Archanum Manor Page 22

  “And you intended to enlist our help,” Sir Archanum said flatly.

  “Well…yes.” Nicholae didn’t sound so confident anymore.

  “We know what Kafka has done. He wouldn’t have been able to keep it from us. We are above what is happening, but not oblivious. We know your family is feuding. You are fighting amongst yourselves for power. That is expected at your age. You are still young—still building, and thus fighting for control of your empire. One day you will realize that you’re fighting for something that doesn’t matter and will let it go. We were on the verge of this profound realization while mentoring Kafka in the early days, while we still resided in Er, before creating Purgatorie and The Garden. If he wants to destroy what we’ve left behind, then so be it. That is his current path. It has no relevance to ours.”

  “You seriously don’t care that he’s destroying what you’ve built and killed your guardians?” Erik asked.

  Both Archanums laughed.

  “Our guardians may have been relieved of their posts, but they were not slain or even harmed, we can assure you,” Sir Archanum said. “Kafka told us his plan. We did not stop him, but we did not aid him, either. If he wanted to continue down his path, he needed to find his own way and face the obstacles alone. And he did. We commend him on his effort and success.”

  “His success?” Nicholae asked, astonished by what he was hearing.

  “He succeeded in what he set out to do. How else would you describe it?”

  “He destroyed an entire world!”

  “Which will provide him his first experience in rebuilding one, and perhaps one day, creating one of his own. It is his path. Nothing is lost, just transferred. When you create, you transfer what has once been destroyed to develop something new.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Nicholae yelled. “How can you be serious? How can you sit back and allow him to destroy what you created?”

  “Detachment,” Sir Archanum said. “I can see you’re upset. You and Kafka are not so different—at slightly different positions on the same path. Directing your anger at us will not get you what you want. Directing your anger at Kafka has not gotten you what you want so far. What do you want? Do you want justice? To be freed from guilt? To lead? To become your own master? To find peace? To become an apprentice? What do you want?”

  “To stop Kafka,” Nicholae said with a sigh.

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “You gave him a dagger—a dagger he’s using to kill us off and preventing us from being reborn with our prior memories, preventing us from coming back as ourselves.”

  “Oh you come back as yourself, you just don’t remember. It provides a clean slate. Maybe that’s what you need. Did you ever think of that? You’re fighting so hard to continue the lives you’ve created, but maybe what you need is a fresh start.”

  “I don’t want a fresh start. I want my life with my family.”

  “You’re afraid of loss. You’re holding on to what you’ve built.” Sir Archanum smiled. “Let it go.”

  “What about all this?” Nicholae asked, sweeping his hand across his body to signify the whole room. “You sure want to hold onto this place. It’s hidden, guarded, grandiose—”

  “It’s nothing,” Sir Archanum said, mimicking Nicholae’s sweeping motion. “All of it, unimportant. We’ve lived in a cave and in the tallest skyscraper, in a cabin and under the stars, in captivity and within a dream. Reality is what you make of it, and all of this stuff becomes meaningless when you come to know existence. We are masters of our universe, but our universe is very small within pure existence—something you’ll come to know one day if you continue down the path.”

  The walls of the palace, the pillars and chandeliers, dissolved in a shower of silver sparks. The floor from where we stood became nothing more than a platform on the mountaintop. The entire mansion was gone but the ground floor.

  I looked back at the garden, which remained as picturesque as ever. The open space past the dais revealed an ongoing mountain range. The sun was fully overhead now and shining inexorably down on us.

  “See? Nothing,” Sir Archanum said.

  “You’re right. That proves nothing,” Nicholae responded. “You can return it just as easily. I can return it just as easily.”

  “Or we can create something completely new. No limits. No attachments. That’s the difference. That’s what you lack. You want more. We…don’t…want.”

  “Then create something new. Astound us with your limitless capabilities.”

  Sir Archanum shrugged.

