5000

He blinked at the vial in his hand.

Here, in this small glass tube filled with a clear, bright, and colorless liquid, he held the secret of the human soul.

It may as well have just been water, Lastor mused as he rolled the vial slowly, pensively, across his agile fingers. It looked no different from and weighed no more than water. And yet this was such a murky, dark, and multicolored secret! It was a bigger secret than anyone even knew. He thought that something so momentous ought to be a little heavier in his hand.

His eyes, a bright black tinged with subtle notes of violet, lifted reluctantly away from the liquid secret in his hand, toward the expansive table before him. He replaced the tube back in its stand. It was only one among many—several rows of stands, all filled with identical vials, spanned the great black table in the center of the room. He had produced the copies even though it was not necessary. Something so important needed to be duplicated, lest anything should go wrong.

And yet each of these tiny vials contained its own infinity of power. Each vial, on its own, would be enough to conquer and control all of humanity.

But that was not what Lastor wanted. He was not interested in power and conquest and control. He wanted only to be good, and to be brilliant. He had discovered something infinitely powerful and beautiful, infinitely promising and dangerous—and he would devote his life to ensuring that this thing, this infinite secret, was well understood and put to good use.

He smiled at his vials, then left the room to return to his study. He had made an impossibly great and important discovery, in finding and identifying the elixir. But there was more research to be done. On the island of Shelta, there was always more research, always more work.

He closed and locked the heavy steel door behind him.

As he turned a corner onto the central corridor, he spotted his father at the hall’s far end.

“Lastor!” Crion called, waving down the young scientist, who had been trying to slip away unnoticed to his study. “We’ve been looking for you!”

Lastor grimaced, unhappy as always to be called away from his work.

“Don’t you remember? We’re holding the luncheon today, in celebration of your discovery! No one wants to eat without the guest of honor,” Crion stated as he rushed across the hall toward his adoptive son. His smile wide and proud, he placed a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “Take a brief break from your work, won’t you? You deserve it, more than anyone. Come; join us.”

Lastor smiled weakly. He had never liked the idea of this luncheon. He thought that celebrations were a frivolous and fruitless waste of time, a vain extravagance. He only ever paused to eat when the pangs in his stomach interfered with the operations of his mind—and that, typically, occurred only once every couple of days.

But his fellow scientists had insisted heartily upon it. They’d reminded Lastor that he had made the biggest discovery in the entire twenty-year history of this laboratory community on the island, and that that called for celebration.

Crion, besides, was the one man he had always been powerless to deny. Lastor lived to please his father, even more so because his bond toward this father was not merely biological, but intellectual. This man had not fathered Lastor’s fetus, but he had fathered and fostered his mind. As such, Lastor felt that he owed him everything.

He settled into the curve of Crion’s arm, which was wrapped in fatherly pride around his boyish shoulders as the two headed down the corridor. They crossed the massive laboratory and headed toward the western terrace. This was where the scientists always held their luncheons and their suppers, on the rare occasions when such gatherings were arranged.

“You know, less than a moon ago, it was the turn of the millennium,” Lastor announced to his father as they neared the wide stone terrace, which protruded from a cliff of rock and overlooked a great expanse of sea. The others were all seated and waiting there, and they were visibly glad to see that Lastor had arrived. He was the pride of the island.

Crion had not known. Or mayhap he had known and instantly forgotten. He did not count the days or moons or years he spent upon this island, much less the millennia. A fleeting vision of a Glorian family flashed across his mind—two beloved pairs of sea-blue eyes, and one of raven eyes so like his own—but the vision was fleeting, and distant. Kevriel had been here recently, for a brief visit. His visits were always brief, as he had no place and no purpose in the lab. Crion had written a letter for his firstborn son to pass on to Anorrah and Gorovan. He had been glad for the opportunity to share the momentous news with them, and in his letter he had told them that, now that the great discovery had been made, the entire project might be soon concluded.

That had been a bit of a lie. One great discovery had been made, and so one quest was ended. But Crion’s whole life was an unending project, a thirst for quest not ever to be quenched.

He remembered, now, that Kevriel had mentioned the new millennium to him, and reminded him that he’d promised his wife and daughter that he would return home to spend it with them. Crion had heard—but he had been busy with some lab work at the moment, and so he had not really been listening.

But Crion always listened to Lastor. And now that Lastor had shared the same news, Crion absorbed and retained it.

He also remembered his promise, with a heavy heart, and wished he had not made it.

