The Door Within (4 page)
Greed for even greater gain began to gnaw at Paragal, for his fortune was but a trinket when compared to King Eliam’s vaults. But greed was just the first fissure of evil to appear in Paragal’s heart. For just as he grew rich on the gifts of the people of The Realm, he also grew prideful on their praise.
They called Paragal fair, and he was handsome like one descended from kings. They called him wise, and he was dauntingly wise. They called him powerful, and Paragal was powerful—a legend in arms and able to pass The Stones of White Fire without perishing. But in every facet of this praise there was for Paragal a biting insult. For no matter what was said, it was always understood by all that King Eliam was greater still!
Jealousy festered in Paragal each time rulers of other lands came to King Eliam for counsel. When crowds bowed low as the King passed, Paragal watched and coveted for himself such love and homage. And when the King entered The Library of Light to pen the lore of Alleble, Paragal stood guard outside the throne room . . . and smoldered.
It was no longer enough to be the King’s most honored. Paragal wanted to wear the crown himself.
In secret, Paragal gathered many to his side—some from distant lands—but most from inside Alleble’s own borders. With riches, he bribed them. With wisdom, he beguiled them. With power, he coerced them. Then Paragal set in motion a plan to bring down the King and put himself on the throne.
Aidan was outraged. How could Paragal betray his King like that? King Eliam was good and kind and . . . generous. He treated Paragal like a son! It was treason. It wasn’t fair.
Aidan flopped backward onto his pillows. He’d seen an awful lot of injustices lately, but nothing on the scale of what was taking place in Alleble. And though he kept reminding himself that it was just a story, Aidan found himself afraid for King Eliam. Aidan had to know what would happen next, so he sat up and read on.
Some time later, though he tried hard to stay awake, Aidan found himself blinking and nodding. Slowly, Aidan’s eyelids drooped and shut.
It was a troubled slumber. He tossed and turned, grasping fistfuls of blankets, all the while muttering again and again, “No! No! No!” But the dreams did not stop. . . .
It was an hour before dawn would brighten the skies over Alleble, and Paragal was pleased. “So far, my plan is unfolding exactly as I had hoped. Well, almost,” he corrected himself. “One of the Elder Guard’s little runts has escaped and has not been found. No matter.”
Paragal stood outside the throne room at his post. He was, after all, the Sentinel of Alleble, sworn and prepared to risk life and limb for the King. Paragal intended to honor that oath—just not as it was intended. He looked down at his sword, Cer Muryn. The three jewels on Cer Muryn’s hilt were dull, absent of their former blue fire.
Paragal turned and, like a phantom, silently passed into the throne room. Darkened murals of heroes from Alleble’s past hung high between tall, arched windows of stained glass. These knights and ladies of great honor witnessed Paragal’s approach to the seat that should not be his. He did not look up at them, for they were but memories and powerless to hinder his plans. His eyes were riveted to the throne.
King Eliam’s high seat was made of a precious white marble, and even in the dark it seemed to glow. Paragal ran his thin fingers over one armrest, closed his eyes and, intoxicated with the moment, let his head roll back. For now he allowed himself just a taste. Later, though, he would drink deeply of glory and would have his fill.
Paragal knew that King Eliam would be in The Library, as was his custom before sunup. It was his time to write, when The Realm was still and quiet, and all concerns could wait for the light of day. By dawn, he would no doubt have penned several new scrolls to add to Alleble’s illustrious history.
Torches flickered on the inside wall of the curving stairs as Paragal ascended. He ducked under a wooden arch and crossed the threshold of the King’s sacred courtyard outside on a large gatehouse. There, in the center of the courtyard, Paragal paused a moment and beheld The Stones of White Fire and the great tower Library. Twelve stones, inlaid on the floor, formed a circular barrier surrounding the tower. Each stone was inscribed with a word from the sacred first scroll of Alleble. The first scroll was the only scroll in the entire Library that was kept sealed. Not even Paragal was permitted to read the first scroll. It was said in legends that the first scroll contained the past and the future, the entire history of every being in the realm of Alleble from beginning to end, the sum total of all the other scrolls that had been or ever would be written. But no one knew how that could be . . . if it was true.
The twelve words on the twelve stones seemed written in liquid fire, and white tongues spouted from them and rose into a great inferno. The Library was engulfed in a writhing wall of flame that would suffer no being to enter, except King Eliam and his Sentinel. And the Sentinel entered.
The flames licked all around Paragal, but no harm came to him. Once past the fire, he entered The Library and the writing sanctuary on the first level. There were nine levels in The Library, each above the other, joined by a central spiral stair and a network of ladders and trapdoors.
Hand on the hilt of his sword, Paragal entered and walked past shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. Each level held scrolls beyond number, and Paragal had read every one, word for word. All except for the first scroll kept in a locked chest on the ninth level—and, of course, the scroll on the desk in front of King Eliam.
The ink on that scroll was wet, and the pen was still in the hand of its author.
“You have come earlier than you are wont,” said the King, his back turned to Paragal. “Come in, my Sentinel. Have you news?”
“Yes, m’lord,” said Paragal. “There is a matter I would speak to you about.”
The King dipped the pen into a dark bottle of ink and continued writing. “I will gladly attend to your wish, for this scroll is nearly complete.”
“M’lord, if you please,” said Paragal through gritted teeth. He despised having to beg like a mongrel at his master’s table. “It is an urgent matter that will not wait.”