  Then the end of his chain fell from the hand of the statue. Sir Archanum stood up and proceeded down the short staircase. His chain clanged and dragged across the tile floor like a long, heavy ponytail.

  “Try to kill me,” Sir Archanum said, stalking toward our group. He held his arms out, palms up, in a gesture of peace.

  “What? No,” Nicholae said.

  “I’m not asking. I insist.” Sir Archanum drew closer. “If you do not, I will rip off your boy’s head and throw it off the mountain. NOW ENGAGE!”

  Nicholae reached back and unsheathed his sword.

  “Don’t do it,” I said and took a few steps back.

  Erik and Cassandra did the same.

  Sir Archanum stopped three feet away from Nicholae, who had his sword gripped with both hands, held up and ready.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” he asked. “You should be able to end all of us with the snap of your fingers.”

  “I can. And this is no trick. This is what you asked for—to be astounded. Now strike.”

  Nicholae glanced back at us, obviously unsure of his next move.

  I yelled for help as an unseen force began pulling me toward Sir Archanum. I couldn’t do anything to stop it as I was dragged away from Erik and Cassandra, who had each grabbed an arm, but to no avail. I was easily yanked free from their grips.

  Nicholae saw me sliding toward Sir Archanum and swung the sword with a powerful grunt. The blade sliced through Sir Archanum’s neck and cleanly severed his head from his body with a great splatter of blood and a violent collapse. The metal collar slipped off the open neck and skidded across the floor.

  The invisible force released me and I fell forward, first cracking my knees on the tile floor, then toppling onto my hands.

  Blood gushed from the headless body and flowed toward me like a flood, causing me to scramble backward.

  Madame Archanum didn’t make a sound. In fact she looked oddly pleased.

  “Is this what you wanted?” Nicholae shouted, his face and clothes speckled with blood. He kept his sword up, ready—anticipating an attack. “Is this what you wanted!?”

  “You did just fine,” she said, soft and calm.

  Erik, Cassandra, and I were all looking at each other, unsure of how to respond.

  Nicholae didn’t back away when the spreading pool reached his boot.

  Madame Archanum’s chain dropped from the hand of her statue. She rose and approached the drained body. She had no reservations with getting blood on her white robe or bare feet when she squatted beside the body. She grabbed the detached head by the hair with one hand and the empty collar with the other. She slipped the collar back onto the empty neck and touched the two severed ends together. Without any elaborate mystical presentation, the clean cut line separating head from body vanished and Sir Archanum’s dead eyes blinked and refocused on Nicholae.

  “Where were we?” Sir Archanum said, pushing up to his knees, and then climbing to his feet like someone who’d just awoken from a nap.

  Madame Archanum rose and backed up to give him space, her sticky footprints marking each step.

  “That’s impossible,” Nicholae said.

  “Nothing’s impossible within pure existence,” Sir Archanum said. “Are you astounded yet?”

  Everyone was silently dumbfounded.

  “Because of Kafka, we’ll give you one more special privilege,” Madame Archanum said, strolling up to stand beside he
r male counterpart. “Nicholae Lorne, we insist you do the honors.”

  Nicholae still hadn’t dropped his sword. “Now what?”

  “Strike us both down.”

  “Fine.” Nicholae didn’t hesitate this time and lopped off both heads in a single blow.

  Sir Archanum’s body spilled as much blood as it had the first time. The three pools intermingled and became one large pond that the two fallen bodies appeared to be floating in. Madame Archanum’s head tumbled past the pond and settled right by my feet.

  It was a little too close for comfort. The dismembering of Scorched Ones didn’t seem as real as the two beheaded Archanums before us. This couple was not just shot or stabbed—I had started to become desensitized to those types of deaths. But my repeatedly tested constitution was not prepared for the severed head lying at my feet. I brought a fist to my mouth and choked the rising bile back down, which burned from my throat down to my stomach. My eyes stung and watered. I had to look away.

  “So this is what we came here for?” Nicholae turned to face the rest of us. “How do we even get home?”

