather crude weapon you so kindly supplied him with,” Nicholas answered. “My blood felt the shudder of his passing into the Afterlife the very moment it occurred.”
“But how did the Chosen One’s wizards discover him?” Ragnar asked, nervously tasting yet more of the thick, yellow fluid.
“Never forget that Wigg and Faegan are exceedingly clever,” Nicholas answered. “I do not yet know how they discovered Joshua’s true intentions, but it is of no consequence. Nothing can stop us now. And as for you, my friend, at last your day has come.”
Thinking of his next mission, of perhaps finally reclaiming Celeste, Ragnar could hardly contain himself. “Where is it in your service you are sending me this time?”
Nicholas took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. “To the Afterlife.”
Ragnar stumbled backward, almost falling. The vial of brain fluid spilled onto the ground, hissing as it burrowed into the melting snow.