“How…?” was all Cris could manage to say.
Chen grinned. “How does it all work?”
He nodded.
“No-one really knows for sure how this place works,” she told him. “Apart from Damarus himself, of course. At the centre of the island there is a cave, about fifty yards in diameter, and inside is an ancient artefact of a prodigious size, in shape resembling a cube with a spherical top. The artefact cannot be removed from its place by any force, because the base and its feet are one continued piece with that body of metal which constitutes the bottom of the island. It is by means of this artefact, which Damarus is said to have brought with him through Heaven’s Gate when he arrived on Earth, that the island is made to rise and fall, and move from one place to another. At Damarus’ command, the entire island can be conveyed to different parts of the world, though I have never known this to happen in my lifetime. The buildings move according to the same principle.”
“Amazing,” Cris said. He’d been impressed by the technological marvels of Lahmia and Einek, but this was far in advance of anything he’d seen in either of those places.
Chen nodded. “I have always wanted to look upon the majesty of this place with my own eyes. I have not been disappointed on this day. Now, we are coming in to land.”
The Meta’thron-class bioship finally reached its destination, and landed automatically at the Sacred Palace’s Visitor Centre and Spaceport. Cris and Chen disembarked with a small crowd of people, tourists mainly, and walked warily out amongst various news and propaganda screens, which seemed to be showing a battle being fought between two armies somewhere on the planet’s surface. A huge statue of Lord Damarus towered above them, sculpted in white marble and made to show the Prophet as an ascended angel, its hands clasped together in solitary prayer.
“This way,” Chen said to Cris, taking charge. She ignored the automated tourist help stations and headed for a corridor marked:
“Too’ ta’ Grånde Ga’rrida” (To the Grand Corridor)
Cris’ eyes shifted nervously as he watched for someone to notice and approach them, feeling paranoid and vulnerable in this somewhat alien environment. He kept walking, following Chen’s lead, trying to look inconspicuous amongst the other tourists, even though it was impossible to do so. The others all appeared to be wealthy, bureaucratic or religious zealots dressed in expensive robes; none of them wore combat-ready Rãvier suits like the two outsiders new to their ranks. The crowd moved onto an ivory-like walkway between two towers of the Palace. Standing in the middle of this bridge, Cris could look up at the incredible slope of the main body of the Palace. He looked high, past level upon level of blazing lights, to the very top of the spire. Up there, open to the sky, was a row of hanging gardens that went all the way around the perimeter. Several levels down was another garden, also extending around all four sides of the Palace. Below that, another garden, and so on down the outside of the structure. The gardens formed a series of concentric squares when viewed from above. It gave the Sacred Palace a natural and organic appearance, like a second Garden of Eden in this otherwise scorched and barren world.
Cris suddenly looked around them, and was disconcerted to find the ivory bridge now empty except for Chen and himself. The other tourists had moved on, and Cris felt even more vulnerable. Uneasily, Chen hurried along the bridge and he followed, down the hall leading to the Grand Corridor itself. As they moved briskly along, they saw no other tourists, nor did they see any Palace staff.
Cris’ discomfort grew when he realised that he could hear his own footsteps in the silence. The constant background noise of the complex had dwindled away, and he had not even noticed it. Gone were the murmuring voices, the intercom calls, and the trample of feet. A chill settled over Cris as they walked the last few steps to the entryway of the Grand Corridor. Then, as they emerged into the vast thoroughfare, his suspicions were realised. The Grand Corridor was empty. Damarus was expecting them, after all.
“No one to meet us,” he observed, breaking the silence. The sound of his voice reverberated around the large chamber.
Chen nodded. “But they’ve cleared the way for us, it would seem.” Normally, the Grand Corridor would have been teeming with people. The hour of the day was irrelevant. One could find, at any time, bureaucrats, advisors, diplomats, ambassadors, Sentinels, administrators, dignitaries, soldiers, Holy Guards, and tourists filling the enclosed canyon in their thousands. Now, the kilometres long hall stood vacant. No one moved beneath the uncounted banners representing each of the Twelve Factions in the world, and the inhabited worlds beyond Earth. The promenade balcony level was deserted, and the grey granite pillars were the only things standing as far as they could see.
