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Prologue
Jadeon
THE
POWERFUL, DISTURBING images—portraits of memories, a lingering
resonance drawing together, fragments of consciousness—at times, I
find myself reliving those fateful moments, surrendering to the
consuming, agonizing details of June of the year of our Lord 1803.
I
falter in the chill of the night, in the fractured stillness within
the great pillars of Stonehenge.
Exhausted from my journey, caught up in terror, the darkness engulfs
me. But I will not flee, for the promise I have made, I cannot
break—my life for that of another. I fear mortality. My
apprehension intensifies.
The
wait is over.
It
is time to wake up.
I
want to lead you to safety, distract you, and destroy the clues that
lure you into my world. It’s too late for that now. This shakes me
to the core. It’s impossible to turn back the clock, but I still
crave peace, still want to gauge this feeling. Reassuringly, my
expression does little to
reflect such. In fact, all that my presence conveys is the demeanor
of a twenty-five year old Englishman, and it easily disguises the
enigma of
my ageless, chiseled features.
Within
those dark Wiltshire woods, hidden from view, I leaned my frame
against the trunk of a large tree and stared, memorizing each
groove and fissure of Stonehenge.
Scattered
thoughts; a multitude of ways to begin.
Unable
to stay still for long, I started pacing. Sunrise was only an hour
away. A waning moon provided meager light. My gaze darted nervously.
These murders had been committed to gain my attention, and
it was working.
By
my own hand my involvement was set, the consequence of my actions
drawing me in. I watched the police exploring the area near the
dead girl, positioned face up on the sacrificial stone. Though not
foreign to death, I hoped I wouldn’t throw up on my tailored Savile
Row suit. The mud on my shoes bothered
me and the drizzling rain didn’t help.
Once
apprentice to The Keeper of the Stones, such was the catalyst
for all my nightmares. This was not how I envisioned my life
unfolding. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s just that these
were the darkest of days. Sharing it
with you provides some comfort.
I
should not start here.
My
aim is to earn your trust, so that you gain insight and are able to
comprehend the unfeasible. It’s important that this is documented.
How ironic that I now reveal what I once strived to keep hidden. Time
has proven that it is safer for you to have this knowledge, so that
you can prepare.
You
want proof. I shall provide it, if you give me an open mind. After
all, you have come this far. Therefore, I scribe this for you, in the
sanctity of my study, here in St.
Michael’s Mount in Marazion.
Travel
back with me.
The
smoke and mirrors of my youth now seem such a brief moment in a long
and unordinary life that passed with timeless ease. Those were the
years when I knew only innocence. Cornwall, my birthplace, was
renowned for its pleasant bays with their golden sands and bleak,
sprawling moors.
Heritage
made me the lord of a great castle that had been in my family for
generations. This immense and towering mansion, grandly structured
upon a small island east of Penzance, rests steadfast—as if a part
of the very circular island it was built upon. The only access is by
foot at low tide, or boat when the sea is in. Once, as a boy, I got
caught when the tide turned. It never happened again.
Within
these ancient walls, I grew up and took living in such a place for
granted. Not so much now. The grand castle had once been a monastery
owned by British Royalty during the Reformation, only to be
sold again by Queen Elizabeth I to my ancestor, the Earl of
Salisbury. The famous ancient vision of
the Archangel Michael on the island had even inspired the occasional
zealous religious pilgrim. Nevertheless, my father had been reluctant
to encourage such an invasion, even one
as
passive as Christian visitors. He used large hunting dogs to keep the
unrelenting observers away and the staff in.
In
my mind, I wander the corridors, settling in the Great Hall with
its low beams, arched windows, and stone walls, bestowing gothic
sconces and ancient relics—typical of an affluent and powerful
family of its time. Great tapestries
hang fast on the walls—priceless paintings positioned this way and
that in order to catch or avoid light. Exquisite
Roman rugs strewn over the cold stone floors, and candles light
the rooms, casting unfamiliar shadows over everything. During fierce
winters, the cold is unrelenting, hence the thick walls and grand
hearths within.
The
castle’s history is as varied as its many rooms—a regal ballroom,
which has entertained kings; an armory, which held the weapons
used for their battles; lavish bedrooms fitted for visiting
dignitaries, a large kitchen, and modest
servants’ quarters. The rooms facing south overlook the terrace and
provide a good view of the gardens below. The castle’s imposing
towers, once used by loyal castle guards as sentries, look out over
the ocean.
Now
in the twenty-first century, the posts stand empty. Very often,
I like to go up there to breathe in the fresh sea air and admire the
view. On occasion, when inspired, I even take my paints and a fresh
canvas to capture the dramatic Southern nightscapes. My artistic
nature is a good contrast to my athletic
pursuits. I am a worthy fencing opponent.
I
have traveled, yes, but this is home, where I feel most comfortable;
yet still I am unable to shake off the
eerie calm of the place. Visitors seldom
come here, though when they do, they are excited to take a tour and
explore the rare artifacts that have withstood the test of time.
Human
nature is appealing when presented in its purest form, but
I seem to move in circles that reflect the darkest of realms. By
following this venture of
self-discovery, I unveiled a supernatural truth. Indulge me again and
allow me to wander back, for perhaps soon all I will have will be the
memories of my beloved castle.
The
library and reading rooms are favorites of mine. Alex, my younger
brother of two years, and I received our many and varied lessons
within these very tenements, presented by the finest of teachers.
We were lectured in the arts, sciences, languages, music, and
mastered horsemanship and hunting. My father ensured that we
became proficient swordsmen, rounding out our education. Renaissance
at its best.
When
our lessons were over we spent our time playing, tirelessly
investigating each room; but we stayed clear of the servants’
quarters for fear of being smacked around the head by the moody cook.
We became familiar with the castle’s lower chambers, even venturing
into
its cold, gloomy cellars, bravely exploring the dungeons where
criminals had once been held
before being condemned and escorted away to suffer their fate. Only
rusting shackles are left to convey what horrors these rooms have
witnessed. As boys, our imaginations ran wild, though our play never
matched the reality of what happened down
there.
Although
we had the run of the castle, there was but one room to which our
father had banned our entrance. We did of course try to turn the huge
brass handle of the large imposing door, but alas, it remained
locked, its secrets kept hidden within. All we could do was wonder
what lay inside such a chamber, until inevitably we became
distracted. My fascination with that room was to be my undoing. My
present irrevocably dissolves into my past.
