Chapter 33: I Am the Truth From Which You Run

Hello, all! If you’re hungry for more ADSR, buy the ebook here:

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And now, DEEP LORE!

***

Forty Years Ago

The Sovereign Hotel was a marble obelisk in Boston’s Back Bay, overlooking the harbor as yachts sailed out onto the water to engage in revelry. Costumed children, some chaperoned by parents, some not, darted about the streets, while others, older, all costumed themselves, flitted about between rounds of debauchery at bars and nightclubs. Jack O’Lanterns pierced the dark, while streetlamps flickered with the rhythm of electronic heartbeats. All that was Liminal seemed far closer than usual, seemed far more real than what Alistair would normally describe as reality. ‘The witching hour’, as they called it. For him, it was every hour of every day. But for a night, the rest of the world knew it as well.

The High Council of the Sovereignty met in the city of Boston on All Hallow’s Eve. Autumnal dusk had faded into the cold, wet darkness of night, as the legacy of Samhain flowed through all things.  It was a remarkably innocent thing, this holiday- a celebration of the macabre, the arcane, the uncanny. Part of Alistair wanted to feel rage at the mundane world for taking this day and making it a celebration of childhood innocence, of the idea that this was the sort of thing that only mattered, was only real to you, in your single digits. But at the same time he was grateful that they knew even a small sliver of his world. And parts of it even looked fun. Perhaps when he had children of his own…

When? He thought. When did I start thinking of that as a ‘when’ and not an ‘if?’ It makes sense, though. I have an obligation to my family, to keep our dynasty intact. Yes. When I have children. Perhaps they shall know this innocence and joy.

He was, for a moment, at peace.

The Sovereign Hotel was run by House Achebe, and was a permanent home to its leaders. It was twenty stories of spotless white marble. The first floor opened to a wide lobby of wooden floors and stone walls and leather couches and chairs, all arranged around a mahogany desk. Alistair, Aunt Elleanor, and Svetlanna, a tall and broad necromancer from Russia whom Alistair had attended school with, all entered. Alistair wore a white pressed button-down shirt under his black cloak, with the silver raven insignia on the back. His white hair had grown long and hung loosely about his shoulders. Elleanor wore a black dress that covered her shoulders and sleeved her arms and hung at the ankles, complimented by a white jacket marked by a black raven over her heart. And Svetlanna wore a red gown with a slit going up the left leg, a white fur stole over her shoulders, with her blonde hair braided into a crown-like updo that revealed her angular face. She’d finished healing from her surgery just in time for this event, and had said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

The receptionist, who was dressed as a sheet-ghost, waited behind the mahogany desk. Alistair showed a business card, and the receptionist pressed a button on the underside of the desk that caused the false wall behind her to swing inward and reveal the conference room. Alistair nodded appreciatively, and he and his entourage entered.

The conference room was a perfect circle, centered by a round table of ash wood. White marble floors, white ceiling, white walls, and a brown table at which gathered the most powerful mages on earth.

To Alistair’s left was Eiichiro Kishimoto, heir apparent to House Kishimoto, the School of Stellaromancy. He was a man of middling years, slick black hair gray at the temples, the lines on his face only just starting to grow prominent. He wore a crisp white suit, perfectly tailored, with a solid purple tie and black loafers and the family’s falcon crest embroidered on both his cuffs. He was flanked by his wife, Padma, a stately woman from Calcutta, clad in a green sari patterned with golden flowers, her long black hair worn in a braid hanging over her shoulder; his younger brother, Yoshiyuki, wore a more subdued black suit with a red tie, while his new bride, Yvonne Walker, a composed and confident woman with a long mane of natural hair, wore a blue gown so flattering it made Svetlanna’s look modest by comparison. They were based on the west coast, though nobody was sure of where specifically. They talked amongst themselves- Eiichiro seemed to be dressing down his younger brother while Padma stroked her husband’s arm and Yvonne glared daggers at her in-laws. Yoshiyuki seemed determined to grin and bear it, however. Their mother, High Princess Naoko Kishimoto, and their father, Prince-Consort Yoshihiro, were absent that evening, but the council had long since accepted that the sons of Kishimoto would sit in their parents’ stead. Elleanor had mentioned a third Kishimoto brother as well, a young man by the name of Shiro, but he was absent as well.

