“It takes bravery to rise against your own people, master troll. I don’t hold you responsible. Throughout history, many people have been forced to do things they didn’t want to do.” Montague thought about his friend Demitri, a victim of mind control.
“Well, thank you for defending me, Montague La-Rose,” Eggward said with humbling smile.
“How do you know who I am?” asked Montague.
Eggward smiled. “Burton has mentioned you many times. You are unique.”
“What does that mean?”
“We understand that Burton has kept certain details from you. About your past and who you are. You must know that he did this only to protect you and everybody around you,” Eggward said.
“Then if you know these details, just tell me.”
Eggward looked at Grimm. Grimm shrugged.
“Go on. What do you know? If I’m not really who I think I am, then who am I?” asked Montague.
“It’s not only who you are, but what you carry.”
Montague was confused. “I carry nothing of importance; I bear no high-born name. My blood is that of peasants.”
“On the contrary,” Eggward said, raising one corner of his lips. “The boil epidemic. I’m sure you remember it well. No?”
“That isn’t something a man can forget,” Montague said. How could he forget? The sights and sounds of suffering was burned into his mind; the late night moaning, the gut-wrenching screaming, the phlegm-filled coughing, the congested breathing, and the scratching of bloody fingernails against the wooden floor was unbearable at times.
“Don’t you find it curious that you didn’t catch the virus?” asked Eggward.
“Burton said it was an infection.”
“Ah, that makes sense. So you wouldn’t find it curious.”
“I treated those people accordingly and it cured them. Are you going to tell me that he lied about that too?”
“Well…yes. It was not an infection,” said Eggward surely. “It was a highly contagious, airborne virus transferable by means of open sores, blood, saliva, sweat, or even a simple cough. The nutwood you gave them for the infection killed it. Along with antibiotic—” Eggward paused and reworded, “—healing properties, nutwood spikes the body’s immune system into overdrive, killing the virus naturally. How many people did you treat and for how long?”
Montague had to think about it. “Several dozen people for four months.”
“And did you take any of the nutwood for yourself?”
“No.”
Eggward smiled. “I’m sure you’ve caught the occasional sniffles or felt headaches after working too hard in the fields. But you’ve never really been sick. Have you?” he asked like he knew the answer.
Montague couldn’t recall a time when he was unable to care for himself. “But what does it mean?”
“The host wants to decode Gabriel’s Diary.”
“Yes,” said Montague. “Demitri said he wants to recite spells from it. What is he trying to do?”
“The codes to tap into the collective human consciousness are contained in the angelic verses of Gabriel’s Dairy. If the Nekrums could see into the mind of Men then they can find the carrier of the gene that holds the cure.”
Montague knew the story. Long ago, when Burton had taken Gabriel’s Diary from Gabriel himself, he rearranged the codes to reject those that might attempt to hijack it. So access was limited to only a select few.
“But what does this have to do with my immunity?”
“The miracle gene found in a certain Volpi’s blood can cure any disease in any realm. You see, my people already have the cure. It’s up there on their craft sitting right in front of them.” Eggward chuckled softly. “But the cure is two parts: a lock and key of some sort. They have the lock. They just need the key. There is a reason why Burton hid you from the rest of the world. Did you think it was natural that you’ve never been sick? With your blood you are the most powerful weapon that we have against the enemy. You can connect to their mothership. And only you can do this. Then Burton Lang and Rayne Volpi, can shut down the craft, destroy it, and break the quarantine.”
He was more confused than stunned. “This is absurd,” Montague said, shaking his head. “How do you know this?”
“I can smell the gene within you. You are the key—a Volpi; a bastard Volpi.”
“I am no bastard!” he snapped. “I am a farmer’s son, a La-Rose.” The weight of what he’d just learned overcame him.
Grimm jumped back.
“Forgive me, Mr. La-Rose,” said Eggward. “I may not look like it, but I was once a scientist and a doctor for my people, and I still have the remnants of insensitive manners. Shame on me.”
The cross-eyed head named Grimm was lackadaisical in bringing a pot of tea over to them. Biting his tongue, he poured some into cups with a spoonful of sugar already at the bottom.
The news was hard to swallow. But it resonated with Montague. “No. I’m sorry, Eggward.” He knew deep down that it was true. Even after discovering that he was a Volpi, THE Volpi, he still didn’t feel special, sacred, royal or any different than any other man. He only felt responsible to help mankind. If Eggward was right and he was the only one who could stop the Nekrums, then he was ready to do just that. “How do I tap into their mothership?”
“You must retrieve the connection from Von Cobb. He carries a marble with him. It is the source of the Nekrums’ influence,” said Eggward. “Take the marble, and Burton will do the rest.”
A third head, even smaller than the other two, waddled over to Grimm and whispered into his hairy ear encrusted with a thin layer of dried wax. Grimm then delivered the message to Eggward.
“We must go to Illyrium. The people there need our help. They have taken Burton Lang,” said Eggward.
