The Wayward Godking (9 page)

“Holy Mary,” Simon’s eyes widened.

“It is possible your father had contact with Bath-Sheba when she went to the Temple to make her sacrifices.” Mark shrugged. “She was not Jewish. She was the wife of a Hittite. She was most likely a worshipper of Bel or even Nebo, himself.”

Simon’s jaw went slack, and he had to catch himself on the table. “So that is why you saved me?”

“No. That is not why I saved you.” Mark’s smile took on a decidedly evil shadow. “You are my own descendent.”

“How so?” Simon’s voice was barely audible.

“If you are descended directly from Jacob, then you are one of my great-great-etcetera-grandsons.
I
was the angel Jacob wrestled with. Surely your father told you that?” Mark advanced on the Healer once more and Simon could not move. “Jacob lost that particular match.”

The image of a stuffy council room from years ago returned to the Healer’s head and he heard the voice of Montague. Montague had told them Mark Andrew was most likely the angel with whom Jacob had wrestled and Montague had suggested, as Uriel, Mark had taken over the body of Jacob, becoming, in effect, the father of the Israelites. If Simon had lived first as one of Jacob’s sons, as his father had once told him, then he had been one of Mark’s sons in that time in the far distant past.

Mark had to catch the Healer when he lost consciousness as the situation became too much for his muddled brain to comprehend. Mark lowered him to the floor and then pressed his right hand to his smooth forehead under the shock of blonde hair.

“
To thee I give understanding. To thee I give the Light. To thee I give the knowledge that pushes back the night
,” Mark whispered the words and then stood up. “
Arise Son of the Morning and look upon the face of your ancestor without fear. Son of Night. Son of Darkness, come into the Light
.”

Simon opened his eyes and moved them back and forth as if searching out his surroundings before he attempted to get up. Mark gave him a hand up and the Healer stood rubbing the back of his head.

“What happened?” He asked after a few moments. “I must have fainted. I often faint, when I try to use the stone too often or too long. I’m sorry, Brother. I embarrass myself.”

“Nae tribble atoll,” Mark said brightly, and then pretended to examine the back of his head. “Nothing here. You look to be in good enough shape.”

“What did we see?” Simon asked him in confusion.

“Many things,” Mark told him as he wrapped the stone in its cloth and placed it back in the ornate box along with the ring upon which it stood.

“Oh, yes! The judge.” Simon frowned. “We have to get down there and help them.”

“To the Abyss?” Mark Andrew looked surprise. The change in the Healer was profound in some intangible way.

“We’ll talk to the Grand Master and call a Council Meeting.” Simon headed out of the vault.

“Wait!” Mark closed the box and hurried after him. “What is your plan? Do you have an idea how we might get to the Seventh Gate?”

“If we’re right, we can dream our way there,” Simon said and raised both eyebrows. He paused a moment, and then took off again.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

King Il Dolce Mio’s captain stepped out of the forest into the silvery moonlight. The light glinted off the pointed metal cap he wore on his head, giving him the appearance of the Tin Man from
the Wizard of Oz
. Old Sim’s replacement, he was a stately young elf named Steppet, and he carried a pair of silver stilettos, one in each hand. He made his way quickly to the rise near the center of the meadow and stopped to study the familiar landscape with clear gray eyes.

A junior lieutenant named Prado followed him, also wearing the same sort of odd-looking hat. Prado carried two stilettos as well. He stopped, facing Steppet, and they stared at each other for several long seconds, before beginning to play the blades of the long knives together like percussion instruments. The chinging rhythm filled the still, night air and echoed away under the trees. Gradually, the edge of the forest became alive with elven creatures, large and small, and faeries of every sort. More of the King’s army sallied forth from the glens and glades carrying, pushing or dragging instruments behind them. Drums of various sizes, made of the hollowed trunks of trees seemed to be the most popular. Others carried pipes and whistles, some held stringed instruments of fanciful design. They set up a wide circle, surrounding Prado and Steppet, and soon, the music was loud, urgent and wonderfully beautiful.

A number of elves dressed in a very unusual color for the lively wood-elves, entered the circle. They were covered from head to toe in black fabric that seemed shredded, tattered and full of holes. The wind lifted the long wisps and gave these elves the ethereal appearance of mournful ghosts as they danced slowly around the two elves in the center of the clearing, swaying and bobbing in unison. Their tall black hats were also conical in shape with broad brims like the witches of classical tales. The distant rumble of thunder rolled across the meadow and shook the ground slightly as the elves worked up an immense dome of power over the assembly.

They had come to learn what had happened to their King.

They had searched high and low for him for days before deciding some evil purpose had taken him. Scouts sent to the Tuathans, the Northern Elves, the Southern Elves, the Eastern Elves and the Western Elves had returned with no word, empty handed. No one knew what had happened to Il Dolce Mio. His castle was already withering without his presence. The flowering vines were curling up and turning brown. The birds had abandoned the towers. A foray to the castle of Armand and his wife had provided nothing useful by way of information other than to affirm their suspicions that all was not well in the underworld. Armand had not been home, but his wife had told the scouts he had gone to the Abyss to look for some lost men.

The gruguach entered the circle, hobbling on her walking stick while carrying a large parcel covered in black cloth under one arm. Two bean sidhes drifted along behind her, carrying a small wooden table between them. The ancient healer waited until her unlikely assistants placed the table toward the northern point of the circle and then she placed the package on it, carefully unwrapping the ragged covers, exposing a leather and wooden-bound book that appeared to be every bit as old as the gruguach, herself.

Steppet and Prado began to turn in unison, very slowly in a clockwise direction in the center of the circle, while the grugruach made the invocations for each of the cardinal points. The music continued and the power grew. Blue electric sprites jumped back and forth between the points on the two metal caps they wore and the tips of the stilettos.

