The Wayward Godking Read online

  “What? Then where did he go?” Nergal was surprised by this information. “Have you seen him?”

  “No. I have not seen him, yet. He is visiting with some of his old acquaintances. If you want to go and look for Marduk, then go ahead, but don’t stay over long.”

  Nergal kissed her hand again and then left her to her list. He did not really need her permission, but he did want to keep in her good graces. He would need her before everything was settled.

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  “Lucio?” Catharine helped him up from the floor. “You fell out of bed… again.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he stood up and helped her untangle the sheet from around his waist.

  “What were you dreaming?” She asked as she fluffed the sheet back on the bed.

  “I saw Mark Andrew. We were on the beach.”

  “A holiday?” She asked.

  “Not exactly.” He pressed one hand to his side. He’d never fought that fight. Never received the wound in his side. Never been a Knight in the Holy Lands at the time of the Crusades. He had been a boy of fourteen or fifteen when Jerusalem had fallen.

  “Well, come back to bed,” she said and pushed him down on the mattress. “You can tell me about it in the morning.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. The dream had seemed so real. So very real. If only he could go back to the Holy Lands with Mark and the others. Things had been simple then. Much more cut and dried, black and white, right and wrong.

  “Santa Maria,” he said and then jumped when someone knocked on their door.

  “I’ll get it,” Catharine sighed. “I wonder what’s happened now.”

  She opened the door and then stepped back without speaking.

  “Che cosa?” Lucio asked, when no one entered the room, and Catharine said nothing. He stood up again and approached the open door cautiously.

  “Brother?” The familiar voice made his heart skip a beat.

  “Santa Maria!”

  The Knight of the Golden Eagle practically leaped through the door, catching Mark Andrew in a tremendous hug, spinning him around on the porch before he could make another sound.

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  “Meredith?” Lucio knocked on the door of Meredith’s rooms across the courtyard from his own. “Meredith! Come out and see who is here!” He smiled at Mark and nodded his head vigorously. He’d brought Mark Andrew to Meredith’s rooms, chattering unceasingly on the way across the courtyard about their predicament, asking questions, but not waiting for answers. He was overtly happy to see the Chevalier du Morte, and, in fact, so much so, he’d not even taken the time to tell Catharine where he was going. He’d not sent word to the Master or anyone else of the Knight’s arrival, nor had he allowed Mark to say a word since the first enthusiastic greeting. The sun was not yet up and wisps of fog drifted through the Villa under the moonlight.

  “She’s probably asleep,” Mark said dryly and Lucio’s smile faded. “She does sleep, doesn’t she?”

  Lucio opened the door of Merry’s apartment and stepped inside. The radio was on and a soft female voice sang a haunting love song in Italian. A pitcher of tepid lemonade sat next to the radio and a glass was shattered on the floor in front of her rocking chair. Lucio picked up a piece of the glass and frowned around at the dim living quarters. The very same apartment she had shared with Mark when he had first become Grand Master of the Order so long ago. Nothing had changed here in ages.

  Mark stepped inside cautiously, and then caught sight of the broken glass and watered down lemonade. The ice had melted, leaving a clear layer above the yellow liquid.

  “Meredith!” He took up the cry and burst into the one bedroom. The bed was made, everything was in order. A blue house robe and a white night gown were thrown carelessly across the bed. The tub was overflowing in the bathroom and running down the drain in the middle of the tiled floor. The antique tub he had installed for her, especially, ages ago sparkled with clear water full of ripples. The scent of vanilla struck him in the face, and he almost screamed when Lucio touched his arm.

  “She’s gone, Brother,” Lucio told him quietly. “She was here yesterday evening. I had a long talk with her. She was here with the others when we arrived, but they have been disappearing, one by one.”

  “How did I get here?” Mark looked around the room in confusion and then took hold of Lucio’s wrist. “Are you real or some specter produced by Huber?!” He asked roughly and shoved the Italian away from him. “Come on out here, My Queen!” He turned about in the middle of the room again while Lucio watched in fascination. “Show yourself! I will not play these games with you!”

