The Author's Blood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Like this is the last day I will spend on earth.”

  “You mustn’t talk like that,” Clara said, drawing closer. “You have a wonderful future.”

  “What? An hour? Perhaps a day?”

  “Mr. Page says you are destined for greatness. Nothing can stop the King’s plans.”

  “What are you talking about?” Connie said.

  Clara drew close. “Mr. Page told me everything. He wrote it down and even gave instructions on how to care for you. Where to take you.” She paused as if trying to figure out what to share and what to hold back. “You and I were both separated from our parents long ago. I lived in another world, a place of wonder and beauty and talking animals.”

  “Talking animals?”

  “Yes. But I was brought here, along with my brother, and we were separated. We are children of the King, though we haven’t known it.”

  “Well, that’s great for you and your brother. You two should have enough money to bury me.”

  “You don’t understand. Mr. Page told you long ago that you were destined to become a queen.”

  The effects of the venom had caused Connie to despair. She had always been filled with faith and hope, but now, with her life ebbing, she became bitter. “I don’t remember anything.”

  Clara put a cool washcloth against her forehead. “Think,” she whispered. “The boy you knew as Owen is becoming a man. He is the Son of the King. He is to be your husband.”

  “Owen?” she said. “Wasn’t he here not long ago?”

  “And he came to see you, knowing you would be his bride but not recognizing you as his old friend.”

  “Old is right.”

  Clara knelt before Connie and pushed a shock of gray hair from her forehead. “You have been chosen before you were even born to be his bride.”

  “Why me?” Connie said. “What would make me fit to be the wife of the Son of the King?”

  Clara smiled. “Mr. Page said you have a purity of heart he has rarely seen. You are very special to him.”

  “Special and old,” Connie said, chuckling ruefully.

  “Do you think you can get up?” Clara said.

  “I can try.”

  Kweedrum and Lambachi were headed to the basement of the B and B to find the nestor for RHM when they spotted a glowing object moving through the streets. Dazzled by the light and frightened by the task ahead, they soared above the treetops until alighting on a roof across the street from a great stone building.

  “I wonder what that is,” Lambachi said.

  “It looks like one of those places where they keep all those things with words in them,” Kweedrum said.

  “No, not the building. That light.”

  “It looks like a torch. And there’s someone beside it. How can he be walking in the street with all the minions around?”

  “Maybe he’s protected by the glow.”

  The door mysteriously opened, and the glow moved inside, along with the other figure.

  “Strange,” Kweedrum said. “I don’t know anyone who can do that, unless it’s one of his.”

  “Stop referring to him or you’ll bring down the wrath of His Majesty on us,” Lambachi said. “But if you’re right, if this is one of his messengers, that other figure might be the one His Majesty seeks.”

  “The nestor? I thought it was at that old building—”

  “Not the nestor, you ninny.”

  “I’m not a ninny! Take it back.”

  “All right, you’re not a ninny. I’m talking about the Wormling.”

  “No, the Wormling is dead,” Kweedrum said. “Haven’t you heard? His Majesty incinerated him inside the White Mountain.”

  “Then who could this be?”

  “The Son. The last hope of the enemy. Can you imagine if we returned to RHM with him?” Kweedrum licked at his mouth. “They would throw a party. And maybe a parade—where everybody lines up and walks around with those fancy clothes and people clap and cheer, and if they don’t, the Dragon blows fire at them.”

  “Perhaps more would happen. Perhaps we would be made princes over a province.”

  “Princes over a province,” Kweedrum repeated. “What would that be like? I mean, what’s the job description?”

  “We would be like His Majesty. Rulers. People would bow before us and obey our every command. We would have mountains of food and true power.”

  “It sounds like a nice job. And you think all we have to do is capture this Son person?”

  “That and kill the messenger of light. We cannot let him escape.”

  “Of course not. That would be awful. We should kill him first because then the Son will be so scared he’ll probably cower under the tables or even surrender.”

  Lambachi drew up a plan, while Kweedrum nodded and tapped his lips with the side of one wing, smiling and letting a little spittle escape. “You should have been a general in His Majesty’s army,” Kweedrum said. “You really have a knack for attack.”

  Lambachi took the compliment and gushed. He had once attempted to become a warrior, but his wings were too large and bulky for all the marching and processions. He had been chosen as a revellor for his ability to act sinister despite his low intellect. “We’ll catch them by surprise, kill the messenger, bind the human, and discover who he is. Then we’ll retrieve the nestor and return to RHM with our prizes.”

  “And become princes of a province,” Kweedrum said.

  They glided down as quietly as they could, but the rain made it difficult. They landed with thumps and shook the rain from their backs like dogs. Except these dogs had sharpened talons and fangs that could rip the entrails out of a man with one swipe.

  They peered into the stone building, locked in on their prey, and rose as one.

  Owen followed the glowing robe of Nicodemus (if you’re wondering, it was the first time Owen had ever seen it glow) through the rain-battered streets, sloshing in the standing water. They were a curious pair to any who cared to look out their windows, though surely many did not care to, fearing the stinging, flying beasts.

