The Lost Prince (2 page)

“Something’s wrong with dad,” she said frantically.

“Wrong … What do you mean?” Michelle asked. She hadn’t realized that the reverend had stopped speaking.

“He jus’ standin’ behind the pulpit with a blank expression.”

“He
’s
jus
t
standin
g
,” Michelle corrected. She hated the local dialect’s influence on Rosemarie. She rose from her desk, ignoring the pit of fear that planted itself in her stomach. “People with our skin don’t get into Duke talking that way,” she told her daughter, in a somewhat absent tone. The word “stroke” pushed other conscious thoughts to the rear of Michelle’s mind.

“Whatever … you coming?” urged her daughter.

A small crowd had gathered around the pulpit. Her husband was sitting on the floor looking older than his forty-one years; his yellow coloring took more of a beating in the southern sun than Michelle’s dusky russet tone. Gray strands that had woven their way into his short, tightly cropped head these past few years shone brighter beside the blank stare that had descended on him.

“Allyn?” Michelle said, pushing through the crowd. “Everyone back. Please give him air.”

Someone in the assembly shouted, “His eyes rolled back.”

“We thought he havin’ a heart attack,” a blue-haired old lady said.

Blood and drool pooled at the corner of Allyn’s lip and trickled down his chin. He had bit his tongue. His large brown eyes were moist and stared blankly ahead. His breath came quickly, short, and shallow.

“Allyn, say something?” Michelle asked. She turned his head to face her. He looked at her with accusing eyes. He shook ever so slightly as though someone were walking on his grave. Rosemarie handed Michelle a paper towel to wipe the blood from his chin.

“I’m okay,” Allyn responded in a coarse whisper. “It hurt for a moment, but I’m okay.”

“What hurt? Why are you sitting here like this?” she asked. “We need to get you to the emergency room.”

“No,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “No doctors. Doctors won’t know what to do.”

Michelle was confused. She was at a loss as to what to do next.

Allyn started to weep, which scared Michelle more. She wanted all the eyes in the church to go away.

“Everyone, please go home,” Michelle ordered. “Thank you for coming out tonight. Remember to call the governor’s office and the TV and radio stations to help find the Taylor kids tomorrow morning. We need help now. The forecast said a cold front is coming day after tomorrow … we don’t have long.”

She beckoned to the janitor to help. “Randy, please…”

Randy began herding the congregation. They looked back over their shoulders with concern as he shuffled them out. Allyn was the church’s rock. They drew strength from their minister. They had never seen him cry … never seen him afraid.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” Michelle said.

“I am not ill,” Allyn insisted.

“Well, then what are you? You are certainly not well.”

“No. I am not well,” he acquiesced. “I am overwhelmed. I am … sad.”

“Why?” Michelle asked. Her first thought was about the Taylor children. “Allyn, did—did you get news about … Did someone die?”

Allyn thought about it a moment, and upon reaching a conclusion said, “Yes.”

“Who?” Michelle asked.

“Me.”

“Daddy, you’re not making sense,” Rosemarie interjected. Her tone was anxious.

“My darling Rose, it’s very hard to explain,” he said. Michelle recognized Allyn’s teaching tone. The man believed that every moment of life was a learning moment. “When we are happy we forget God’s grace because we are living in the pleasure He has bestowed on us. Sorrow, however, brings us closer to Him.” He took the paper towel from his wife and patted his mouth. “In grief we seek out God,” he continued. “We need Him to lighten our burdens.” Allyn stopped. He made a fist and clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to weep. “But I have found a new thing in my soul,” he told them both.

“What thing?” Michelle asked.

“It pollutes me, like the fruit Eve gave Adam—it separates me from His grace.”

Allyn shivered. Michelle put her arm around him.

“Allyn, it’s okay. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard to help the community…”

“I am in the depths of a sorrow from which I know not how to ascend,” he said. “From which none of the gods can save me.”

Michelle’s fear escalated. Did the seizure cause damage to his brain? He wasn’t making sense. “Allyn, there is only
one
God,” she said, struggling to remain calm.

Allyn held her gaze like a lifeline on a stormy sea.

“In this universe,” he said.