Cris hesitated in the doorway. Somehow, this whole situation felt like a trap, like a giant snare, but did that matter? He was still going where he wanted to go, where his future self had instructed him to go. Damarus was evidently making it easier for him.
As if reading his thoughts, Chen said, “Damarus must want you very badly, Cris. But for what?”
He didn’t have an answer for her. Instead, he stepped out into the corridor and began to walk purposefully along it. Now it was Chen who followed, marching towards the main public throne room, where she predicted that Damarus himself would be waiting for them. It was a symbol of Damarus’ authority, and it was a main destination from the Grand Corridor. Up on the balconies, Chen sensed the watchful eyes of hidden guards looking down on them, wondering what it was she didn’t know about Cris that made him so important in Damarus’ eyes. She suspected the guards would do nothing, as long as she and Cris walked along the intended path, so she took their non-interference as confirmation of their goal. The guards also meant that there would be no retreat; if they were in a trap, then so be it. There was no turning back now.
After walking for several minutes, they reached an ornate entryway – the famous doorway to Damarus’ throne room. Lorelei Chen knew from books and holograms that the throne room beyond was a cavernous auditorium, with the throne on the lowest level, which was reached by descending a small elevator. Spectators would sit on various levels of platforms containing thousands of benches. These were entered via a multitude of doorways, according to rank and social status, with the most important people sitting on the lowest levels, closest to Damarus. Chen decided it was best for them to avoid the elevator, and entered the doorway to the lowest audience deck; Cristian Stefánsson was, she decided, a very important person on this day. After taking the stairs and emerging onto the deck, they paused among the marble benches. About ten meters below them, Damarus’ throne sat at the top of a stepped platform at the far end of the immense room. Behind the throne, a bizarre symbol was carved into the wall. Above Damarus’ seat, a prism poured a rainbow of light down from the ceiling. The throne itself levitated above the dais, and in it was seated Lord Damarus - the Holy Emperor, the Ruler of the World.
Damarus was robed in black, with a hood that partially concealed the metallic mask that hid his face. His voice emerged from the mask in an eerily flanged, deepened register, as a sharp near-whisper, but the perfect acoustics of the room carried it with sinister grace.
“Welcome, Cristian,” Lord Damarus said. “At long last, you come before me. I have waited centuries for this moment.”
14
Cristian Stefánsson swallowed dryly.
He felt frozen, unable to move, overcome with awestruck terror. His pulse quickened, and his eyes filled with tears as the wraith-like figure of Lord Damarus raised to a standing position, pulled back his hood, and took a single step closer toward him.
“Events have truly come full circle, as I knew they would.” Damarus’ helmet-like mask glistened in the light as he spoke. It resembled an ancient Egyptian pharaoh’s death mask, made of gold and inlaid with semi-precious stones. The eyes were made with obsidian and quartz. Yet there was something else… otherworldly… about the mask’s appearance. Something Cris couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Lorelei Chen dropped to one knee, and bowed her head low in a hushed reverence. “My Lord Damarus,” she whispered, “it is a great honour, and blessing, to finally meet you in person. I have always dreamt of this day. Praise be unto you.”
Cris glanced at her, and fleetingly wondered whether or not he should be doing the same thing. Decided against it.
Damarus regarded her for a moment, then gestured with his right hand. “Rise, Lorelei Chen. Lora, it pleases me more than you yet know, to gaze upon your incomparable beauty once again. It has been far too long.”
Chen got to her feet, somewhat confused, feeling flustered. “My Lord? I must confess, I am perplexed, for as far as I know, we have never met before…”
Cris inhaled sharply, a thousand questions filling his mind. He interrupted bluntly: “How do you know our names, Damarus? How do you claim to know Lora, to know me, before we have even met? I come from a completely different time… I demand answers!”
Damarus turned to look at him calmly, then took another step toward him. “I know who you are, Cristian Stefánsson, but you know not who I am.”