  “Brother!” Lucio edged his way toward the door. “Whatever is happening, perhaps it would be best if you discussed it with Simon or the Master. Barry is here and so is Lavon.”

  Mark looked at him as if he did not see him, and then stormed past him onto the porch. He crossed the courtyard again, skirting the grotto of the Holy Virgin, heading directly for the Master’s quarters.

  Lucio ran after him, shouting for him to stop, but he did not look back. Lights began to come on up and down the long porch connecting the bachelor quarters and faces appeared in the windows. Catharine ran toward him in her nightgown.

  Mark did not bother to knock on d’Brouchart’s door, but burst into his quarters and then into his bedroom before stopping.

  “Edgard!” He stood at the foot of the bed. A swath of moonlight fell across the quilt.

  “Mark?” A woman’s voice answered him. “Mark Ramsay, is that you?”

  “Aye!” he said and then stepped back when Edgard sprang from the bed, wielding his broadsword, already drawn and ready for battle, dressed only in his alarm.

  “What is the meaning of this, du Morte?” The Master asked, but Mark’s attention was riveted on the beautiful woman, who sat looking at him wide-eyed in the moonlight, clutching a woolen blanket in front of her.

  “Galindwynne?” Mark whispered the Morrigan’s more familiar name.

  “You’re looking lovely tonight, Sir Ramsay,” she said and winked at him.

  A rare, genuine smile lit up the Knight of Death’s face.

  “Madame,” he said and bowed to her, pressing his right hand to his heart. “I am honored. I should have knocked. I am sorry I have disturbed your rest.”

  Edgard pulled on a pair of trousers while Mark and Galindwynne exchanged pleasantries as if he was not present. He grabbed a shirt, took Mark by the arm and dragged him roughly from the room, closing the door behind them. Lucio, Barry and Simon waited for them in the sitting room and several more of the villa’s inhabitants were milling about outside.

  Edgard laid his sword on his desk, pulled on the shirt and turned to glare at them while he fumbled with the buttons.

  “When did you arrive?” He asked without preamble.

  “He only just got here,” Lucio answered for Mark.

  “I am talking to him, Golden Eagle,” d’Brouchart snapped at the Italian. “What are you up to now, Ramsay? Why are you keeping us here? Where are the others? Where is Oriel and Levi James?”

  “I haven’t seen them,” Mark answered him and looked down at himself. He wore only his black cargo pants and they appeared to be wet. He ran his hands down his stomach and looked at the water he collected on them. His hair was wet as well and he could feel water running down his back and his face. He’d been in a great deal of trouble. He remembered that much. And apparently it had been hot as hell. He was still perspiring, but the room felt chilly to him. He frowned and looked around quickly, unable to believe his eyes, wondering if it was another illusion. Another illusion?

  “Brother.” Simon touched his arm, and then jumped as if he’d been shocked by the contact. He shook his hand and frowned at his fingers. “Where have you been?” Simon asked. “Do you remember?”

  “I was at home in Lothian,” Mark frowned down at the healer. “It was hot. Too hot. I was… there wa
s something I had to do. There was someone there. I need to get back there!”

  “You’ll not be going anywhere, and especially not until you tell us what is going on,” Edgard said and sat down in the chair behind the desk.

  Barry pushed the screen door open and spoke in a low voice to someone outside.

  “Send for Meredith,” Edgard called to his Seneschal. “Tell her to come here.”

  “She’s gone, Your Grace,” Lucio intervened again. “We were just at her apartment. She’s not there.”

  “So he’s just arrived, has he?” Edgard slammed one fist on the desk and the sword sang in response.

  “Sir,” Simon stepped in front of Mark “send for some ice and some lemonade. He does not look well to me. He may be in need of food and drink or, at least, rest.”

  “I need to get home,” Mark told them again. “Huber! I need to get home. She is in my house.”

