Fires of Man Page 10

  “Excuse me,” Aaron said. He stepped around to face the man, yet somehow ended up standing exactly where he had been before. Confused, he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir.” No response. “I’m sorry to bother you, but . . . Hello?”

  Still the man did not respond.

  Aaron grew frustrated. “Hey,” he said. He tried to grab the man’s shoulder, but his fingers went right through, as if the man was made of air. Aaron stumbled back in shock, tripped over his own feet, and tumbled to the floor.

  Then he heard the shuffle of footsteps on stone. A second man entered, also in red. His aged face was visible; he bore a snowy white beard and braided mustache. “How long will you stay like this?” he asked. The words were odd, foreign, but somehow Aaron could understand them.

  “As long as it takes,” said the kneeling man.

  Aaron stiffened. He knew that voice. It was the voice from his mind.

  “You already have an answer,” the bearded man said. “God wills as He must. Not only for those who live today, but for those who are to come.” He clasped his hands together and they disappeared into his pendulous sleeves.

  “At what cost?” the kneeling man asked. “How can this be God’s will? The price is too high.” He rose to his feet, making no sound.

  “The duty is yours. You bear His love in one hand, His wroth in the other. Chances have been given. Those who have heard will be granted salvation,” said the bearded one.

  “I am no judge of men,” replied the other. “Who am I to do this thing? If He wants it done, let it be by His own hand and not mine!” He balled his fists. “Leave me.”

  “As you wish.” The bearded man bowed deeply, then departed.

  The first man loosed a shallow breath and uncurled his fingers. Sparks danced across his fingertips. He tilted his head skyward. “You ask too much,” he said. He stepped forward to stand in one of the archways.

  Aaron followed the man, and looked through the arch.

  He gasped.

  Thousands of people were gathered below on enormous terraces that rose to the shrine where Aaron now stood. Though Aaron was high above, he could make out every detail. Beyond the terraces were still more people, crowding the plateau on which the whole structure sat. They were dressed in all kinds of garb. Some men were bare-chested, with patterned skirts; similarly dressed women wore colorful half-moon bead necklaces that covered them from collarbone to chest, leaving their breasts exposed. There were a number of fat, dark-skinned people, dressed in thick velvets and covered in golden jewelry. Others wore plain brown woolens and wooden shoes, or flowing togas and open-toed slippers. Some, with narrow eyes and wide faces, wore large-brimmed straw hats and loose, sleeveless linens, with elevated wooden sandals on their feet.

  And still there were more.

  It was as if all the peoples of some unknown world had gathered together.

  On every side, more braziers burned. There were also strange beacons, the likes of which Aaron had never seen. Large blown-glass tubes were fitted over filaments and plugged into grooves in the plateau itself. The tubes shone brightly, the primitive light bulbs keeping the area bright. Farther back, Aaron could make out an enormous pyramid with a golden capstone, atop which sat another of the glass tubes, larger than all the others. Light burst forth from that bulb so intensely that its beacon seemed to part the very heavens.

  Abruptly, the robed man turned away and strode back into the shrine. Aaron trailed behind, then circled around, determined to catch a glimpse of what lay beneath the hood.

  What Aaron saw was the hard face of a man in his mid-thirties, with a fall of night-black hair. The lines of the man’s visage were drawn in sharp relief—cheekbones thin and edged, eyes and cheeks hollow and drawn, nose proud and bold like a falcon’s beak. This was a man meant to lead, Aaron realized. There was something about his gaze, a powerful intensity that both drew the eye and made Aaron want to prostrate himself.

  Aaron’s head began to pound. He could not look away. He felt compelled to gaze further into the depths of the robed man’s cowl, as if there was a secret hidden there.

  The pounding grew more intense.

  The man’s visage transformed . . . Into Aaron’s own face.

  Aaron awoke with a yell, whipping the sheets off himself.

  A dream.

  Only a dream.

  But that pounding . . .