  “I don’t know,” Erik said, exasperated.

  “Why did they want me to kill them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell happened?!”

  “I don’t know,” was all Erik could say.

  Then the rest of the palace reappeared, just as it had been, and something moved—not the dead bodies on the floor, but something on the dais. On the throne. The male statue opened its eyes and gazed down on us.

  “Nicholae?” I stammered, and when I couldn’t manage any further verbal communication, childishly pointed.

  The female statue’s eyes were also open by the time Nicholae had swung around due to my panicked expression.

  My color had drained from the nausea, but now it had to be as white as the moving statues.

  The male statue moved both hands, gripped the armrests of the golden throne, and rose to his feet. His flowing clothes moved with him, now as fluid as he was. He must have stood ten feet tall, which was even more impressive positioned at the top of the dais.

  “I am Bryten Archanum and this is my better half, Walda Archanum,” he said in a thunderous voice. “You have sought me out and I am here.” Heavy steps sounded throughout the hall as he descended the stairs. “I showed your patriarch how to slay his daediem, how to seamlessly transition through lifetimes, and how to travel between the planes that I had created.”

  Bryten started with Madame Archanum, picked up her severed head, slipped the collar around her neck like a large ring, and reattached her head to her fallen body. He quickly moved on to Sir Archanum. When the two began to wake, he picked up the ends of both chains and proceeded back up the stairs. He handed one chain to Walda before he returned to his throne.

  “Death is an illusion,” Bryten said. “Time is an illusion. Your bodies are illusions. The only thing that is real is that which does not change. If something changes, then you have the power to change it—change it at will.”

  Sir and Madame Archanum returned to their seats on the stairs. This time they did nothing to clean up the pool, splatters, and footprints of blood.

  “You seek the power of the dagger we gave Kafka,” Walda said. Her voice had a musical cadence and commanded just as much attention as Bryten.

  “Yes,” Nicholae said. “I believe it is the only way to finally defeat him.”

  “Then it is,” she said. “But do you understand what the dagger truly is?”

  “It severs the link to past lives.”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to believe.”

  “It’s nothing,” Sir Archanum said. “It is a projection of belief.”

  “An object can project its user or owner’s beliefs,” Madame Archanum said.

  “Yes. It’s like a blessed or cursed magical item—the only power lies in the projection from its owner and is only as powerful as the owner’s beliefs. Does it have actual power? Whose belief in that power is stronger? Since its power is tied to belief, and beliefs are rooted in subjection, the object’s power isn’t real. It is nothing.”

  “Kafka knows this,” Walda said. “We told him as much when he came and made the same request.” She held up a gold-hilted, double-edged dagger and passed it to Madame Archanum.

  Madame Archanum walked the dagger down the stairs, through the blood, and handed it hilt first to Nicholae. She obediently returned to her station at Walda’s feet.

  “There, now you have what you came for,” Bryten said. “And it is up to you for how it will be used and for what—your newfound knowledge. You can use it to kill each other...or save each other.”

  Nicholae gazed upon the dagger. There were jewels embedded into the golden hilt. As far as I could tell, it was an exact replica of Kafka’s.

  “Thank you,” Nicholae finally said. “This was a difficult journey, but a necessary and enlightening one.”

  “I know what you plan to do when you get back,” Bryten said. “I know you can’t see it now, but when you realize that killing each other isn’t the only option, when you learn to let go—whether that be in a hundred years or a thousand—come back and see us. Those timeframes are nothing more than a night’s sleep. We’ll be here and now you know the way. Once you’re done building, collecting, and protecting, we’ll teach you the essence of true creation.”

  “I hope to one day have that opportunity,” Nicholae said.

  Before Bryten Archanum replied, his movements slowed, his arms settled on the armrests, and his eyes closed. The chain remained tight in his solid grip. Then he returned to being the statue from which he emerged.

  I slid my attention to Walda and she was also still, eyes closed, and—gone.

