The Second Coming (15 page)

The others
hustled back towards the main square, unsure of what might happen.
They approached the host that gathered where Alwhin advanced upon
Paine and his sister.

“
I think it is time for answers,” she said, snatching the two
by the arm.

“
But what about the Westwood?” Lya asked, jerking her arm from
Alwhin’s iron grip.

The woman
seized her once more. “This is not the Westwood’s time. Lindhome
will hold.”

Paine looked
to Diarmuid who nodded his head to him, and then turned to mingle
with the others. Puck clapped his hands and followed. Paine had no
choice but to let the woman take them. Her strong grasp wouldn’t
have allowed any other option.

Alwhin led
them along a path lined with mounds of creeping phlox and silver
thyme. Its rotting sweetness sickened the air.

Quiet wavered
about them, until Lya broke the silence.

“
Where are you taking us?”

Alwhin’s grip
hardened. “Where we can speak freely.”

Lya nodded her
satisfaction and nothing further was said. Paine thought it best to
remain quiet. Any further questions and her pincer-like grip might
break his arm.

They came to a
clearing encircled by statues similar to the ones situated along
the barrier of Lindhome. Alwhin glided over to a stone tablet, and
placed her hand upon its stippled surface. The eyes of the statues
flashed briefly, and the sounds of Lindhome were suddenly shut
out.

Lya studied
the stone table, obviously impressed with its power. She could
hardly hide the glee that lay in her eyes.

“
Silence has been cast upon the
clearing,” Alwhin said. “You have many questions and I need not be
a Seer to sense that. Ask what you will.”

Lya walked
around the clearing, examining both the invisible barrier and the
statues.

“
Who would want to know what we have to say?”

“
I believe that your presence here would interest the
Overlords of Valbain. The Firstborn are always
watching.”

“
Who?” Lya asked.

Alwhin
motioned them closer. She pulled out a leather-bound book. Paine
recognized it instantly.

A Bible?

“
You must be joking,” he said.

“
This book I have studied. Do you know it?”

“
Yes.”

“
Then you must know that on the sixth day it is written that
Man was created.”

Paine nearly
rolled his eyes. “So?”

“
Now what of the beings that came before him?”

He pursed his
lips. “There were none before Man.”

“
Oh?” Alwhin smiled and then raised her hands, a motion
reminiscent of the Reverend Chapman. “And the Lord set a mark upon
Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.” She lowered her arms.
“Do you know this passage?”

Paine
nodded.

“
He was supposed to be the only son of Adam and Eve after
killing his brother. He was so marked that he might be killed — but
by whom? Who would see him and desire to kill him if there were
only three living beings.” She raised her hands once more. Lya
smiled. “And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord, and dwelt
in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden. And Cain knew his wife;
and she conceived, and bore Enoch: and he built a city, and called
the name of the city, after the name of his son.” Alwhin’s gaze
turned hard. “Who was this wife? If Cain and his parents were the
only sentient beings, where did he get a wife? Did he marry a goat?
Did he have incestuous relations with some unknown sister? Is your
entire race a result of inbreeding? And who builds a city for three
people?” She studied him.

Paine said
nothing.

“
There were creatures and beasts created before Man, on the
Fifth Day. And the Firstborn were just that — first.”

Paine shook
his head. “But there’s nothing said of these beings from the old
world. They didn’t exist before the Shift.”

“
Long ago, the power of the dead and the beings of the Fifth
Day once dwelt upon Earth like Man. All of your old tales tell of
them, but the memory of them was treated as nothing more than
fanciful tales to frighten children. Even this little book mentions
them, but only a few.”

“
So what happened to them? Where were they for thousands of
years?”

“
When the Earth shifted on its axis, not only did the power of
the dead return, but so did the beings of the Fifth Day; back from
another realm — one where man was but a myth. It was as much a
surprise for the other races when they found themselves shifted
back to a world that was a part of their legends. And it was a
world in which humans ruled, not the Firstborn.”