To Alistair’s right were the representatives from House Jimenez: High Princess Rosita Jimenez, a compact woman in her late eighties, wearing a modest blue dress and a green cloak adorned with her family’s eagle crest on the right shoulder. Her son, Andre, a thirty-eight year old man of nearly seven feet of height and two hundred pounds of muscle, sat beside her, alongside his petite wife Annalucia and their five daughters- Maya, Flora, Margherita, Luz, and Sofia, all dressed to the nines and on their best behavior; on the other side of the high princess was her daughter Catalina, a dark-skinned woman wearing a black dress that offered ample view of her well-aged body, and her husband Hans Jimenez, formerly Hans Wagner. He was in his late seventies, while his wife was in her early forties. He had on military uniform from the first world war, as if to flaunt the fact that he was in the same shape now as he’d been during the second reich. Their children, Hans II, Johann, Delilah, Maria, and Miguel, sat in quiet accompaniment.

Meanwhile, together on the opposite side of Alistair were the leaders of Houses Koenig and Achebe. High Princess Priscilla Koenig was nearing fifty. Her gray-threaded brown hair was cropped in a severe pixie cut, parted steeply to the right. She wore a simple seafoam green dress with an ocean blue cape, which Alistair assumed would have the mark of the Koenig family owl. Her husband Phillip had passed away earlier that year, a victim of his own alcoholism. Such weakness from a Sovereignty prince- how pathetic, even if he was just a consort. Perhaps Priscilla was relieved now to be free of a burden such as him. At her sides were her two children: the younger, Caroline, and the elder, Lamont. Lamont was a pale creature- pale skin, pale hair, pale clothes- Alistair had never seen someone so committed to the color beige. Alistair looked down at his arm and confirmed that yes, even he himself had more of a tan than this Koenig princeling.

Caroline, though… Caroline was a vision. Wavy chestnut hair flowing to mid-back, big, dark blue eyes framing an oval face, a willowy body in a burgundy wrap-dress, cleavage…

… My God. The cleavage.

“Eyes up,” Elleanor said, swatting him on the arm.

“Hm?”

“You’re being a bit obvious, my boy.”

“... Right!”

Svetlanna snickered.

Alistair focused his attention elsewhere, reluctantly taking himself away from the sweet smile on Caroline Koenig’s face. She was the same age as he was, by the look of it. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman in all his life. And she seemed to be looking at him with some appreciation as well.

But instead he made himself look at their host for the evening’s festivities: Marcus Achebe. Built like an oak tree, tall and solid and lean, nobody knew much about the Achebe prince. It was known that he was from Nigeria, but not wherein or from which tribe he claimed ancestry. It was not known when he was born or when he’d left his homeland, only that he’d arrived in America some time in the late 1800s. He did not resemble a man over a hundred years old. He looked like a man in his mid-thirties at most. His long hair, worn in dreadlocks, had not a spot of gray, nor did his full beard. His teeth were white with a gap between the front two, and he wore a solid orange robe and carried a cane with a red stone on the pommel. The Prince of Alchemy wanted everyone to know what had built his House.

He stood alone.

Alistair, Elleanor, and Svetlanna sat at the three available seats at the table. Alistair pressed his hands flat on the surface, trying to ground himself before his nerves started showing. Achebe stood up straight and tall, and said, “Welcome, all, to our summit. I’m more than happy to recognize the representatives of our Five Houses, many of them familiar faces. And some of them, new. Please, young man, why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself to everyone? And explain why you requested this summit in the first place?”

Alistair gulped. He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected them to barely acknowledge his presence, dismiss him as some child mistakenly allowed at the growns-up table without his parents. Still, he stood up, and felt every pair of eyes in the room on him at once.

No pressure. None whatsoever.

“My name is Alistair Aurelisu Albrecht,” he said, “And I have journeyed across this continent to meet with you all. And on my journey, I found something that shook me to the core: magic is dying. This is known, and has been known for some time. And we all act like this is a simple fact, irrefutable and indisputable. I know I am not the first person to come before this council with this observation, but it is the truth. Fewer and fewer of us are born to each generation, and fewer and fewer still come to us willingly. So we take them, before they can know to object, as is our right, as is our duty, as is their privilege. We gain soldiers in the dozens each year, when once it was hundreds. Soldiers against Entropy. But what if I told you that Entropy was the key to our salvation? To magic’s salvation?”

Silence.

But after a nod from Priscilla, Achebe said, “You have the floor. Continue, young man.”

Alistair smiled, confidence rippling through him. Elleanor clasped her hands and breathed relief, while Svetlanna looked at him in that odd way she sometimes did. It seemed to be a good look though. An approving one.