The gruguach’s voice was shrill, but loud and full of power as she finished the invocations of the four powers, and then faced the book. She held both arms up to the sky and the lightning danced between the clouds, while smaller reflections of the great bolts were mirrored between her hands.

“Great Wisdom!” She cried to the sky. “Mighty Powers of Old! Lend us Strength! Lend us Protection! See your children as they strive against the powers of Evil! See your children as they seek the Answers to their Questions! See your children as they beg for the return of the King!”

She lowered her arms and the music subsided in volume, but kept up the steady beat. With hands trembling from fear rather than age, she opened the dark cover of the book. She looked up again and spoke to the spirits of the Wind, spirits of the Thunder and spirits of the Rain.

“We open now the Great Book presented to us by the King, wherein lies the mysteries foretold by the Ancient Ones,” she turned the pages as she spoke. “O Spirit of Ancient Knowledge, the Ancient One, the Holy One, the All-Seeing, All-Knowing Writer of Ancient Knowledge. We invoke the memory of the Great Author. We seek the knowledge of the Necromancer. We revere the words of the Great Liber Loagaeth. With humility and loathing, with trembling and fear, with honor and privilege belonging to the Son of Adar, the Ancient One, Son of Anu, Son of An.”

The gruguach stepped back and took the stilettos from Steppet’s hands, never missing a beat. He would read the words. He, who had been taught by the King to read the words of the world of men, he, who was deemed strongest and bravest among all the elves of the Center, would read from the Book and invoke the power of the Lord Marduk, dark Lord of the Sixth Gate, Terrible and Mighty Conqueror of Tiamat, Queen of Chaos.

“Laku!” Steppet said as he placed both hands on his silver hat. A blue-white light flowed from the point into the sky over his head. “Tamnil whose word is Laktubanutaku, I call upon thee to appear here at our circle! We beseech thee, we invoke thee, we command thee, we…” His words were cut off as lightning bolts streaked into the circle and struck the top of his head. For a moment it seemed he would surely die, but then, the power was gone, and Steppet was left standing, still holding the sides of his ritual cap. The music had momentarily ceased and the faeries had threatened to run away screaming into the stormy night, but when they saw he was not dead, the music resumed on a muted level, and they held fast to their determination to go through with the dangerous ritual.

Steppet turned slowly and faced the gruguach. She stopped tapping out the rhythm with Prado and stood staring at the elf captain from terrified eyes. The power of Tamnil had come into the circle. This was not supposed to happen. If the circle was not powerful enough to keep out this lesser power of Marduk, they would be hard pressed to control the next one they planned to call up.

“Bridget!” He spoke her name and the faeries moaned and screamed in terror. None were allowed to speak the gruguach’s name. “What do you seek?”

The gruguach drew a deep breath and tried to calm her runaway heart.

“We seek our King, O Great Spirit of the Beyond,” she said with as much courage as she could muster.

“Is your King dead? Do you wish a miracle?” Steppet’s eyes glowed with the same greenish light as that of the lightning which had struck him.

“We do not know if he lives or is dead,” she answered.

“His name. How is he called?”

“He is King Il Dolce Mio, Monarch of the Center, Son of Adar, Son of Anu, Son of An.”

“Ahhhh, a great heritage has this little one.” Tamnil scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And his mother?”

“Samhuelwynne, Queen of the Center, daughter of Bocktuelwynne, daughter of Sanmuelwynne.”

“A noble lineage, indeed,” Tamnil nodded. “And you are his subjects?” He looked about the circle and beyond at the faces of those whom he could see in the combined lights of the five fires built outside the circle.

“We are his devoted servants, indeed, his subjects and his people.”

“He is not dead,” Tamnil told her almost casually. “I have not seen his soul pass through the Gates.

“For this information, we offer you all that we have.” She held out her hands. The faeries had brought everything they could carry, everything they deemed wealth. There were baskets full of bread, pots of butter and honey, flagons of wine, cauldrons filled with raw gold nuggets, sparkling gems and crystals of every imaginable color and shape. There were soft blankets of lamb’s wool spread out with necklaces made of shells from the sea, polished rocks, crystals, jewels, colored glass and feathers from brilliant plumes. The treasures of the kingdom were here for his perusal.

“I lack nothing of these things,” he told her after a moment. “It is the music of these wonderful creatures that pleases me most. I would stay a while and a bit to listen. That will be my payment.”

“Then so be it,” the gruguach said. “But we would have back our Steppet, for we must go on with our rituals, and he learned of the words. We must have our King back with us if he is not dead.”

“Then so be it,” Tamnil repeated her words, and then Steppet collapsed into the trampled grass. Prado rushed to help the captain to his feet. Tamnil had become nothing more than a green vaporous spirit weaving in and out amongst the elves gathered outside the circle. The vaporous mist settled near the feet of the pipers.

“Play!” The gruguach commanded and the music began again. “Play and keep playing! No matter what happens.”

Steppet regained his composure, adjusted his metal cap and drew himself up as large as elvenly possible, while the gruguach and Prado resumed playing the lively rhythm on the stilettos. The captain stepped in front of the book and steadied himself before summoning the next power.

“Alanna! Kulibadalukka!” he shouted the name and word of the power. This was a grave danger. Alanna was the most potent of all Marduk’s powers.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

“You are not being reasonable, sir,” Omar spoke up on his sister’s behalf. “She has done nothing but devote her life to the betterment of mankind by disassociation. Her only contact with men was forced by circumstance, and then by her choice to help rid them of a scourge from beyond. How can you convict her of these crimes, which were none of her doing?”

“She is your sister, your mate. The Ba to your Ka. You are only a part of the self.” Kinmalla frowned at the Prophet. “She is your wife and your anti-self.”