Paradigms Lost (40 page)

“Good. Because, lord knows, I’ve got enough to worry about right now . . .”

CHAPTER 55

They Never Knock

I looked around the office one more time. It was a little intimidating to realize that I wouldn’t be back here for quite a while and that when I came back, I’d be married. We’d be spending our wedding night at Verne’s before setting out on our honeymoon.

Everything looked in order—ordinary, even, and I found that startling in and of itself. When I’d first moved in and started WIS, I would have laughed at the thought of vampires and werewolves. And now I knew things far stranger were real. It seemed somehow strange that my office still looked ordinary.

I turned back towards the door and jumped back with an inarticulate yell, yanking out my pistol at the same time and pointing it dead-center at the towering apparition that stood there.

It looked like a man—but one that topped seven feet in height. He wore some kind of robed outfit, mostly blue and brown and gray, and a peculiar five-sided hat which had symbols on it that I couldn’t make out. The hat shadowed his face, so while I could see white hair and a sharp-edged chin, I couldn’t see anything else clearly. One hand gripped a staff as tall as he was, an elaborately carved staff with a complex crystal headpiece that chimed when he moved it.

And despite the utterly outlandish appearance of the figure, I was struck first by the eerie feeling that I’d seen him before.

“Who the
hell
are you, what are you doing here, and how the heck did you get
in
here?”

The vaguely visible mouth turned up in a smile. The answer was in a very deep, resonant voice that reminded me of a cross between James Earl Jones and Charlton Heston in his old Moses role. “I am Konstantin Khoros, Jason Wood. I am here . . . to see you, mainly. See you separate from others, in isolation, for only thus can a man be understood as an entity unto himself.”

“Does that also make you incapable of
knocking
?” Despite my anger, I lowered the gun. This guy didn’t seem interested in threatening me, and he also didn’t seem to give a damn that I had pointed a gun at him in the first place.

He chuckled. “Not incapable, no. But in this case, it served my purpose better to not do so. An old friend of mine contacted me recently, and as I suspected, it was you who set him on the path that would lead him to do so.”

There weren’t too many candidates, and given this guy’s outlandish garb . . . “Verne?”

Khoros nodded. “He spoke to me of coincidences and miracles, and I could hear that he was much changed since last we had spoken. I had wondered what would become of him, the day it began for you. I am pleased to see the results are all I had hoped.”

The day it began . . .
I suddenly remembered that day, and the very first hint of strangeness, an impossible image out of the corner of my eye . . . “That was
you?
You were watching me then—before I even started—”

He shook his head, and the staff chimed faintly. “Not before you started; for already you had the photographs taken by Klein in your possession. I guessed where such an event would lead.”

“More than
I
could have guessed,” I admitted.

“I have had somewhat more practice than you at these things,” he said, and began to turn. “Tell the Sh’ekatha when next you see him that I have the answer I have sought, and the answer to all his questions that can be so answered is yes; as for his other questions, there are no coincidences, and I have entered the endgame.”

“Why the heck don’t you tell him yourse . . .” I began, and trailed off as Khoros disappeared in a chime and a shimmer of golden light. I stared for several minutes. “Dammit.”

It took only a couple of moments to dial up Verne’s house and get him on the line. “Yes, Jason? What can I do for you in this most hectic of times?”

“I just had an unexpected visitor. Tall guy with a weird hat and a staff.”

He was silent for a moment, then I heard him sigh. “Khoros.”

“That was the name he used, yeah. Verne, he’s been watching me since the day I started working on Klein’s photos.”

“I . . . see.” Another pause. “I will be there momentarily.”

Since he could travel with the speed of a whirlwind, it literally was moments; I’d only just hung up the phone when a breeze swept out from the doorway and Verne materialized from thin air.

“I guess I should get used to that,” I remarked. “Khoros disappeared from the same place a few minutes ago.”

“Yes,” Verne said, eyes distant. “I can sense his magic—unmistakable, when he allows a trace to linger. He wanted me to be able to verify it was him.”

“Why wouldn’t he talk directly to you? You called him up, didn’t you? About Ms. Lumiere?”