  It took him a moment to realize someone was knocking at the door. On the other side, he found a pleasant-faced maid, her wispy gray-streaked hair tucked in a bun. She carried a tray with a covered plate. “Dinner,” she said.

  “Sorry,” Aaron said, “I was taking a nap.” He accepted the tray. “Thanks.”

  She nodded and left.

  Aaron set the tray on his desk without a second glance. He went to the bathroom, switched on the light, and gazed into the mirror, observing his reflection with a mix of curiosity and amusement. What a weird nightmare. Usually, he didn’t remember more than fragments of his dreams, but this one lingered in full detail. It had seemed so real.

  Stress, he thought.

  He filled a glass with water from the tap and drank. It had a surprisingly clean taste. He filled and drained it a second time. He splashed some water on his face. When he looked again at the

  mirror . . .

  A red-robed man stood directly behind him.

  Aaron whirled. No one was there.

  Pulse racing, Aaron checked the mirror again.

  “The hell?” he muttered. Maybe he’d spent too much time in that cell. The isolation had gotten to him after all, and his imagination was running wild.

  His stomach burbled. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day. John Black had insisted their morning exercises be performed on an empty stomach, and after that Aaron had forgotten to feed himself.

  As he returned to his room for dinner, the image of the robed man lingered. Aaron suddenly recalled a horror flick he had seen, in which an evil spirit visited teenagers in their dreams, only to become more and more real in their waking lives with each successive nightmare. Aaron shuddered at the thought.

  He began to feel reality was slipping away from him. He was not even certain whether his experience in the jail cell had actually happened. The power, the fire coursing through him, the voice in his mind, had all come to resemble some flight of imagination. Was he mad to even consider the possibility it was real? Aaron did not think he was crazy, though his father had once told him, “Any sane person knows they’re a bit bonkers. Only the crazy ones think otherwise.” Since he was questioning his own sanity, did that mean he was okay? Or because he thought he was okay, did that mean he was losing it entirely? The whole thing made his head hurt, so he grabbed Lives of the Prophets and sat down to eat.

  Beneath the metal lid Aaron found a sumptuous meal: braised short rib, roasted potatoes, baby corn, and garlic green beans. The delectable odors hit him all at once, making his mouth water. His eyes teared from billows of steam. The meal was prepared in rustic style, but there was no denying it was the closest thing to gourmet food Aaron had ever eaten. Between his hunger and the marvelous flavor, he had a hard time pausing between mouthfuls.

  He read while he ate, holding the book open with his left hand while his right held the fork. Aaron’s parents were what his father called “godly folk,” and when Aaron had been a boy, he had learned all the tales of the prophets. The first prophet had lived for a thousand years and built up the earth with his followers and many children. The second had received the Laws and Commandments from on high, and set them down in the Bible for all the people to live by. The third had been a stonemason, a humble man that God had raised because of his pure faith and heart. Twice God had sent disasters to wipe away the wicked, during the times of the first and third prophets; and each time the prophet had gathered up the righteous men and the beasts of the land, and brought them to a sacred place that God ordained as safe.

  Aaron always thought the story of the fourth prophet was the most interest
ing, but also the saddest.

  The fourth, El, had been warned of another destruction and once again gathered the faithful. However, El did not agree that killing the wicked was the answer. For thirty days and nights he and God debated on a mountaintop—Mount Ainor. At first El had nothing to eat, but the animals provided sustenance, offering up fruit and vegetables and the flesh of their own bodies. For El’s thirst, God Himself split the mountain so a spring bubbled through. Thus, God and El continued their discourse unabated.

  In the end, God, weary of visiting destruction upon his children, acquiesced to El. But not without a price. God decreed that El would roam the earth until the next prophet arrived, a prophet who would herald either salvation or another destruction—a destruction so complete that it would wipe the land clean of all civilization, so only the holiest would survive to build anew. God said that if, after his endless travels, El still believed mankind should be spared, the new prophet would listen. But if El had come to believe another sundering must occur, the new prophet would herald the end of the current generation of man. With His decision made, God sealed Mount Ainor in ice to await the fateful day the prophets would return, old and new alike, to decide the fate of the world.