Alwhin
motioned them towards the stone tablet. A jagged script was etched
onto its surface, and Paine studied the writing. It was identical
to the note that Lya possessed; not the side with the spell, but
the other — the side with the foreign script. He looked at Lya, but
she did not return his gaze. Paine focused on the words in front of
him, trying to make them come together in his mind. He grabbed the
translation amulet, but it was futile. It wasn’t working.

There was
something odd about the script, in how its deep lines scored the
surface of the stone. It was as if the words whispered in his ear,
a deep and terrible voice trapped within the slab of stone before
him. He leaned forward, studying. Each line and curve rearranged
themselves in his mind’s eye, creating a new language, a new
script. The forms realigned themselves. They were almost
converging, revealing their secret. Paine concentrated harder, to
the point it felt like his eyes were being forced from their
sockets. He stretched his mind, straining to force the words
together.

Liquid burst
from his nose, and he gripped the tablet, leaning in closer.

“
Paine!”

He jerked his
head back, as if released from a vice. The images in his head
disintegrated.

Alwhin pulled
out a kerchief and wiped his nose. “You are bleeding.”

Paine took it,
wiping the streams that stained his face and tunic.

“
Are you unwell?” she asked.

His head felt
light. “I’m not sure.” He plopped to the ground and put his head
between his knees. “What happened?”

Lya didn’t
look pleased.

Alwhin offered
her hand.

Paine took it
and she pulled him up with ease.

The bleeding
had reduced to a faint trickle, yet he continued to dab at his
nose.

“
I think I’ll be all right.” He turned back to the tablet,
tracing his fingers along the script. “What is this
writing?”

Alwhin
hesitated before speaking. “It is an old language. Only a select
few are able to read it. This altar has been in the possession of
the Rebellion for centuries. I cannot read the writing. None here
can.”

She pointed to
the dirtied kerchief. “Perhaps we’ve had enough for today.”

With that, the
sounds of the rest of Lindhome flooded in. Paine continued dabbing
at his nose. He followed Alwhin and Lya down the path, wondering if
the Seer knew more than she let on.

***

Paine checked
his nose. It bled at intervals throughout the day and he wondered
if he shouldn’t be wearing a smock to protect his new tunic. His
nose didn’t just drip, it gushed. He looked to his fingers, trying
not to draw attention to the fact he was being obsessive. They were
dry.

He sat in
front of a simple fire, listening to the stories and songs told by
the people of Lindhome. He could not help but stare at the
Revenants; the ugly ones at least. Their contrast in appearance to
the others was more than remarkable. And so was the distance they
shared.

They gathered
in clusters, those that were beautiful beyond compare and the
hideous freaks. The former had taken to calling themselves Nymphs.
The latter didn’t seem to care what they were called. There was a
third clustering, those that were as beautiful as the Nymphs, but
taller and stronger. They also had a tendency towards a cruel look.
They called themselves the Lastborn, and they seemed to hold the
Revenants in high regard, encouraging them to flirt and cavort with
one another. Paine shuddered at the thought.

There was an
awkward silence in the clearing. And the tales were filled with
tragedy and despair. Paine didn’t care for more sadness. Puck left
after the first few tales — the theme focused on the slaughter of
entire races by an ancient vengeful god, some human and some
not.

Paine’s mind
wandered for most of the evening, unable to focus on much else
after their conversation with Alwhin. They never had the chance to
ask about Lya’s supposed heritage, which of course called into
question his own lineage.

Who was he?
For that matter, what was he?

And he
wondered if he was actually a twin with Lya after all.

Diarmuid
gulped down a blue concoction, his fourth. The pepper-haired man
swayed where he sat, half perched upon a sculpted stone, and leaned
on Paine’s shoulder.

Paine laughed,
yanked from his slump by Diarmuid’s charming smile.