3

TIMIAN

Babies Ate My Dingo performed their hit on the main stage at Madison Square Garden. They were the opening act for Bon Jovi, a huge break that had catapulted their song “Karma to Burn” to the iTunes Top 10. The logo that Clarisse had designed, happy vampire infants chomping on the remains of a dog, was prominently centered behind the drummer on a huge banner in dual-toned red and black. Clarisse was in awe of how far the band had come in a few short months. Sales on the song had already paid for the home in La Jolla she shared with lead guitarist Timothy Mann, and the tour would set them up for a good long time. Tim’s stage presence was magical—almost unworldly—as he rocked lead guitar in front of twenty-five thousand fans. Life was great.

She snapped away with her Nikon, collecting her favorite shots, the ones from behind the band with the crowds in front of them. That composition would throw a light halo around the band members and give them an angelic vibe. The band had finished the second chorus and was about to start the bridge when the song fell flat. She put down the camera and searched for the cause. At first she thought the power had gone out, but it soon became clear that Tim had completely blanked. The band recovered well, revving up the lead-in to the bridge a second time, but Tim missed his solo again. He stared out blankly at the audience who, knowing the song intimately, could tell something was wrong. One of the stagehands whispered, “Drugs,” but Clarisse knew better. They only smoked the occasional grass.

The band stopped. The lead singer, Rick Fiore, approached Tim. His eyes had rolled to their whites. Rick braced the back of Tim’s head as the guitarist fell backward onto the stage. The audience’s collective gasp echoed through the arena. Moments later, some in the audience shouted about not taking the brown acid and snickered. Other fans told those people to go back to Jersey, and a fight broke out. Clarisse grabbed a bottle of water and a towel and ran onto the stage.

Rick turned off their microphones and asked his guitarist, “What’s up, dude? You dying?”

“Here, sweetie, have a sip,” Clarisse said. She pulled his shoulder-length brown hair away from his face and put the bottle to his lips.

Tim took a large swig and shortly caught his breath. “Just had my mind blown,” he said, shaking his head.

“You dropping acid, Mann?”

“No.” He took the towel from Clarisse and patted the sweat from his forehead and neck. “It’s just … I just remembered I’m a lute player from an alternate universe on a mission to raise a prince that some dudes in another kingdom are trying to kill. I swore an oath and everything.”

Clarisse laughed. Rick was not as amused.

The sound of the crowd’s impatience rose steadily in the background.

“Mann, we’re on the verge of being the biggest band since U2, and you’re pulling shit like this during our big number?” he asked.

Clarisse seldom found Rick Fiore’s talent for hyperbole and drama amusing. That, and his bottle-blond David Lee Roth coiffure, was why she dumped him for Tim, who was as cool as a mountain lake. Tim would never mess around with their success, and if he was cracking jokes, it was his way of saying he’d be okay. “Lighten up, Flowers,” she said. It was the nickname she created for him just before they broke up.

Rick pursed his lips and ground his teeth. “You dumped me for a dude that falls on his ass in the middle of gig?” he said. “You can get his ass off the stage without me.” Rick stormed off to brood in the wings.

Clarisse turned to her significant other. “Seriously, Manly-Mann, you okay?”

“I wasn’t joking. That amnesia about my early life … all of a sudden, it was like a wall of memories hit me out of nowhere. I came here years ago with other people to protect a baby prince. I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Uh, that’s great,” she said, not really sure how to react. Clarisse wondered if Tim
was
on something after all. They swore never to go down that road. She could put up with the occasional groupie, but not hard drugs. Cocaine had torn her parents apart; that was her deal breaker. The audience started to hiss.

Rick and the drummer were talking in the corner, shooting dirty glances at them. The paramedics finally showed up and were heading toward them with a stretcher. “Can you finish the show?” she asked him.

“Heck yeah,” Tim said. “I’ll do five encores. It’s been thirteen years. One more day won’t make a difference. I can get back to that other stuff tomorrow. As he stood, he pumped his fist into the air and yelled, “ROCK ’N’ ROLL!”

The audience cheered.