  As a boy, these stories had fascinated and frightened Aaron. He remembered crawling into his parents’ bed after bad dreams of tidal waves and an angry God who strongly resembled Aaron’s Granpy Mitch. Aaron’s father had done little to dissuade such terrors; his father was a deeply religious man who saw a sign in every disaster or war or disease. The man lived for the day when the next prophet would lead the faithful to the promised land, where they would be safe from the catastrophe that wiped out the non-believers.

  Aaron didn’t know what to think. He’d been raised to believe in God, and he did.

  Yet, did he really think the prophet was going to come and wipe the world away? If all that was true, Aaron sure didn’t think the prophet would come and save everyone. Not when men like John Black walked the earth. Still, the whole thing seemed to him like a fairy tale, something that belonged in the realm of myth and legend.

  But . . .

  He couldn’t explain what had happened to him in that jail cell. He couldn’t explain these strange powers. And if all of that was possible, couldn’t other, seemingly impossible things be true?

  A thought came to him, then—one both profound and chilling.

  He’d been praying to the prophets when he had heard that voice. And that strange dream, the one with the man who possessed that voice . . . Now that he thought about it, didn’t it feel familiar, somehow? People from different cultures, from a world he’d never seen, all gathered in one spot. And that conversation, between the bearded man, and the man with the voice from his head . . .

  If he put it all into the context of the story of El, didn’t it make a strange kind of sense?

  Aaron shivered. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He had that haunted feeling, like when he came home after seeing a scary movie and felt the fleeting, irrational fear that something was lurking in the dark.

  Then he laughed. Of all the ridiculous things . . .

  Boy, his dad really would think he was crazy now!

  At that thought, he felt a pang of homesickness. It was a nervous, squirmy feeling in his belly, that things just weren’t right. That he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

  He picked up his fork to finish the last of his short rib, then decided he wasn’t hungry anymore. He stood and went to the window. He peered out through the bars, at the bright lights of an unfamiliar city. He would have given anything to wake tomorrow back on the farm, to the smell of his mother’s hotcakes. He’d know that there were cows to be milked and crops to be watered; he’d see Lissy Pickens . . .

  But Lissy Pickens was dead.

  John Black had killed her.

  He tore himself away from the window. He had to be up bright and early tomorrow. He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face. He changed into flannel pajamas and flopped into the unfamiliar bed.

  He breathed deeply, trying not to think of his mom and dad; of the poor, sweet girl he’d known almost all his life, who was now . . . gone. He didn’t even know if there was anything left of Lissy to bury. The thought made his stomach turn, and for a second he thought he might vomit. But the nausea passed.

  And slowly, but surely, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  When a soft voice whispered, Rest well, he thought it was only his imagination.

  12

  AGENT

  The Waverly boy had potential, Agent had decided.

  The youth of today spent their lives in distraction, inundated with television, video games, the Internet. Aaron Waverly’s mind was pure by comparison; the boy had lived a life of simple routine. Through that, Waverly had learned to concentrate on single tasks. In fact, Waverly had exhibited a greater penchant for focus in his first day than some of Agent’s handpicked subordinates had demonstrated in the entire first month of training.

  Agent stalked through the halls of his mansion, his feet making no sound on the finely woven rugs. His eyes scanned the dark wood-paneled walls and gilt moldings, assorted paintings, and lush tapestries. Every accoutrement had belonged to the house’s previous owner, a senator who had been caught selling information to Orion. Agent had received the place as a gift from Magister General Virard. He would have been more comfortable somewhere smaller, less lavish—more defensible—but he never refused his mentor.

  The only area of significance was the library, with its sizable collection of old and rare volumes. The histories were of particular note. One could not repeat the mistakes of the past if one was keen enough to learn from them. Agent had spent many hours absorbed in accounts of conflicts that ranged from the Aygosi Civil Wars of two thousand years ago to the most recent conflicts between Orion and Calchis.

