Lorrieann’s World

Prologue

Arcana, Day One

Gabriel stepped before the ornate dressing mirror with its amber glass tilted slightly upward on its iron pivot, to get his first look. The image before him stood tall, slender but imposing, dressed in shirtsleeves and shall-collared waistcoat, black trousers seamed with a black satin ribbon down the sides, and smartly polished oxfords topped in lambskin spats. The black tail coat waited on the broad wooden hanger on a dressing stand beside him. His reflected eyes looked back at him from the glass, dull as stone and gray as ash, dry and lifeless. His hair, long and as black as a crow, was pulled back and shone glossy against his head, and his meticulously trimmed beard and mustache stood in stark contrast to his pallid complexion. He tugged at the points of his waistcoat impatiently, and frowned, disappointed in the reflection of his own being.

“I suppose you shall suffice,” he said to the glass, with a shrug, turning away from the mirror for an appraisal from his assistant. “What say you, Malus? Am I . . . appropriate?” Malus nodded, solemnly. Gabriel expected no other response, though he wished for once that Malus would dare to speak his own mind. He turned back to the mirror. “So, is everything in order?”

“As much as . . . humanly possible, Master.”

Gabriel cocked a brow, amused at Malus’ rare display of humor. “Witty.”

“Thank you, sir.” Malus held out a length of black silk in one hand, and in the other, an ornate silver pin—a serpent looping in a sideways figure-eight clasping its tail in its mouth. “Your cravat and pin, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ve waited a long time for this day, Malus. So very long.” He fumbled with the cravat in a clumsy attempt to tie it properly, then turned to Malus with an apologetic sigh. “Would you be so kind?”

Unperturbed, Malus expertly tied the cravat around his master’s collar, fastening it in the middle with the silver pin, and tucking the ends into the top of the waistcoat. He reached for the top coat, then paused, a thoughtful crease on his brow that was quickly banished as he held the garment out for Gabriel.

“What is it, Malus?” Gabriel asked softly, watching the man’s reflection in the glass.

“Nothing, sir.” Malus replied, brushing Gabriel’s shoulder with a small whisk. Gabriel turned, to look at Malus directly. The man shrunk back slightly, holding the whisk between his palms like prayer book. He cast his glance toward the floor and mumbled something.

Gabriel placed his finger under Malus’s chin and gently raised the wizened old face to meet his own. “I know your concern, but it is as it is, my friend. It is far too late to turn back now. The wheels are all turning, the events are taking place as we stand here.”

“Yes, sir.” Malus nodded, the crease returning to his brow. “It’s just . . . ” He shook his head, then crossed the room, plucking a bowler derby from an elaborate wooden hat rack and brought it to Gabriel. “Forgive me for saying so sir, but I’ve been watching this lot who’ll be sent to you, and I fear the odds of any of them stepping up to the task are very slim.”

“Perhaps.” Gabriel offered a rare smile, and placed the hat squarely on his head. “But with stakes as high as these, if my challenge was an easy one, then anyone could take this mantel and wear it as I do, and there would be no need for the challenge that must now take place.”

“High stakes, indeed,” Malus agreed, adjusting Gabriel’s hat so that it sat with a slight tilt on his forehead. “Are you sure the time is now, sir?”

“What know I of time, Malus,” Gabriel answered patiently, idly tracing the silver serpent with one finger. “I only know that the barrier has begun to crumble and the choice of when the time would come was not mine to make. I am, after all, at the mercy of my own master, am I not? He sees fit that the challenge should come now. Please don’t cast a pall of doubt about me, Malus. Confidence, man. All shall be well, you’ll see.” A ghost of a smile crossed Malus’ lips. Gabriel gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Good, man. Now, am I complete?”

“Nearly,” Malus replied, then hurried out of the room. A moment later he returned carrying a large service tray laden with an ornate, silver goblet and a long, polished oaken case, both adorned with the same looping serpent symbol as the pin Gabriel wore on his cravat. “I took the liberty sir, of retrieving this from the vault in the library. I hope I haven’t overstepped.”

“Well thought, Malus!” Gabriel grinned, tipping his head slightly. “As always, your intuition is squarely on the mark.” He reverently opened the wooden case. Though it had been so long that he’d forgotten the last time he’d seen it, the time seemed to vanish as he gazed at the familiar object resting in its black velvet bed. Outwardly, it appeared to be an ordinary walking stick, but Gabriel knew its true nature. He traced his fingers lightly along the length of the shaft, wrought of a single perfectly turned piece of black oak, polished to a near mirror-like shine. The sphere shaped handle was cast of silver, it too polished to perfection. He grasped the sphere and gave a half twist until he heard the faint click, then withdrew the blade that was concealed within the oaken shaft of the walking stick. He smiled, pleased to see the blade was still bright and sharp, before sliding it back into the cane.