“And young Mr. Ross, yes. What exactly did he say?”

“Several things, none of them very informative. He did leave a message specifically for you.” I made sure I had the phrasing right. “He said that he had the answer he had sought, that the answers to all your questions which could be so answered was
yes
, and that as to your other questions, there were no coincidences and he had entered the endgame.”

Verne’s eyes widened and he muttered something in the ancient language that I now knew was Atlantaean. “And he has been watching
you
that long?”

“Yeah. I actually saw him that night, it was just so quick I figured it was a trick of the light somehow. What did he mean by all that, and is he always that much of a . . . twit?”

Verne gave a snort of laughter. “He was somewhat less of a . . . twit, as you put it, in the old days. But he has been searching ever since the Fall for answers to a specific set of questions, and that search . . .
obsession
would not be too strong a word to apply to it. It now seems he has found those answers, and that all that has happened is either part of, or is being bent to, his ultimate goal. A goal, I hasten to add, which is a worthy one. Of his methods . . . I say less.”

“
All
that has happened? What ‘all’?”

“Possibly literally everything of note that has happened since you received those photos—Klein’s attempt to frame me, Carmichael’s ill-advised kidnapping, Virigar’s return, Kafan’s involvement with the Project, the appearance of your client Mr. Ross, and our encounter with Danielle Lumiere.”

“What? He couldn’t possibly have set that
all
up himself, and if he did, he’s a murdering bastard, but you don’t seem to view him that way.”

Verne smiled sadly. “I would be inclined to say that he did not in fact set it
all
up, but that he
did
know much of what was going to happen, and in some fashion it serves his purpose. You have undoubtedly heard of some people called ‘chessmasters’—people who manipulate events and other people to cause results that might be impossible to achieve by working directly?”

I nodded.

“Understand, then, that Khoros is one of those, only playing in a grander game on a scale that even I do not truly comprehend. He has been doing this since the Fall of Atlantaea.” He caught my glance. “Yes, Jason, he is one of those few survivors I mentioned. And no, I do not agree with his tactics in many cases. He is no longer the man I knew then. He is still on the
side
of good, understand; but he is, himself, no longer a good man.”

“How does that work?”

“He believes that the end does not
justify
the means, but that the means may be
necessary
for the end. That is, he will do or allow things that in no sense should be considered good, and these are not justifiable or defensible to him. Yet they
must
be done, in his view, to achieve a vastly greater goal.”

“A goal that’s taken him this long to reach? How the hell can he live with himself if that’s the case?”

“I do not believe,” Verne said, after a moment, “that he
intends
to live with himself once the task is complete.”

“And do you know what that task is?”

Verne nodded. “In essence . . . to shatter the Great Seal, and bring to justice the ones behind the destruction of Atlantaea.”

“By
himself
?” Given that the demons who’d taken down the ancient civilization had literally rewritten continental geology, the thought of one person trying to oppose such forces was mind-boggling.

“I suspect . . . something more complex, something involving your young friend Xavier, Ms. Lumiere, and others. But in the end, yes, I think he will take a direct hand. Somehow, Jason, you are part of those plans. As am I.”

He shook his head. “And I do not know how all this will end.”

CHAPTER 56

Vows and Threats

“Ready, Jason?”

I took a deep breath. “All set.” I wasn’t nearly as nervous as other grooms I’d known; my nervousness was only an echo of the proposal now. I was more excited than anything else.

I walked up the sunlit aisle, lined with flowers—incongruous against the browning grass of winter—that ran between the rows of chairs on Verne’s back lawn. Many people had wondered
why
we were having an outdoor wedding in winter. Syl wanted a wedding in the light, and what she wanted, she was going to get. I strongly suspected, however, that the unseasonably warm weather in the last week was not accidental, but due to intervention by a certain priest of Eönae.