Cris swallowed in the depths of his throat. “Then who are you? Really? You may have the people of this world fooled by your lies, but not me.”
Damarus seemed to chuckle with amusement. “Indeed. I know exactly what you are feeling, Cris. What you are going through. I know that you are confused. I know, because I went through those very same thoughts and feelings myself. Because you and I… we are the same person.”
The words hit Cris with the icy force of an avalanche. He suddenly felt nauseous, with an intense sensation of vertigo. “What… What did you just say?”
Lorelei Chen had a look of agonised, speechless shock on her face.
“I was once known as Cristian Stefánsson,” Damarus said, “More than three centuries ago. I once stood before me, as you do now, listening to these very words. Because I… am your future self.”
“No,” Cris shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. It was unthinkable, it was crazy. “No, that’s not true. It can’t be. That’s not who I am, not what I want…”
“Did the Makaton, Orillan, not tell you that he’d met you once before, in his past, but your future? He was referring to me, of course. I was the one who welcomed him, and his kind, to this world, during the fifth year of my reign here. Just check the history books in the city’s library, if you don’t believe me. And it was I who commanded Orillan to restore your lost memories, as he did with me, in Lahmia.”
Cris blinked. “But… how? I’m nothing like you…”
“On the contrary, Cristian,” Damarus said, “you are stuck inescapably in a predestination paradox. You are destined to become like me.”
Chen licked her lips. “My Lord, is this some kind of test? Surely you cannot be speaking the truth. You came from Heaven’s Gate… wrote the words of the Third Testament. You were sent by God…”
Damarus nodded once, slowly. “Do you not plan on entering the wormhole located within Heaven’s Gate, with Cristian? Does he not intend to return to his own time, and take you with him?”
Cris took a deep breath. “That is what I want.”
“As it was with me,” Damarus told him. “But things did not turn out that way, as I intended. Many things will happen to you on the other side of the wormhole, Cristian. Many unspeakable things. Things you cannot even imagine. And when you return… you will find a world reeling from a devastating apocalypse, and there you will become known by another name.”
“Damarus,” Cris said. He felt weak at the knees. This was insane, but somehow, he knew it was the truth, as preposterous as it sounded. He glanced longingly at Chen, searching for some kind of comfort in her eyes, some support, but the look he received in return from her was one of uncomprehending terror. She looked like somebody had ripped her heart out and stuffed it into her gaping mouth. He turned back to Damarus, frowning then. “What happened to you beyond the wormhole? Why are you wearing that mask?”
Damarus didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his right hand toward the helmet-mask and gestured subtly. As if responding to an unspoken command, the surface of the mask flashed into life, a deep, harmonic hum emitting from deep within. There was a hiss of steam, and the mask began to fold into itself automatically, metallic plates peeling away, retracting into a large collar. And there, beneath, was a sight that filled Cristian Stefánsson with fear and dread. Where he expected to see a human head, or face… was only a liquid-like event horizon, some kind of space-time boundary, which appeared to suck the surrounding light into its core. A dark, warped anomaly, which sent a chill through the very souls of its onlookers. Cris, who liked to think of himself as scientifically minded, could not even think to explain what he was seeing. He gasped, falling to his knees. Clearly, Damarus was no longer human… but what he was… seemed impossible.
“My God…” Cris exhaled.
Then, from within the anomaly, he heard a distorted sound, at first garbled, incomprehensible without the filtration systems of the helmet-mask, and then, slowly, chillingly, taking on the timbre and quality of his own voice: “Damarus will suffice.”
Lorelei Chen blinked away hot tears. “This isn’t possible,” she breathed, and lowered her gaze. “Truly you are all-powerful, my Lord.”
“I AM,” Damarus said, and seemed to regard her. “Beyond the wormhole, I found communion with God – the Alpha and the Omega. The Father. The Trinity. The Absolute. Call Him what you will. And through that communion, I found my Power, my Calling. The Lord God… chose me… to be His Prophet, and sent me back to the Earth through the wormhole – to restore Order during the Great Dark Age…”
“So it is true…” Chen breathed. She seemed relieved.