  “Huber is in Lothian?” Edgard frowned at him.

  “No.” Mark shook his head and pressed his hands against his ears. “She is in the Abyss.”

  “Sit down, du Morte, before you collapse,” Edgard said and waved one hand at the chair in front of his desk. It was as if they had never left this place. Everything was as he remembered from the years before Vesuvius had erupted… before he had caused the volcano to erupt. “Sit down, all of you.”

  He waited while Barry sent for food and drink and they took seats around the room. Galindwynne came from the bedroom and sat on a footstool near the door, intent upon hearing all about it.

  “Now, you say you need to get home to Lothian, but you say Huber is in the Abyss,” the Master began again after a rather protracted, whispered conversation with his son.

  “I was in the Abyss,” Mark told him. “I was in the Abyss negotiating with Huber, and then I was here. It is imperative I get back to the Abyss and finish the business. She is bent upon returning here and destroying everything.”

  “I believe we’ve all heard of her plan before, sir. But what exactly were you negotiating with the beast and where exactly is here?” Edgard raised both eyebrows and then raised his glass to Izzy as he brought iced tea for them.

  Mark looked around the room slowly. He was still unconvinced he was no longer in the Seventh Gate. He could feel no power in his veins or in his mind. It was as if he had become hollow.

  “Could I get a shirt please?” He glanced at Lucio and the Italian nodded.

  He called Vanni’s name and took his shirt when he reached the porch. A rugby shirt with blue and yellow stripes. Mark sighed audibly before slipping it over his head. “Have you tried every means to leave this place? Have you contacted or tried to contact Rome?”

  “We are cut off here,” Lavon answered. “All lines into the city are busy, Sir, all circuits are busy, please try your call again later,” he mimicked the only voice to be had on the telephone lines and cell phones.

  “That’s ludicrous.” Mark’s frown deepened. “Then we are not in Italy at all.”

  “That much is certain,” Barry agreed.

  “The only place such things are possible is in the Abyss,” Mark told them. “I have constructed such… replicas myself. Reality is quite plastic there. One only need know how to manipulate it.”

  “I am aware of that, du Morte.” Edgard leaned his elbows on the desk. “Do not forget who I am.”

  “I will never forget who you are, Nebo, but I will warn you to remember the reverse is true. I am not one of your grandchildren. You will respect me to my face, or I will leave this place and take whoever is willing with me.”

  “Feel free to try,” Edgard replied with some measure of disgust and leaned back again, but seemed to relax a bit. “We should call a truce, you and I, Lord Adar. I will tell you honestly I had already decided you were at the bottom of all this. Now I only wish it were so. If not you, then who? Huber?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mark shook his head.

  “Is she spawning again?”

  Mark sat staring at him for too long before answering.

  “So, you were negotiating with her.” The Master nodded his head slowly. “Where is the rest of your clan, Sir Ramsay? If you were in the Abyss, and we are still in the Abyss, can’t you tell us something of what is happening? What is Huber up to? You say she wishes to destroy the world. That was her plan all along. How can you negotiate with a monster? What could you offer such a one as that? Can you tell us what the purpose of this charade might be? Do you have any notion of what Lucifer was trying to say before we lost contact with him?”

  Mark sat silently staring at Edgard for several long seconds before answering. “Do you pretend to know the depths and heights of the world, Edgard? Do you think I know everything? I may be a Son of Light, but I am not the Light. If you want messages of Light, then you would do well to seek out the Lightbringer yourself. I can tell you this much. Huber has produced an army of what she calls her children and she was about to feed me to them. I don’t know how or why I came to be here, but I would hazard a guess that someone far greater than I had better ideas than the queen mother. I have a few people working on it, but I’m not sure what happened.”

  “Who do you have ‘working on it’, du Morte?”

  “Abaddon and Marduk.”

  “Ahhhh. What a pair. Now they are working on our side? Surely we are doomed. What of this child Lucifer spoke of?”