Verne, of course, was Best Man. I saw my mom and dad—Mom’s hair still clearly blond (maybe dyed, but I’d never dare ask), Dad’s a distinguished gray—both smiling broadly. Sylvie’s mom sat just across the aisle from them, and was already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Why do so many people cry at weddings? Jeri Winthrope was also near the front, leaning back in a relaxed pose as she waited for the vows, having already sat through Father Turner’s quick little introductory sermon; Morgan was next to her, straight as a ramrod in his proper butler manner. Kafan was with his three children and Paula, looking happier than I’d ever seen him. I saw Camillus and Meta a row back, along with several other members of Verne’s household who I’d only glimpsed on occasion.

Then I saw Sylvie, and everything else faded. She’d chosen a traditional shimmering white for her gown, and I no longer saw the laughing gypsy princess . . . or, rather, I saw the shining angel who’d hidden behind the gypsy façade.

I heard the vows, and responded, but at the same time I hardly heard them at all. Sylvie was the only one who mattered.

“You may kiss the bride,” Father Turner said finally.

I lifted the veil and bent down. I don’t know how long we stood there.

Then the party began. But as a favorite character of mine once said, that’s a deceptively simple statement, like “I dropped the atom bomb and it went off.” The reception and dinner went on for hours, and no one seemed inclined to leave early. Hitoshi had outdone himself, and even with my newfound wealth, I shuddered trying to imagine the bill for this one. Imported caviar was a trivial garnish, and I was quite sure that if I’d asked for a truffle, I’d be handed one the same way other people might give you an apple from the fridge. Butterflied lobster, some kind of imported beef that cost twenty times what any other cut might, abalone, the list went on and on. The cake itself was a stunning edifice of the pastrymaker’s art. I learned later that Verne had imported, not the cake, but the cake
maker
from Paris just for this one cake.

Finally, with most of the guests cleared out, our inner circle gathered in the living room and Sylvie and I started going through the remaining presents. Most of them were exactly what you’d expect: silly knicknacks, small appliances, we all know the kind of thing. But there were a few . . .

I studied the long, slender package. “Damn. Feels pretty heavy. What, a crowbar?”

Jeri smiled. “Open it and see.”

I stripped the wrappings off and opened the box. “My god!”

It was a sword—katanaesque in its design, with strange upward-spiking crossguards and a hilt that could be grasped with one or both hands. There was something strange about the metal of the blade, maybe a color or a shimmer. I glanced questioningly at her. “Okay, you people seem to have found out that I collect swords, but I’m stumped on this one. What is it, exactly?”

“Sort of a joke,” Jeri said, obviously pleased that it wasn’t instantly clear to me. “Since you seem to get involved in all kinds of unearthly strange stuff, we thought an unearthly blade would be appropriate.”

“Unearthly . . . ?” I stared at it. “Meteoric metal!”

“Bang on,” she agreed. “There’s a couple outfits that make things like this, so Achernar and the rest of us chipped in to get it.”

“Well, thanks!” I hugged Jeri. “Convey my thanks to the rest of the spies.”

“Will do. Hey, go help your wife over there.”

Sylvie was wrestling with the wrappings on something that stood about six feet high. Finally, the two of us convinced the box to open. Sylvie gasped. “Oh, my . . .”

It was a vanity table—wood so polished that it seemed to shine from within, a mirror sparkling in the center, drawers so carefully fitted that they slid in and out with only a whisper of sound.

“Oh, Kafan, how beautiful!” Sylvie said, throwing her arms around Verne’s foster son. “You shouldn’t have!”

“Bah,” said Kafan, blushing. “I don’t have much money of my own yet, so all I could do is make something. Jason’s got matching bookcases and a dresser, but I didn’t wrap those up—take up too much room.”

I thanked Kafan, and while Syl hugged him again I chose another package. This one had elegant writing on it that could only belong to Verne. Opening the small box, I found two rings, formed of gold and what appeared to be platinum and ruby, intertwined like growing vines. “What . . .”

“Gold and platinum, imperishable metals, the essence of the Earth,” Verne said, “and ruby, the bloodstone, symbol of life ever-flowing.” His own ruby flickered, and I thought I saw a faint answering shimmer from the twining ruby threads.

“They’re amazing, Verne,” Sylvie said. Her eyes became distant momentarily, and then widened. “No, Verne, you can’t!”

I understood then. “We can’t possibly—Verne, you took these from your true home! We can’t accept them!”