He reached for the goblet, and hesitated only for a moment before grasping it and raising it to his lips to sip the liquid it contained.

Malus reached out and covered the bell of the goblet with his hand before Gabriel could drink. “Master? Are you . . . certain?”

Gabriel met his gaze, and smiled kindly to his loyal assistant—his only true friend in the universe. Malus withdrew his hand slowly, and when his master tilted the goblet to drink, he turned his head, pretending not to see the contortions twisting Gabriel’s face as he swallowed the bitter potion. And bitter it was, more bitter than any drink known to mankind, a drink distilled from all the tribulations of mortality, a vintage that had fermented since the dawn of human existence. His hand trembled slightly as the brew trickled down his throat. It burned. God! How it burns! For an instant he wondered if he had already lost, but he closed his eyes and forced himself to remain calm, as his entire being began to quake.

He leaned heavily on the cane, his knees shuddering beneath him. Malus caught the goblet as it fell from Gabriel’s fingers, and reverently placed it back on the tray. Gabriel sank to his knees, his fingers viselike on the silver sphere. Malus began to rush forward to help, but backed away when Gabriel growled a warning for him to stay back, his teeth bared and clenched tightly together.

The tremble in his body radiated into the handle of the cane and down into the shaft. The sphere began to glow, faintly at first, and then more, and more until it was as bright as the sun. Malus fell to his knees, covering his face, sobbing, “Master . . . master . . . ”

A moment passed, and all quieted. Gabriel drew in a long breath—his first. He leaned on the cane, and realized it felt cool in his hand—his first tactile sensation. He looked into the mirror, and his eyes went wide at the reflection of his ruddy face, the drops of perspiration on his brow. His eyes had turned to a bright blue and glistened with tears that trailed down his cheek. He caught a tear on his finger and stared, enraptured by the simple drop. He placed his hand against his chest and felt the thump of his heartbeat, and began to laugh, then sob, then laugh again unabated for several moments, reveling in the sensations around him, feeling for the first time, as all mortals must feel.

In the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder, and knew it would soon begin to rain for the first time in Arcana. For the first time, there would be wind, sunshine, clouds. Night and day would come on a regular cycle, the moon would force the tides, just as she did in the other world—if only for this brief time while the master’s game was played—for mortal beings could not exist whithin an immortal world. But, when the challenge was met and no mortal dwelt here any longer, Arcana would return to the stasis of timelessness in which it had always existed. Oh that it could stay, lush and living, he thought sadly. But then, all living things must die, and that is something the keeper of Arcana can never do.

His hand grasped tightly on the cane again, as another thought crept to his mind, what if none of them are adequate to take this role? Malus’ fear was not without merit—the players his master had chosen seemed impossibly derisory to him as well. He worried on that for a moment, wishing he’d had a say in who would be sent to meet the challenge. He tried to push the worry from his mind; it would not serve him now. After all, he’d taken the first step and it was too late to take it back. He was mortal—for better or worse—and there was no choice but to accept the challenge his master had put before him—to redeem the unredeemable, love the unlovable, console the inconsolable, find a purpose for the lost, and in the doing find the one among them who would become the new keeper of Arcana. It’s impossible! What if none of them is the one? What then? What will become of me? Of Malus? Of Arcana and the other world?

As if in answer to his silent questions, the tray began to rattle. Malus clasped his hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed and wide, staring at the goblet. Gabriel comforted him, his hand on the man’s back, as they watched the goblet begin to shimmer and glow, the rim flanging bell-like, its stem elongating as the base began to shrink. It hovered above the tray, glimmering in midair, taking on the form of an object he had never actually seen in his entire existence, but had feared and dreaded since the beginning, the message of its appearance leaving no room for him to doubt the intentions of his master should he fail to choose a successor—the trumpet had been presented. “I understand,” he said quietly, shuddering as the dreaded instrument melted back into the shape of a goblet.

If he failed, it would not be long before the four held behind the crumbling barrier would awaken to hear the signal that Gabriel was obligated to deliver, that would free them to wreak destruction between the worlds.

Gabriel dropped his head, allowing his first silent tears of sorrow to fall.