  “We have a parting gift for you,” Sir Archanum said, hopping down the stairs, and approaching us. “To make your next journey easier.”

  A bundle of necklaces appeared dangling from an outstretched finger. They were more of the medallions I still had around my neck. They jingled together as he walked up to Nicholae. He removed one from the bundle and slid it over Nicholae’s bowed head. Sir Archanum presented one to both Erik and Cassandra. And when he got to me, noticed I already had one around my neck, tucked under my shirt.

  “You’re full of surprises yourself,” he said and returned to the stairs. “Please wait outside and you will be escorted home.”

  The four Archanums looked like they had stepped back into one of their mosaics lining the wood-paneled walls. They looked exactly the same as when we’d first walked into the great hall. The only difference that distinguished then from now was the newly painted floor in buckets of blood.

  Erik led us out to the viewing terrace to gaze upon the garden and beyond—The Garden.

  “Can I see it?” I asked Nicholae.

  He handed me the dagger—the weapon that has struck so much fear in the rebellion—the symbol of Kafka’s ultimate power.

  “You can have it,” Nicholae said, continuing past me, to the white stone railing.

  “But—”

  “You heard them in there. It’s nothing.”

  “This dagger’s like the pills you gave Mom and me, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Sometimes you just need a reminder that you knew the answer all along,” Nicholae said. “It’s time to end this.”

  While continuing to examine the beautifully crafted weapon, I saw the pillars of showering silver sparks appearing around us.

  “I think our ride’s here,” Erik said and put an arm around Nicholae’s shoulders.

  Cassandra threw an arm around me as well. “Time to get these kids home, honey.”

  We all shared a much needed good laugh.

  Kafka (9)

  Four city blocks of South Los Angeles, what had once been South Central, had been demoed and were now one large bustling construction site. The building was out of the ground, the skeletal framework already reaching up ten floors. There were cranes raising beams from the ground and we
lders tied off from the top deck. Concrete was being poured and material being driven in by a never-ending succession of flatbed trucks. Lorne Tower was quickly taking shape.

  “I can’t believe this is happening…and so fast,” Eli said, watching the erection from just beyond the hard-hat zone.

  “Believe it,” Kafka said. “This is the start of a whole new world, my young friend. You are literally coming in on the ground floor. Once this new Lorne Tower is complete, the world will take notice. Everyone will be in awe of its beauty and unprecedented architectural feat. They’ll want more. And we’ll give it to them.”

  “It’s just the beginning.”

  “Yours starts tomorrow night at the ceremony,” Kafka said. “It will be a long night. And there will be a transition, so make the most of tonight. I suggest you go out—enjoy a night on the town. Forget about all this for an evening. Go and do something you want to do—something you’ve been dying to do. Don’t worry about anything following you home. When your new life begins tomorrow night, no one in this plane will be able to touch you.”

  “Sounds incredible,” Eli said.

  “You have no idea.”

  “And you won’t even give me a hint?”

  “Family secrets,” Kafka scolded.

  “But—”

  “You’re close, but you’re not quite family yet.”

  Kafka gazed up at his building in progress.

  Eli marveled at his mentor watching his tower coming to life. It was all happening so fast—and he wasn’t just thinking about the construction. He knew that this was the last night of his present life. He had earned his wolf-head tattoo and tomorrow he would receive it. Tomorrow he would begin his new life as a Lorne. And perhaps he would start going by Elijah. Elijah Lorne. He liked the sound of that.

  “Go on,” Kafka said. “Have a fun night and I’ll see you tomorrow. Here’s a room key. Take the limo. The city’s yours.”

  The Mercedes limousine was parked a few blocks away. Once in the back seat, Eli stretched out like a king. He could get used to this—not exactly the beat-up pickups and hand-me-down sedans he was used to. Eli grabbed a beer from the built-in fridge, popped the top, and leaned back. The handgun in the back of his jeans dug into his skin, so he set it on the seat beside him.