Diarmuid
grinned. “What are you laughing at?”

“
You're drunk.”

“
Almost. I need a few more. You want some?”

Paine shook
his head. Too much ran amok through his head. He needed clarity of
thought at the moment. Besides, too many of those and he might make
a fool of himself.

He took
another swig and then gave Paine a drawn look.

“
You know there's something I ―”

“
Oy!”

He was
interrupted by an elderly man with white hair and a matching beard
that drooped in layers to his waist. The Loremaster was Nymph and
wore a robe of sunset orange. His sleeves skirted down his arms as
he raised his hands.

“
I have not told this tale in many years, but I suppose it's a
good time for it. It's a tale of glory, an old tale to be sure, and
one so old that many have forgotten. I am sure it has been enhanced
over the generations. Still, it is one worth telling.”

A chorus of
cheers and encouragement filled the night air.

The Loremaster
raised his voice above the din. “As you know, the Firstborn have
told many stories over the years about how they fought the Fallen
One and his minions long ago, and how, over the centuries, it was
their might that kept him at bay. But there is one story they do
not tell, for it is the true reason we enjoy our freedom.”

Shouts and
grumblings of Firstborn propaganda passed through the host.

Again, the
Loremaster lifted his voice above the crowd.

“
This one is told even rarely here, where we remember the
truth. It is a dark tale. It is the Lay of the Nephilim, and for
our human friends, I will do my best to recite it in the Common
Tongue.”

Smiles shone
in Diarmuid's direction and calls for him to rise and sing filled
the air. He waved them off, blushing, which only caused more hoots
and hollers. It was some time before they settled, but when all was
quiet, and the Loremaster held the attention of the entire
congregation, he began.

It was sung in
a deep baritone — a story of nine champions. They were sent out to
destroy the Fallen One. In the end, their only choice was to
transport those of the Fifth Day and the powers of the dead to
another realm. Their gods were taken as well. But before they could
finish their spell, the Nephilim were betrayed. They never saw the
new world they created.

There was
silence when the Loremaster finished. The crowd raised their
goblets to toast the Nephilim. Paine’s head drooped. He jerked
awake when Fang nuzzled him. He stroked her behind the ears and
yawned.

Paine’s soul
ached. Lya was distant, clearly on the other side of Lindhome
according to the pain in his heart. He’d seen little of her since
their encounter with Alwhin. She was probably dancing, with or
without Truitt. And likely naked either way.

Eventually,
more songs followed the Loremaster's tale, somber in tone, but
Paine felt so tired he hardly noticed. At Diarmuid’s suggestion
they retire for the evening, they bid the host good night.

As Paine
walked he heard a low chuckle from beyond the boundaries of
Lindhome, something from within the Westwood. Diarmuid failed to
notice as he stumbled along. He bid Paine goodnight with an awkward
and potentially suggestive handshake, but too much weighed on Paine
to try to take advantage of the inebriated man.

It wasn’t
worth the risk.

He needed
Diarmuid to get him safely out of Lindhome and he needed to be sure
about Diarmuid’s intentions. Or at the very least, he needed to be
able to cast a spell to coerce him and have the man forget the
entire encounter. Otherwise he’d jeopardize things.

Paine returned
the gesture and trudged to his own quarters.

Then he
slept.

Friar John
walked the streets of Barcelona.

How would he find this child among the Confederation?
And for that matter,
did
he really want to?

He looked at Meega.

Could he bring
himself to kill this child?

The little
girl’s shrill laughter jerked him back to reality. He strode along
a pitted, dirt road on the east side of the Temple of the Sacred
Family. Heavy rain doused the decrepit buildings and peals of
thunder shook their thin walls. Meega, perched upon John's horse,
reached up to the sky allowing the heavens to anoint her. Her tiny
mouth opened wide as she licked at the drops of rain. Despite his
annoyance at the weather and his misgivings about finding the
Beast, John smiled at her innocence.