“As many of you know, my family was massacred by the ghouls,” Alistair continued, readying the embellishments Elleanor had helped him prepare. “The King of the Ghouls himself, Saul Emory, thought long dead by the Damocles Guild’s hands, feasted upon my father’s heart, ripped the flesh from my mother’s bones for base sustenance. My sisters… Nothing remained of them. I wasn’t even sure if they were dead, until I met Saul Emory in the Canadian Rockies, and he revealed he’d fashioned their bones into corsets for his wives. I was a child then. Some of you no doubt think I still am. But my innocence was taken from me long ago. My family’s honor was tarnished when the most powerful necromancers on earth were devoured by monsters, and peace was obliterated when the creature the Guild claimed to have killed rose from the shadowy depths and drew blood. Enemies surround us on all sides, and the Prophecy of the Chosen One who will save magic is now a mere pipe dream. But there is another way: certain ghouls, who were once human, who were once necromancers, possess access to a rare type of magic. Entropy. With this power, all things can decay. Including the walls between worlds, just enough to thin the barrier between our realm and the Pale and the Elvenlands. My proposal is simple: we capture Saul Emory, and we bring him to heel. We force him to do our bidding, and through the careful application of Entropy, the barrier can be weakened and magic can flow unencumbered into our world, and the honor of two of the greatest mages to ever live and two irreplaceable princesses alike can be salvaged. And so I ask: WHAT SAY YOU?!”
He hadn’t meant to shout that last part- it just kind of slipped out. Hopefully he hadn’t gotten too carried away.

The first person to clap was Eiichiro Kishimoto, slowly at first but quickly picking up steam. His wife, brother, and sister-in-law joined in almost immediately. Lamont Koenig added his applause soon as well, and to Alistair’s delight, Caroline soon did the same. Their mother followed suit, though not without a slight scowl, and after that even Achebe joined in.

The only exceptions were the myriad representatives of House Jimenez, all stoic and stark in the face of ecstasy.

Dammit.

When the applause finally petered out, Rosita Jimenez stood up, with Andre and Hans standing behind her with their arms folded behind their backs.

“The council recognizes the representatives of House Jimenez,” Achebe said, gesturing to them with his cane.

“Young man,” she said, looking Alistair dead in the eyes, “How much do you know of the Prophecy? Do you know its full name?”

“The Final Prophecy of the Elf-King’s Daughters,” Alistair said automatically.

“And what word in that sentence sticks out to you the most?”

Alistair noted the sneer on Svetlanna’s face, but gestured to her with his hand- her expression went neutral. “Elf,” he said simply and matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Precisely. Elf. Elvenlands.” Her accent was an odd mix of Argentine from her father and Irish from her mother. “And what do you know of the elves?”

“I know that they live in a world all their own, under the banner of a single leader,” Alistair said. And I envy them that. “I know that they are immortal, barring a death at each other’s hands, or using one of the three known methods: Midnight Iron, Star-Flame, and Entropy. We have access to two of these-”

“One,” Rosita said. “You would not be able to control the King of the Ghouls for very long. You think we have not tried to parley with him, to subjugate him, to manipulate him? He will not be taken so easily, and even if we torture him to the point of madness that will simply cause his inevitable rebellion against us to be exponentially more ferocious. There is only way for this plan to work, and that is if you do it yourself, as the King of the Ghouls, and I don’t see you volunteering for that any time soon.”

Alistair bristled. “You underestimate my abilities- my family is unparalleled in the persuasive arts-”

“Torture,” Hans cut him off.

“Moreover,” Rosita continued, “Even if that part of your plan worked, and you were able to successfully capture the King of the Ghouls and torture him into submission, your plan is still a risk because of the elves. Do you know what they did the last time they were on earth?”

“I-”

She didn’t let him finish. “The Deicide.”

“I don’t need a history lesson-”

“YOU WILL LISTEN WHILE SHE SPEAKS, BOY!” Andre bellowed. And in the face of the seven foot tall behemoth, Alistair flinched. A memory of his father seized his mind, and his face became that of a frightened child.

Shame permeated him as Rosita continued. “The Norse, Greek, Celtic, Igbo, Guarani, and Japanese pantheons all fell. It took Odin’s second sacrifice to seal the Elf-King and his forces back into their world, and by then almost everyone else was dead. These were gods. And while we may be above the rest of humanity, we are still fundamentally human. If the gods themselves could not face the elves and emerge with a true victory, then what hope have we?”

Alistair offered no response. He could not think of any. All he could do was try not to twitch.

