Wayne Batson - The Door Within

Hand on the hilt of his sword, Paragal entered and walked past shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. Each level held scrolls beyond number, and Paragal had read every one, word for word. All except for the first scroll kept in a locked chest on the ninth level-and, of course, the scroll on the desk in front of King Eliam.

The ink on that scroll was wet, and the pen was still in the hand of its author.

“You have come earlier than you are wont,” said the King, his back turned to Paragal. “Come in, my Sentinel. Have you news?”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Paragal. “There is a matter I would speak to you about.”

The King dipped the pen into a dark bottle of ink and continued writing. “I will gladly attend to your wish, for this scroll is nearly complete.”

“M’lord, if you please,” said Paragal through gritted teeth. He despised having to beg like a mongrel at his master’s table. “It is an urgent matter that will not wait.”

“Very well, Paragal,” said King Eliam. He turned and rose to look upon his Sentinel. Whether it was some trick of the candle’s light, Paragal could not tell, but he thought there was an odd look in the King’s eyes. Surely he cannot suspect, Paragal thought.

“Let us speak, then,” said the King.

“There is some trouble among the Elder Guard. Will you come?” asked Paragal, gesturing out of The Library.

“Trouble?” echoed the King. “Lead me where you will.”

Together they left The Library of Light and passed through the flames. Then the throne room-they walked by the marble seat of the King. The moonlight cast Paragal’s large shadow over the throne as they passed.

No words were spoken as Paragal led the King down a long hall and then by the stair to Guard’s Keep. They did not travel the stair. Instead Paragal guided King Eliam to a seldom-used door, the door to the great stone balcony above Guard’s Keep. The King paused momentarily to allow Paragal to open the door and escort him out into the cool air of the fading night.

Beyond the waist-high parapets lay the still gray shadows of Alleble. Towers, cottages-even the fountains seemed to rest unaware.

Paragal walked out toward the center of the vast balcony and brushed his hand along a rectangular block of marble that stood about four feet in height and was about as long and wide as a tomb.

“What is this you have led me to see, Paragal?”

“It is an altar.”

The King stared at the back of his Sentinel. “An altar for what purpose?”

“Come and see, my lord,” said Paragal.

Paragal stepped to the brink of the balcony wall and waited for the King.

When King Eliam approached, Paragal pointed over the wall down into the courtyard. The King’s gaze followed, and his eyes widened.

Men, women, and children, bound by their hands and gagged, trembled waist-deep in the vast fountain nearest the castle. Soldiers with torches ablaze surrounded them, and bowmen with flaming arrows fitted to their bowstrings stood at the ready.

“There is trouble with the Elder Guard, my lord,” said Paragal.

“Paragal, what have you done?” said the King. His hand crept slowly to the hilt of his sword.

“It is simply what I have been prepared for my entire life. I am fair and wise and powerful, and yet, while you live, I am but a puppet- a servant never allowed to achieve the grandeur I deserve.”

“Paragal, you have been as a son to me.”

“A pet, you mean. A servant. Always I am second!” Paragal raged. He drew Cer Muryn and slashed the air as he spoke. “But no longer. Your precious Elder Guard, their wives and children all wait to see what sort of King you truly are. The fountain is filled now with fuel oil and will kindle into a pool of fire with a kiss from a flaming arrow. I have but to signal and they perish.”

The King’s shoulders sagged and his head lolled to the side as if something he had long expected had finally occurred, but the weight of it was more devastating than he had imagined.

Paragal’s voice lowered to a gravelly whisper. “Oft you have spoken of sacrifice. Will your deeds match your words? You must now choose, my lord: Your life or theirs?”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “You are wise, indeed, Paragal. But your wisdom is tainted by this treachery. Do you believe that by murder, you will gain the love and respect of all the free folk of Alleble?”

Paragal’s eyes narrowed. He stepped just a breath away from the King. “If they do not give me their love freely,” Paragal said, “then I will take it at the edge of the sword or… by fire!”

“That is fear, not love,” said the King.

“Nevertheless, it is what I will. And finally, my will be donenot yours.”

Paragal gestured toward the altar with the tip of his blade.

“So, great King,” he seethed. “Will you lay aside your crown for your people? Will you redeem their trust in you? Or would you watch them perish in such fire and allow their screams to haunt you forever?”

The King looked one last time into the eyes of his people, into the eyes of the children. They were frightened and shivered as much from fear as from the morning chill. But there was more in their eyes than fear. The King smiled at them kindly and removed his sword.

And then Eliam, the mighty King of Alleble, lay down upon the bed of stone.

Bloodlust gleaming in his eyes, Paragal approached the altar and gripped his sword, Cer Muryn, the sword forged by the King. The spark once kindled by Paragal’s purity was gone. The onyxes in the sword’s hilt were as lifeless and cold as ice.

Paragal held the blade aloft high above the King’s neck. The captives in the fountain stirred restlessly.

“Have you any parting words, my lord?” the Sentinel asked, sneering.

“Your name,” said the King. “Your name, Paragal, in the old tongue, means ‘one of pure light,’ and so you once were. But know this: When your stroke falls, so shall your own star fall. Your light will go out, and you will earn a new name. You shall be called Paragor-‘one of pure darkness.’ Darkness will be your dwelling place, and it will consume you. You will be ever hungry for what you can never have. No darkness in Alleble will be as you.”

Paragal’s eyes flickered and flashed red for a moment.

“You have no power to pronounce this,” Paragal said through his teeth. His grip tightened on the sword, and he prepared to deliver a mighty stroke. But the blade did not fall. In fact, it could not fall, for King Eliam held it up by force of his own will. And then he spoke once more.

“What you are about to do, do it now, but know: You do not command this. I am allowing it. And nothing will ever rescue you from the doom you have chosen.”

“No!” Paragal screamed, but it came out in a hiss like a venomous snake. And like the strike of a cobra, he brought the blade down swiftly on the King’s neck.

N oooooooo!” cried Aidan, sitting bolt upright in his bed. He raised his arms, trying desperately to ward off an attack. But the attack was not there in his room. It was back in his dream, his nightmare. Aidan’s chest heaved. His bedclothes were drenched in cold sweat. Aidan shivered.

He looked down at the scrolls, the account of the Great Betrayal. He had seen it in his dreams, and it was horrible. Aidan tried to shake the vivid images from his mind, but they held on.

He’d done it. The, the-Aidan could not find a word severe enough to describe Paragor. He had taken the love of his King and kingdom, and their trust as well, and he had paid them back with treachery. Paragor’s face, once noble and proud, had become twisted with rage and hate. That face…

Aidan realized with horror that it was not the first time he had seen that face. The warrior from the recurring dream. It’s him! It’s Paragor!