“Very well, Paragal,” said King Eliam. He turned and rose to look upon his Sentinel. Whether it was some trick of the candle’s light, Paragal could not tell, but he thought there was an odd look in the King’s eyes.
Surely he cannot suspect
, Paragal thought.
“Let us speak, then,” said the King.
“There is some trouble among the Elder Guard. Will you come?” asked Paragal, gesturing out of The Library.
“Trouble?” echoed the King. “Lead me where you will.”
Together they left The Library of Light and passed through the flames. Then the throne room—they walked by the marble seat of the King. The moonlight cast Paragal’s large shadow over the throne as they passed.
No words were spoken as Paragal led the King down a long hall and then by the stair to Guard’s Keep. They did not travel the stair. Instead Paragal guided King Eliam to a seldom-used door, the door to the great stone balcony above Guard’s Keep. The King paused momentarily to allow Paragal to open the door and escort him out into the cool air of the fading night.
Beyond the waist-high parapets lay the still gray shadows of Alleble. Towers, cottages—even the fountains seemed to rest unaware.
Paragal walked out toward the center of the vast balcony and brushed his hand along a rectangular block of marble that stood about four feet in height and was about as long and wide as a tomb.
“What is this you have led me to see, Paragal?”
“It is an altar.”
The King stared at the back of his Sentinel. “An altar for what purpose?”
“Come and see, my lord,” said Paragal.
Paragal stepped to the brink of the balcony wall and waited for the King.
When King Eliam approached, Paragal pointed over the wall down into the courtyard. The King’s gaze followed, and his eyes widened.
Men, women, and children, bound by their hands and gagged, trembled waist-deep in the vast fountain nearest the castle. Soldiers with torches ablaze surrounded them, and bowmen with flaming arrows fitted to their bowstrings stood at the ready.
“There is trouble with the Elder Guard, my lord,” said Paragal.
“Paragal, what have you done?” said the King. His hand crept slowly to the hilt of his sword.
“It is simply what I have been prepared for my entire life. I am fair and wise and powerful, and yet, while you live, I am but a puppet— a servant never allowed to achieve the grandeur I deserve.”
“Paragal, you have been as a son to me.”
“A pet, you mean. A servant. Always I am second!” Paragal raged. He drew Cer Muryn and slashed the air as he spoke. “But no longer. Your precious Elder Guard, their wives and children all wait to see what sort of King you truly are. The fountain is filled now with fuel oil and will kindle into a pool of fire with a kiss from a flaming arrow. I have but to signal and they perish.”
The King’s shoulders sagged and his head lolled to the side as if something he had long expected had finally occurred, but the weight of it was more devastating than he had imagined.
Paragal’s voice lowered to a gravelly whisper. “Oft you have spoken of sacrifice. Will your deeds match your words? You must now choose, my lord: Your life or theirs?”
The King’s eyes narrowed. “You are wise, indeed, Paragal. But your wisdom is tainted by this treachery. Do you believe that by murder, you will gain the love and respect of all the free folk of Alleble?”
Paragal’s eyes narrowed. He stepped just a breath away from the King. “If they do not give me their love freely,” Paragal said, “then I will take it at the edge of the sword or . . . by fire!”
“That is fear, not love,” said the King.
“Nevertheless, it is what I will. And finally, my will be done— not yours.”
Paragal gestured toward the altar with the tip of his blade.
“So, great King,” he seethed. “Will you lay aside your crown for your people? Will you redeem their trust in you? Or would you watch them perish in such fire and allow their screams to haunt you forever?”
The King looked one last time into the eyes of his people, into the eyes of the children. They were frightened and shivered as much from fear as from the morning chill. But there was more in their eyes than fear. The King smiled at them kindly and removed his sword.
And then Eliam, the mighty King of Alleble, lay down upon the bed of stone.
Bloodlust gleaming in his eyes, Paragal approached the altar and gripped his sword, Cer Muryn, the sword forged by the King. The spark once kindled by Paragal’s purity was gone. The onyxes in the sword’s hilt were as lifeless and cold as ice.
Paragal held the blade aloft high above the King’s neck. The captives in the fountain stirred restlessly.
“Have you any parting words, my lord?” the Sentinel asked, sneering.
“Your name,” said the King. “Your name, Paragal, in the old tongue, means ‘one of pure light,’ and so you once were. But know this: When your stroke falls, so shall your own star fall. Your light will go out, and you will earn a new name. You shall be called
Paragor
—‘one of pure darkness.’ Darkness will be your dwelling place, and it will consume you. You will be ever hungry for what you can never have. No darkness in Alleble will be as you.”
Paragal’s eyes flickered and flashed red for a moment.
“You have no power to pronounce this,” Paragal said through his teeth. His grip tightened on the sword, and he prepared to deliver a mighty stroke. But the blade did not fall. In fact, it could not fall, for King Eliam held it up by force of his own will. And then he spoke once more.
“What you are about to do, do it now, but know: You do not command this. I am allowing it. And nothing will ever rescue you from the doom you have chosen.”
“No!” Paragal screamed, but it came out in a hiss like a venomous snake. And like the strike of a cobra, he brought the blade down swiftly on the King’s neck.
N
oooooooo!” cried Aidan, sitting bolt upright in his bed. He raised his arms, trying desperately to ward off an attack. But the attack was not there in his room. It was back in his dream, his nightmare. Aidan’s chest heaved. His bedclothes were drenched in cold sweat. Aidan shivered.