“Was it, then? I can always count on you to keep a constant little calendar in this brain of yours. What else are you hiding up there?” Crion asked Lastor playfully, gently knocking his fist on the young boy’s soft temple. “An endless supply of knowledge and wisdom, no doubt.”

Lastor laughed a silent laugh. “Not yet, at least! I am not as wise as you, Father.”

“Oh, I disagree. But I will defer to your judgment, as you are so wise after all.”

They seated themselves at the table, on which a modest spread had been prepared. For the Sheltans—who lived on stale bread and dried fruit, morsels snatched and swallowed down in seconds between endless hours of work—a lunch of warm loaves and ripe berries was quite an extravagant thing. Lastor thought that it was totally unnecessary.

Crion shared his son’s news of the new millennium with the others. Much like himself, none of his fellow scientists had even been aware of that passage of time.

“Well, then,” one of them put in, “yet another cause for celebration!”

“A big year for a big discovery—perhaps the biggest of the upcoming millennium,” another added jubilantly.

The scientists spoke amongst themselves of Lastor’s great discovery and its infinite implications. Ever since the earliest days of this island community, during which Lastor had been a small infant, this was what the scientists had been seeking. Ever since they’d stumbled across the records and learned what secrets lurked inside this laboratory, they had determined to find and explore them. After all their many years’ worth of failed efforts, that discovery had only just come to pass two moons ago—and it had been at the hands of this bright-eyed, bright-minded young boy.

The discoverer himself was quiet, spending the entire lunch on one heel of bread, which he chewed absently, his busy mind entirely elsewhere.

He only tuned in to listen when it was his father who spoke.

“So, twenty years later, the vials of magic are discovered, and my son has become a magical little genius of a man,” Crion proclaimed, clapping a strong and loving hand on Lastor’s back.

Lastor’s lips flattened into a weak smile. “It’s not magic. It’s all science, Father.”

“Ah, well,” Crion uttered, happily ruffling Lastor’s smartly-trimmed dark locks. “What is the difference, anyway?”

Once the feast had ended, Lastor eagerly returned to his study, where he pored over records and files and heaps of old books. The island of Shelta, a black rock jutting from a gray-blue sea and crested with a solitary, gleaming white stone laboratory, was home to infinite mysteries. Its greatest secret had just been discovered—and yet, for Lastor, the discovery of that secret had deepened and darkened the mystery rather than resolving it.

Lastor wanted to fully understand the origins of the secret elixir before letting anyone else lay their hands on it, let alone put it to use. That understanding required deeper knowledge of the history of this island—in fact, the history of this world. He studied tirelessly, well into the wee hours of the night, as was his wont.

On this night, he happened to be studying a book that was especially old, its pages yellowed and its spine asunder. Most of the books in his collection that were in such a condition were illegible. But the scrawls of black-violet ink on this particular book’s parched pages had not quite faded into oblivion, not yet. Lastor narrowed his black-violet eyes on these pages and spent many hours of this night trying to read them.

This book, he found, was quite illuminating.

There came a soft knock on the door, which Lastor recognized as his father’s.

Crion always stopped in at Lastor’s study to bid his son goodnight. Lastor typically acknowledged this with a quick, silent smile, an occasional kiss on the forehead, after which he would slip swiftly and deeply back into his work.

But tonight, he had some questions for his father.

“I wanted to congratulate you again,” Crion spoke as Lastor greeted him at his door.

“I think I’ve had enough congratulation,” Lastor humorlessly resisted.

“Never enough, for such a big discovery! But if you insist, then I bid you goodnight and will let you return to your work.”

“Father,” Lastor uttered, his hard eyes deep and full of question, not welcoming his father’s usual goodnight embrace. “Father, why won’t you tell me the whole truth?”

Crion paused a moment. “Whatever do you mean, my son?”

“You’ve already told me that I’m not your son. You told me how my birth parents died, my father in an accident before I was born, my mother while giving birth to me aboard a ship. But you never told me where the ship was going.”

Crion’s own eyes deepened beneath furrowed brows. “To Shelta, where else? Lastor, I’ve told you that.”

“Father, you so often praise my genius, and yet you expect me to believe that? You know it makes no sense. That you and your company from Glorion would arrive upon this island and simply stop here, satisfied, and turn around for home. That you would stay here rather than continuing ever further across the sea,” Lastor contended. “Is this truly all that you were seeking when you set sail? An isle as small and unremarkable as this?”