  “I know nothing of what Lucifer is doing, Sir. The only child I have seen is my grandson, who was born in the Abyss to Sophia and Mark.”

  “Father,” Simon addressed his father again on a more personal level, speaking to him in French. “This can wait. Brother Ramsay is in distress, and he needs spiritual counseling. That is my job. Please allow me to do what I can for him before we continue. If you and the others would excuse us...”

  Edgard started to speak, but stopped when he caught sight of Galindwynne near the door.

  “It is rather early.” The Master yawned and then drank another gulp of the cold tea. “Perhaps it would be best to reconvene in the council chamber after breakfast. Would eight o’clock be too early?”

  “Not at all,” Simon answered for everyone and smiled as stood up. He turned to Mark Andrew and waited. The Knight of Death stood slowly and looked around the room once more. Lucio stood as well, but Simon shook his head. The Healer escorted Mark from the room and down the porch as quickly as possible. His sons and the rest of the people on the walk fell back and allowed them to pass.

  “Where are we going?” Mark asked as they neared the swimming pool.

  “The chapel.”

  “Good. I need to confess.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You have to listen.”

  “I can listen without confession. I don’t take confessions anymore. They are too destructive. My son will hear your confession, if you like.”

  “Then why are we going to the chapel?”

  “I believe I may know what is happening here, and the chapel is deserted at this time of day.”

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  “Omar!!” Dunya screamed her brother’s name into the howling wind at the edge of the parapet. The prophet was walking along the very edge of the ornate cap of one of the palace onion domes. The wind whipped about him, blowing his robes back against the cliffs as he pulled off his clothes, one piece at a time, in the pouring rain. “Omar! Come down!” She pleaded, but he paid no attention to her. She grasped hold of the iron railings and began to climb up to him.

  The Prophet looked out across the stormy sea. The waves crashed on the rocks at the base of the cliff and jagged lightning streaked from cloud to greenish cloud in the gale. The rain slashed at Dunya’s gown as she struggled up the railing and then climbed the iron trellis leading to the roof. She was soaked to her skin by the time she reached him.

  She wrapped her arms around him as best she could and tried to make him stop stripping off his clothes. They tottered on the edge of the roof while she pleaded repea
tedly with him to listen to reason.

  She had agreed to accompany him to the parapet overlooking the sea in order to help him with the magick he wished to perform. He had been doing well since the exorcism; she had thought everything was all right. Her father had forbade him from practicing his magick, but Dunya understood his anguish somewhat and was very worried about him, but he seemed stricken all over again at the loss of Nicole and Ruth all over again as his memories returned. Not even the presence of his son, Bari, could comfort him. She had carried him his supper in his room and stayed to talk with him, whereupon he had begged her to help him escape from the watchful eyes of his father’s household. Dunya had been unable to refuse her brother’s pleas, and soon afterwards, they had come out of the palace onto the upper rooftop. There he had drawn his magick circle with colored chalk she had provided for him, and there he had conjured several spirits, but learned nothing. The Prophet’s efforts were no more effective than any of the various powers residing in the Djinni’s palace. They were all magickally impotent. Nothing they tried worked. Even Semiramis was trapped here, and she was, by far, more powerful than Adalune. John Paul was still with them as well, which meant even he could do no more than the rest of them.

  Now she was regretting her decision to help him, and no one even knew they were up here in this storm. In fact, this storm was a product of her brother’s attempted magick.

  “Omar! Come inside,” she said, holding onto him desperately, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her body against his back for balance. The wind threatened to blow her diminutive form completely off the dome.

  “I know where she is, Dunya!” He turned around in her arms and wrapped his arms around her. “She is in the Seventh Gate!”

  “How do you know? The spirits told us nothing.” She looked up into his face as the rain almost blinded them both.

  “They told me more than you think, sister. I want you to go back down to the palace. Tell my father I am going to the Seventh Gate. I have to finish the job.”