  They stopped at one of the oldest stone buildings in town, the library. The front door was locked, but something clicked and it opened. Owen looked at Nicodemus and began to ask but decided to simply follow him.

  The familiar smell of old books hit Owen and brought back thoughts of the used-book store and his countless hours of reading among the full shelves. He had thrown himself into those books just as he had thrown himself into the Lowlands and his battles. Like a child leaping from a riverbank and submerging himself in cool waters, Owen had jumped headfirst into the swirling stories that surrounded him, sometimes not coming up for air for days. At times he forgot to eat, so lost was he in the pages.

  He had learned immeasurable things in the waters of words. He had enjoyed the classics, contemporary stories, and those in between. Fairy tales had been his favorite when he was younger. Later he moved to the Hardy Boys (and when no one was looking, even Nancy Drew), then to classics such as A Christmas Carol and Charlotte’s Web. Owen loved Where the Red Fern Grows. He cried at the deaths of the dogs (we apologize if you have not yet read that book, but we have not told you which dogs) and moved on to other works. Owen even enjoyed reading old encyclopedias. He would read just about anything, and the smell of the books and the wooden shelves and floors made him want to take up residence here.

  “Why are we going inside?” Owen said.

  “There’s a newspaper article you must see.” Nicodemus led Owen to a computer and gave him a date to key in. The masthead of the local paper appeared.

  “Go to the Metro section,” Nicodemus said.

  What Owen saw next took his breath. The headline read “Missing Couple Believed Dead.” A man and woman stood side by side, the woman holding a baby. Owen gaped. “It’s the king and queen of the west.”

  “And what do you know about them?”

  “They are the parents of the princess Onora, the one betrothed to me. But how . . . ?”
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br />   “The reason they are not the true king and queen is that they are not of the Lowlands. They are from the Highlands.”

  “Yes,” Owen said. “I discovered that. What happened?”

  “The Dragon transported them through the kingdom of the air. He took them to the Lowlands and made a treaty with them, promising to return them to their daughter at the appointed time, after the threat to his reign was over. Now he has violated that treaty and has vowed that Onora’s blood will anoint his throne.”

  “But I met the princess in the shack, the one where Mr. Page—my father—was staying.”

  “Yes, that is Onora, though she has aged because of the minion’s venom.”

  Owen’s mind raced. The article said the two had disappeared along with their baby. “What happened to the child, to Onora, when her parents were taken away?”

  “She came under the care of a lowly cleaning lady. Though she was married, because of the Dragon’s requirements, she did not stay with her husband but cared for the child alone.”

  Owen started to ask more, but Nicodemus put a finger to his lips. “I can tell you no more about her.”

  “Then tell me about Onora,” Owen said. “She has a match in the Lowlands?”

  “Of course. It was the King’s good pleasure all along to unite those in the Highlands with their counterparts in the Lowlands. This is part of your task. Do you remember the passage from The Book of the King?”

  Owen searched his memory. “‘Happy are those who have not seen the King and still believe what he has said. They shall be set free by knowing the truth and shall be partakers of the wholeness the world will soon see.’”

  “Excellent,” Nicodemus said. “Do you understand now?”

  Owen stared at the flickering screen. “I’m to marry Onora, the old woman here, whose match . . .” He thought of all the people and beings he had met in the Lowlands. One face stayed with him. One friend who was closer than any family member he had ever had. He looked up. “Watcher?”

  Nicodemus nodded solemnly.

  “I can think of no one better to spend my life with than someone as faithful and trustworthy as Watcher,” Owen said. “But marrying such an old person . . . and one who is part . . .”

  “Were you going to say ‘animal’? It is not the type of creature in the Lowlands that is important. It is the heart of the being.” Nicodemus turned off the computer. “And she does not have to remain old. There is a way to restore her.”

  “How?” Owen said.

  “That I cannot tell you. But she must survive her sting here, for . . .”

  Owen looked at Nicodemus, but all he could see was the glowing robe. “What? What were you going to say?”

  “I’ve said enough already,” Nicodemus said. “You will discover the rest in time.”

  “The rest?”

  “The Highland identity of Onora.”

  Owen had come to understand that only part of the puzzle would be unveiled to him at a time. “But I don’t understand. I know you said the Son has no match, but if everyone has a mirror in both worlds, why not the Son?”

  Nicodemus chuckled. “The one who brings wholeness must himself be whole. There is no other part to you, Owen. There is nothing more that can be added to your good heart. You are complete because you are the Son of the King.”

  “Then that means my sister, Clara—or what is she called in the Lowlands?”

  “Gwenolyn,” Nicodemus said.

  “So is Gwenolyn complete in herself as well?”

  “No, she has a reflection in the Lowlands also.”

  “If she was taken when we were young, wouldn’t the reflection or other person be here?”

  Nicodemus turned. “Your question is presumptuous.”

  Owen had heard the word before. Presumptuous meant he had made a faulty assumption, had presumed something. He had thought something about the King that wasn’t true. But what?

  “You assume the King lacks power.”

  “I do no such thing. It is simply that when a person is here, there is a reflection in the other realm. It is his way.”