4

BALZAC

“What can be said of Lear’s fool?” Balzac Cruz threw the question out to his Elizabethan literature class. He wore a triangular red, yellow, and green jester’s cap with three protruding appendages that ended in small bells and jingled as he moved. Tufts of his gray hair stuck out the sides of the cap. Under a dark brown sports jacket, he wore a cream-colored rayon knit turtleneck that protruded subtly at the waist, green and brown plaid trousers, and oxblood leather loafers.

Balzac performed as he taught because an entertained mind was the most receptive mind. At least that was what he told the department faculty. But actually, he relished the attention. He received high marks as one of the department’s most favored professors. This was the first year he had taught Elizabethan lit as a night class, though, and he was sure it would be the last. It cut into his nightlife, which for a single man of fifty was generously rich at the university.

“Lear’s fool saw things clearly,” a female student answered. It was only their second class and Balzac had already pegged her as the overachiever. He suspected her name was Rachel.

“Clearly?” Balzac asked. “As in he did not need glasses?” Jingle, jingle.

“He saw things Lear couldn’t or refused to see,” an eager young man wearing the school’s lacrosse jersey said. The boy’s hair was a curly brown tussle as though he’d just rolled out of bed. Balzac licked his lips at the image of him sweaty and hot at the end of a game.
Perhaps the night class isn’t a total loss,
he thought. Balzac’s hat jingled vigorously.

“And…?” Balzac prodded.

“He was loyal,” the overachiever cut back in, annoyed at having her moment usurped by a pretty-boy jock. “The most loyal of Lear’s servants.”

“True,” Balzac agreed. “But also…”

A white haze descended upon Balzac’s view of the room, as though everything were behind a sheet of gauze. He was aware that he had stopped talking—couldn’t move his hands or feet. His students, on the other side of the gauze wore worried expressions. The last thing of the room he saw before everything turned solid white was the handsome lacrosse player rushing toward him. Another world took its place before him; a beautiful gleaming city made of marble, brick, and oak. His mother, his father, his teachers, lovers, masters—all came back to him. His mind was the pool at the end of a waterfall as memories of Aandor rushed into his head.

Slowly the gauze lifted. He was on his back, his students hovering around him, concerned. The strong arms of the lacrosse player cradled him—his hand supported the back of Balzac’s head.

This lad has earned his A,
Balzac thought.

“Are you okay, Professor Cruz?” the overachiever asked.

Balzac stood up and brushed himself off. He wiped the sweat from the top of his balding head with a kerchief. “I think we might cancel the rest of tonight’s class,” Balzac said. “I’m not feeling quite myself.”

His students returned to their seats to gather their belongings. “Someone should see you home,” the overachiever—
probably Rachel
—said.

“Perhaps you’re right, my dear.” Balzac turned to the Lacrosse player. “Would you mind terribly seeing me to my flat, uh…”

“Rodney,” the young man said.

“Yes, Rodney.” Balzac threw him a grateful smile. The overachiever practically stomped the treads on her shoes flat as she returned to her seat.

Balzac spied his fool’s cap on the floor. He picked it up. It jingled as he brushed off some dust.

“The fool…,” he said to the entire room … stopping everyone in their tracks—books half packed.

Balzac gazed at the cap, seeing more in it than anyone in the room could ever imagine. He looked up at his students and smiled a devilish grin.

“… as is often the case in Shakespeare, is a commoner with tremendous clarity—and usually the wisest man in the world.”

CHAPTER 1

DREDGING THE PAST

Callum, Catherine, Seth, and Lelani drove into the town of Amenia, New York, weary from the events of the past two days. A fresh dusting of snow had descended on the small locality, which emanated three blocks in all directions from a center traffic light. The Sunoco gas station tucked in one corner was the intersection’s largest presence, joined by a bank, salon, and empty lot on the remaining corners. Its citizens, dressed mostly in overalls, jeans, flannel, and construction boots, went about their business in that contented manner only those far removed from the fast-paced and worried centers of the world could. Nothing was a rush and no one was out to get them. This was the third town they’d visited that day in the vicinity of the portal that Callum and the other guardians had come through thirteen years earlier. Agriculture was a large part of the local economy. Street signs steered tourists to the many vineyards that dotted the region—Cat was always telling Cal how wonderful a winery day trip would be. Today was not that day. Today, Cal hoped to find his lost prince.