“Lastor, Shelta is by no means unremarkable…”

Those eyes of pitch-dark purple locked on Crion with a strength and depth that made him feel very small, and very stupid. He knew that that was not Lastor’s intention; he knew that this was the genuine and persistent curiosity of a loving son, who wanted only truth and knowledge. And yet this was also a grown man before him, and a genius. A genius whose very presence, intentionally or not, proclaimed superiority and commanded respect.

Lastor was the one soul on this earth that Crion loved and respected most. It was out of love for him that he spared him from a world of dark and dangerous knowledge. But his respect for his adoptive son urged him to share that truth with him, and warned him that if he tried to hold this truth back from his son, Lastor’s far-reaching mind could easily discover it for himself.

A great, deep part of Crion sensed that Lastor already had. If he could discover the well-hidden vials of secret elixir, surely he could discover the existence of an entire evil continent, sprawled starkly and shamelessly beneath an open sky.

“Tell me, Father,” Lastor urged him. “Tell me what you saw on the other side of the sea.”

The muscles of Crion’s throat visibly contracted as he swallowed, swallowing down the truth. “No Glorian has ever traveled farther than Shelta, my son,” he lied.

“Does Kevriel know? Kevriel, adventurer of the high seas, who spends his life exploring to his heart’s content. Has he been there?” Lastor demanded. “Does he know? Is he allowed to know, because he is your real son?” He knew that it was cruel, and so untrue—but Lastor hoped in vain that this emotional appeal, enacted with genuine pain in his eyes, might move his father’s tongue.

“Lastor!” Crion desperately objected. “He knows no more than you, I promise. He explores far and wide, but he knows well that I’ve forbidden him from venturing any farther than this island. And you are just as much my son.” If not more so, Crion added silently.

Crion’s eyes then wandered to the open tome on his son’s desk. He saw that it was old, and thick, and exuded some heavy and tangible meaning. The sight of it sent a shudder down his spine. Even from the doorway, at this impossible distance, he saw Zoll Zora written on those pages.

He never wanted Lastor to know. Not ever.

He dismissed the thought as paranoid hallucination and forced a smile instead. He tried to make light of his fear and brighten the tone of his voice. “You’re reading now about the history of Shelta?” he inferred as he nodded toward the heaps of books upon the desk at the far end of the room. “So that you can understand the origins of the magical elixir?”

Lastor looked at him intensely and did not respond.

“Well. That is well then, Lastor. I am sure that that will be most useful and illuminating. And hopefully less tedious than laboratory research—history can be quite fascinating.”

“Yes, Father,” Lastor replied. “History is fascinating. That’s why I wish you would be honest with me about mine.”

He shut the door, softly, without bidding his father goodnight.

Crion remained at the doorsill awhile, his feet affixed to the floor and his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Lastor knew. Crion now knew that Lastor knew about the world across the sea. He had read about it in that book, and now he had gathered that, when Crion and his Glorian company had set out to sea those many years ago, they had landed in Zoll Zora and encountered deep, dark evils there. Lastor now knew that, after Trisde’s death at sea while giving birth to him, he had spent the first infant moons of his life there in that city of darkness, before his Glorian family turned and fled, back the way they had come.

But Lastor’s own infant history was not what mattered. What mattered was his knowledge of the very existence of Zoll Zora. Now that Lastor knew of it, he would want to put the elixir to use on that dark, wretched continent. Surely he would, mused Crion miserably as he returned to his own chambers. For that was the proper, noble use for it. That was where the magical effects would be beneficial and necessary. Nowhere else.

Crion had wanted his son to believe that the elixir was to serve as a precaution against future evil, not a remedy against the evils of the present. He never wanted Lastor to know. His virtuous, visionary son would now be tempted to venture out across the sea and save those abject souls. But that was such a foolish and hopeless endeavor! Crion knew that it would be doomed to fail. And yet Lastor would not believe him; Lastor would not give up hope. He would be determined to put the elixir to its best and noblest use—and that would have to happen on Zoll Zora.

Lastor would spearhead a great Glorious enterprise to save the Zoll Zoran continent, and in the effort, he would perish. And he would likely bring all of Glorion down with him.

Or mayhap this was just the paranoia of an overprotective father, Crion reassured himself as he settled into bed, well aware that he would get no sleep tonight. After all, he had no real indication that Lastor had learned of the dark continent. Crion told himself that his fears were unfounded and irrational, and that Lastor knew nothing of Zoll Zora, and would be safe. Crion told himself that his son would be safe. But these self-reassurances did not help him to sleep.

He found that, for the first time in his life, he could not fool himself.