  “Yes, but you do not give the King credit. He knew before it would even happen that Gwenolyn would be taken. And that you would be as well.”

  “So he placed her other part—or whatever you call it—in the Lowlands?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Wait,” Owen said. “If he knew we would be taken, he knew about Mordecai. He knew Bardig would die at the hands of Dreadwart. He knew what I would endure.”

  “Yes, and he believed it worth the discovery. And love.”

  “Love?”

  “A subject of the King who is forced to act does not do so out of love but compulsion. He or she is obligated to comply. But one who acts of his own free will out of a sense of gratitude and honor is the person who truly loves. Who truly follows.”

  “What about you, Nicodemus? Do you have an equal in some other world?”

  “I am simply a messenger of the King. I was given one chance to choose to either follow the true King or his enemy.” Owen was about to ask the fate of the King, his father, but the crashing of glass behind him sent him to the ground as two unearthly beings flew into the library and dived for the kill.

  Glass flew everywhere as Owen threw up his hands and ducked. Nicodemus pushed him hard behind the circulation desk, a wooden monstrosity near the front. Owen fell in a heap as glass tinkled around him and something wild screeched above. He looked back just in time to see a suddenly visible Nicodemus trying to fend off the swooping attackers.

  Nicodemus flew backward, tumbling over the computers and catapulting into the first row of stacks, knocking the shelves into each other like dominoes and sending them to the floor. Books flew everywhere as Nicodemus crashed to the floor.

  Owen froze when the revellors shot past him and hovered over Nicodemus, their enormous wings showering water droplets throughout the room. They were much like the one he had faced at Mrs. Rothem’s building, though these two looked scrawnier and didn’t have quite the same evil aura. However, when they shot sizzling saliva at Nicodemus, Owen could tell they were out for blood.

  No matter how comical a foe looks at a glance, the truth is that if they have sworn their allegiance to the enemy, we must not laugh at them or do anything but pity their foolish choices.

  Owen could have stayed hidden or even crawled away, but as we have said, when the heart of a lion beats inside the chest of what otherwise looks like an average young man, he cannot help but spring forth in heroic fashion.

  Owen leaped to his feet and brandished the Sword of the Wormling.

  Four eyes flashed fire, and the winged creatures abandoned the motionless Nicodemus and shot their venom toward Owen.

  He deftly avoided the streams and jumped to his right, a stack of books breaking his fall and propelling him. He dodged another volley of acid and retreated (or so the beasts had to believe) behind a large metal bookcase.

  “You take that side. I’ll take this,” one said with a hiss. Owen understood because of his sword.

  “But what about the nestor?” the other said. “I could let you take care of this while I go—”

  “Forget the nestor for now and concentrate! That must be the Sword of the Wormling.”

  Catlike, Owen climbed the shelves and perched on top as the slower revellor peeked around the side. Owen jumped, his sword in front of him, and plunged it deep into the back of the creature. A geyser spurted and there came a screech so demonic and otherworldly that Owen nearly covered his ears. Had he done so, he wouldn’t have had time to extract the sword and plunge it into the belly of the second beast that flew from the other end of the bookshelf and nearly devoured him. But that final thrust into the heart of the revellor killed it instantly, and Owen fell back, the beast’s long neck and left wing covering him.

  Owen struggled to escape from between the heavy creatures without the liquid scorching him. The one below made a final, desperate lunge at Owen, but he drove
the sword into the top of the creature’s head and down through its mouth until it finally stopped squirming. Venom seeped from the wounds and consumed the bodies as they shrank, hissing, into the wooden floor.

  Owen ran to Nicodemus, whose robe no longer glowed. Owen clawed at the books strewn over his body and pushed them away. His old friend and protector stared straight ahead, eyes fixed.

  “Nicodemus,” Owen whispered, lifting him, “don’t leave me. I need you.”

  Though Nicodemus’s lips didn’t move, Owen heard him clearly. “You haven’t needed me since the moment I met you.”

  “I needed you the night I almost fell into that hole in the street.”

  A smile appeared on the being’s face. “You have come a long way since that night. You are strong, Owen. But your strength comes from inside. From your heart.”

  Owen pulled out his sword and placed it against Nicodemus’s chest, but nothing happened. “I thought you would live forever.”

  “Only one is eternal, and all life springs from him.”

  “What has become of my father? Will I ever see him again?”

  Nicodemus struggled. “You are not alone, young prince. Keep the book close until every word is fulfilled. And remember what I have said. No matter what you find—or what finds you.”

  “Remember?” Owen said, leaning close, straining to hear. “Remember what?”

  Nicodemus lay back, and his words were as faint as a passing breeze. “The enemy will know when those two don’t return. Make haste. Fulfill your destiny.”

  “They spoke of a nestor,” Owen said. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Queen of the minions,” Nicodemus said, choking. “Very dangerous. It is death to you but also a weapon. . . .”

  “Please,” Owen said. “Don’t leave.”

  “‘No good thing is ever easy,’” Nicodemus whispered. And then he faded from Owen’s sight, leaving only books where he had lain.

  His heart breaking, Owen ran through the murky half-light of day and made his way back to the shack where he had left Clara and the old woman.