Rosita continued, “And even if you were to succeed in leashing Emory, it would not stop there. The release of Entropy necessary to do what you’re describing would not go unnoticed: cities would fall, scores of lives reduced to ash. People would take notice. Governments would take notice. And eventually they would learn the truth, and it would be all out war. Mage versus mundane, on a scale not seen since the Trojan War.”

“If it’s a war they want, then that’s what they’ll get,” Alistair said, hands shaking in fury. “They’ve done a masterful job ruining the world without our interference- environmental degredation, famine, plague, genocide, tyranny. Why not take it from them?! Save magic and save the world.”

“You go too far. If you try to weaken the barrier before the time of the Chosen One,” Rosita said, “You will damn us all.”

“And what if magic dies before the Chosen One and the Dark Lord can meet?” Alistair said, hoping he sounded defiant rather than petulant.

“If that is what nature wills, then so it shall be. We will have to accept it.”

She should not have said that, shouldn’t have told a room full of mages that they had to accept the world as it was. Instantly, the room turned against her. All eyes went narrow, and the atmosphere turned toxic. “Perhaps,” Eiichiro Kishimoto said, “We should consider at least planning how we would carry out the boy’s plan, on a practical level? I understand the risks, but-”

“ENOUGH! MY MOTHER HAS SPOKEN!” Andre said. Andre’s wife winced as soon as he said it. Alistair smirked- this would help turn the tide. House Jimenez had always considered itself somewhat above the rest of the Sovereignty, or so his father had told him, and so Elleanor had told him.

“Magic cannot be allowed to die,” Priscilla said.

All eyes turned to her now. This was good- Priscilla had a lot of pull. It was Houses Koenig and Achebe who had the most numbers and the most material wealth and the most influence in the mundane world. If Alistair could win the Koenig’s to his side, he would have a much stronger base to work with.

Priscilla stood up, though her children remained seated. “We lost track of the Chosen One, when we knew where he was. Eiichiro Kishimoto killed the Chosen One’s parents in vengeance for hiding him from us, for hiding the mother’s magic from us all her life.”

Eiichiro wore the sheepish expression of a man coming home to a messy house after a long night of drinking. Everyone else glared at him.

Priscilla continued, “The Chosen One likely hates us now, and will refuse any offer to work with us. But even that proves a non-issue when we don’t know his current whereabouts or what he’s doing. And if he runs away from his Destiny his entire life, then magic may die before he can fight the Dark Lord- whom we still have no idea of the identity of, who may have already lived and died for all we know. Only the Chosen One can save magic and keep the elves at bay… Well, I ask you a simple question in response: while magic dies, WHERE IS THE CHOSEN ONE?!”

As she spoke, a rippling appeared in the air, gold and silver with blue lightning threaded throughout. It cackled and screeched, and electrum dust sprayed about. A man wielding two claymores emerged directly in front of Eiichiro Kishimoto and cut off his head. The body fell forward and collided with the table, the head toppling onto the surface and blood gushing from the open neck.

The swordsman was a young African American man, perhaps five or six years older than Alistair. He carried black blades of Midnight Iron, and above him floated a bright blue Destiny Star, befitting one whose role and whose actions determined the fate of two worlds.

The Chosen One had drawn blood from the Kishimoto’s.

And for a moment, all anyone could do was sit there and gasp.

But not Alistair. He summoned his own Star, and he cried, “BLUT SCHAERT!” as he lunged at the Chosen One.

From out of Eiichiro Kishimoto’s body flowed his blood, and it congealed and coagulated into twin swords in Alistair’s hands. With the red light of his Star flowing into them, they were as strong as any conventional blade.

He and the Chosen One fought, man to man, in the conference room, a furious melee of four swords between two warriors. Alistair knew he couldn’t kill this man- they still needed him- but he’d taken one of theirs now and would have to pay. How dare this man think he could get away with something like this?! Who did he think he was?! The Chosen One existed to serve the Sovereignty, as was the sworn duty of all mages, no matter how base their birth. He and his family had defied this, and thought they could hide. And he had the gall to retaliate like this?!

They pushed further and further towards the doors, but the Chosen One swung his shorter sword and carved a swirling portal and dove into it. Alistair nearly lunged in after him, but was moments too late. The portal closed, and Alistair’s blood-blades shattered on contact with the marble walls.

His fists collided with the walls as well, as he screamed in frustration.

The room was silent as Alistair turned around to face it. Everyone was staring, some in awe, some in shock, some in horror, some in rage.

“Well,” Achebe said, gripping his cane tight as he stood up, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. “I believe we’ve found him.”