Cris shook his head, highly sceptical “This is bullshit. If you truly are my future self, then you’ll know that I have no belief in such things. It’s unscientific. And nothing could possibly change that.”
“I know,” Damarus said, “that you are not a fool, Cristian, or someone who would blindly follow religious dogma. I know that you hate the Church, and everything that it once represented. I am not disputing this, for I was just the same. However, I assure you that your experiences beyond the wormhole… the things that you will see, the beings that you will encounter… will convince you otherwise. And everything you choose to do, will be of your own Free Will. You will not be forced into any of this. Willingly, you will accept your true Destiny.”
Cris took a deep breath. “I don’t believe in predestination. And if what you say is true, it would also create an ontological problem – a reverse-grandfather paradox, essentially. You, and your actions in the past… cannot exist without having been created first.” He grimaced, both confused and repelled by the sight of the impossible, distorted anomaly before him.
“I can see that my true visage makes you uncomfortable,” Damarus said, sounding slightly disappointed. “Allow me to don my mask…” Another gesture with his right hand and the surface of the helmet-mask protracted, once again giving him the appearance of an ancient, golden king, his voice an eerie, deepened sound through the mask’s filters. “Alas, my words alone will never convince you. Soon, when you have seen what I have seen, and learned what I have learned, you will understand perfectly…”
“Never going to happen,” Cris said adamantly. “The wormhole will take me back to my own time. To the twenty-first century. I will see my family again. And you will never have existed.”
At that moment, Lorelei Chen burst into a flood of tears, turned about, then ran for the doorway behind the audience deck, hysterical with emotion. The automated doorway whispered open, and she disappeared into the corridor outside without looking back.
“Lora! Wait!” Cris called, but the doorway had already slammed shut behind her.
“Don’t worry,” Damarus said. “She’ll be back in a minute.”
“How do you know?”
Behind the helmet-mask, Damarus emitted a low ch
uckle. “Because I remember it well.”
Outside in the corridor, Lorelei Chen doubled over, feeling sick. She leaned her right arm against one of the huge granite pillars that supported the cathedral-like ceiling, taking deep breaths and sweating profusely. Her head was spinning, and tears scorched her face. It was as if her entire world was being thrown into absolute chaos; in the past few days, she’d began to seriously doubt her standing with God. In the past few hours she’d murdered her husband, and discovered that the new man she’d fallen in love with was actually destined to become the figurehead of her religion – someone she’d looked up to since childhood as a legendary saviour of her people, and an icon worthy of praise and worship. It was a spiritual crisis for her – forcing her to rethink everything she had come to believe over the course of her entire life. On top of that, Cris was talking about returning to his own time and having no part in his ‘destiny’ – returning to his family, his wife and daughter. Where would that leave her? How would she factor into all this? Would she even exist if Damarus was never created?
She took deep breaths, trying to keep calm. Somehow, she was going to get through this. The very thought of getting through such a turbulent situation seemed impossible, insurmountable… she was going to need a lot of time to adapt to this new truth, to this new worldview…
Out the corner of her vision, she suddenly sensed movement between nearby pillars – a blur of motion. She frowned, blinking away her tears, alarm bells ringing in her mind. Someone else was here, in this corridor, that much was certain now. Quite near and lurking with some strange intent. Could it be Damarus’ Holy Guards keeping an eye on her? Or something more sinister?
She felt the presence again, something shifting past a large pillar just to her left. Spooked, she danced to the right, away from the pillar, her head turning left, eyes peering through the bright morning sunlight that beamed through the corridor’s large stained-glass windows. She knew, from a hundred experiences in the Shadowlands, that whoever was lurking nearby might be carrying a blade. She turned left and pounced forward between the pillars, going low in case that was true. As her hand shot out, she felt her fingers touch flesh, then her entire hand was clasped around another human wrist. She jerked forwards and downwards, dragging whoever it was out from the shadow of the pillar and into the light.
The Complete New Dominion Trilogy Page 12