  As for the rest of the house, Agent had taken the liberty of converting guest rooms and other extraneous chambers into training facilities: two gyms; meditation rooms; sparring rooms; a firing range that had once been a bowling alley. The frivolity of men never ceased to amaze.

  Agent descended a final staircase into the cavernous garage. The space had once held a full complement of vehicles. Now it housed only Agent’s Pharos sports car; an off-road SUV; a plain silver Kanda Rover sedan for low-profile work; and a sleek Harbinger SI-520 motorcycle detailed in black and chrome. Most of what he owned was black. He would not say he “loved” his sports car or motorcycle the way automobile enthusiasts might claim to “love” their own vehicles, but he “appreciated” them.

  He grabbed the Pharos keys from the wall-mounted key ring and entered the car.

  When he hit the garage remote, the folding door rose with a shudder, flooding the space with sunlight. Agent squinted against it until his eyes adjusted. Then he proceeded down the long, well-maintained driveway.

  Hedges and flowerbeds lay on all sides. One had to keep up appearances, after all. “John Black” was a wealthy military manufacturer. That false identity gave Agent access to most anywhere in the world, under the guise of “business.” For that, living in a monstrosity of red brick and wrought-iron gates was almost worth it. Perhaps it was even a fitting home for a creature such as he.

  Agent drove for several minutes through the gated communities and outlying suburbs that surrounded Chiron city proper. Some were old homes, many of them brick, standing hidden behind behemoth driveways and towering oak trees. Other residents had constructed the gargantuan atrocities of the nouveau riche, replete with gaudy columns, fluted fountains, and legions of sports cars in plain view. That was the way of men, always flaunting.

  In Tripana, in Agent’s youth, a display of wealth would get a man robbed, killed, and tossed in a river.

  Agent pulled onto the highway. It took thirty minutes to reach midtown Chiron in moderate traffic. As he drove, he stilled his mind. He observed the scenery around him—trees blurring past on either side, cars weaving in and out of la
nes. He listened to the sounds of the engine, of air whipping past, of pavement and bits of gravel beneath his wheels. He felt every rise and fall in the road, every irregularity. He was completely aware of his hands on the steering wheel, his body in the seat, his foot on the pedal. He smelled the exhaust and the scents of the city—pollution and waste. He did all of this at once, becoming the ultimate receptor.

  Consciousness expanded. There was only now, and here.

  He passed through the tollbooth checkpoint, into the city limits. Police officers walked amid the booths, looking for suspicious characters.

  Dangerous times.

  However, the officers had only a glance to spare for a well-dressed man in a fancy car. Agent passed into Chiron unmolested. He rode Harborside Drive uptown, toward Capitol Plaza. He paid no heed to the frequent sirens and honking of horns. It was all of no consequence.

  Capitol Plaza was set in a cedar-lined square in the heart of uptown Chiron. In the middle lay a green where workers and politicians took their lunches and attended casual meetings. On the west side of the plaza stood the Hall of Justice, with smooth columns and a ridged archway impressed into the pristine white façade. Across the square sat the Hall of Commerce, a squat gray stone structure with a domed roof. Last, at the north end of the green, was the Federal Building, a slim cobalt skyscraper, its peak tapering to a spire that almost appeared to puncture the sky.

  Agent pulled his car around, into the parking complex behind the plaza—a chasmal space ten levels deep, with grim support columns standing guard over rows of automobiles. He had his own parking space on the second level. Only senators, chief staffers, and top military personnel had the honor of first-level parking. Agent cared little; it was just another petty status symbol.

  He strode to the elevator, the folds of his sport coat swaying. As usual, he wore a dark suit, open at the collar. He did not like to feel restricted. Though the suit was fitted, there was looseness in the fabric that allowed him nearly a full range of movement. He tapped the elevator call button; moments later, the stainless steel doors slid open.