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 what 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.