by D. T. Kane
“Perhaps a demonstration of how the seer works? For your daughter?”
Jenzara’s attention snapped back to the man. This was the first that he’d even acknowledged her presence.
“Ah, Light be good.” The Grand Father threw his hands in the air, casting a long shadow over her from the back of his mount. “I speak of courtesies and here I am acting with everything but. Where have my manners gone? You are Lady Jenzara, I presume?”
She nodded, words escaping her.
“A pleasure, my lady. Reports of your beauty hardly do you justice now that I’ve seen you for myself.” His eyes flashed with charm, and his gaze lingered on her longer than seemed proper. “You look so much like... your mother.” He smiled, though something in his voice suggested he’d been about to compare her to someone else. Nonetheless, she felt her face erupt in a flash of heat and looked away. Father began to speak.
“I hardly think a demonstration of the orb is necessary, Grand—”
“I’ll do it,” she blurted. “I’ve always wanted to join the Temple, so anything I can do to help.”
One of the Parents behind the Grand Father chuckled, but the Grand Father himself smiled at her.
“Certainly, my lady.”
He held the orb—which was still swirling with color—out to her. She took it before father could object. The internal mist returned to its neutral state, then began to swirl once more, eventually settling into an intermingled pattern of white and green.
“Ah, so you’ve the light in you,” the Grand Father said. “Not surprising. Your father was quite strong in the light, after all. One of the strongest the Symposium ever saw.”
Several of the other Parents tensed at mention of the Symposium, but the Grand Father didn’t seem to notice.
“But do you’ve any skill with the light, my lady?”
Father started to intercede, “Grand Father, I don’t think this is—”
“Yes,” she replied, then immediately regretted it. She’d often heard Ferrin complain of sitting in a room with Ral Mok’s other fire attuneds, trying not to pull his hair out while they tried to light candles. Meanwhile, he could light fires in his sleep. She hadn’t been in those lessons—being light and earth attuned meant she had no affinity for fire. Couldn’t even sense it being channeled. But when it came to the light, she was just as inept as those fire attuneds Ferrin complained of. Light was cherished for its healing properties, but she could barely mend a broken twig with it.
This time the Parent who’d laughed earlier spoke. “Then perhaps, my lady, you’d give us a little demonstration.”
She drew up her shoulders. The Grand Father might be intimidating, but she wouldn’t let this man cow her.
“Of course,” she said, meeting his mocking glare.
He scoffed, then turned to the Parent who’d dismounted to open the chest containing the elemental seer. “Bring the boy.”
“As you command, Priest Shinzar.” The Parent roughly ushered the shadow-attuned boy forward. The one with the injured arm. He looked up at her with his round, dark eyes. She shuddered.
“Fix him,” the Parent—apparently Priest Shinzar—said.
She tensed. “You want me to help? A fifth?” She glanced to the Grand Father.
“It’s fine, my lady,” he said. “The sniffers serve their purpose; we must keep them in good repair.”
She swallowed. When no one said anything further, she approached the boy and lifted the sling over his head, trying not to touch his skin. He cradled his injured arm with his other hand and looked away. For her part, she made every effort to focus on his arm and not those unsettling eyes. She tried to think back on her lessons, closing her eyes and trying to let the Focus overcome her. The sun was bright, though the sky’s reddish sheen reminded her of blood, not much help when trying to heal. But she pushed the thought from her mind, reaching out her will to the light particles streaming down upon her, trying to concentrate on directing them to the site of the break in the child’s arm. She drew on a long-ago memory of her mother singing to aid her Focus.
For a time nothing happened and her heart began to race. How embarrassing it would be to fail at simply calling upon the power of light in front of these men. But then she felt the tingling of the channel. It started at the base of her neck and flowed down her arm to where her fingers now grasped the boy’s arm. It was working! She felt the bone begin to shift under her palm, sliding back into position.
Then a sound like splintering wood hammered at her ear drums. The child screamed.
All the Parents around her, save the Grand Father, laughed. Her eyes flew open and she released the boy’s arm, more out of surprise than concern. The limb now hung from its socket like one of the noodles the cooks sometimes prepared for dinner. As she stared at it, father brushed past her and settled his hands on the fifth’s shoulders. He muttered a few words and an aura of light surrounded the boy. Crunching sounds emanated from the arm, causing Jenzara to grind her teeth. The child shrieked and fell away from father. But when the light ceased, he looked up at father through teary eyes and wiped at his nose with the arm that only moments before had been a wreck of flubbed flesh and ruined bone.
Jenzara took a deep breath, trying to control the hammering of her heart. The Grand Father smiled at her like she was a child who’d just fallen and scraped her knee. She turned away in shame, though she could still feel his eyes probing over her body.
“If you’re carrying out your duties under the Edicts,” father said, “I am, of course, your humble servant, Grand Father. But I assure you that an examination of the whole of Ral Mok will be a great waste of your time.”
Valdin finally turned his attention back to father. She could feel his eyes shift off her.
“It gladdens me that you intend to follow the law.” She couldn’t help feeling offended at the man’s emphasis. Of course father would follow the law.
“And while I’m sure the great Raldon Everbright would never stand for a violation of the Edicts, the Light’s Will must be done. Certainly you can understand my trepidation upon discovering a report of shadow activity in the very area that the Betrayer, Taul Bladesorrow, once called home? It simply cannot be overlooked. An examination of every member of your community it must be.”
Her father nodded, speaking quickly now. “Of course. The Light’s Will be done. Please allow my daughter and I to escort you back to the main keep.”
Without awaiting a response, father put a hand on her shoulder and guided them both back to the horses without awaiting a response from the Grand Father.
“Father, I’m sorry—”
“Not now, Jenzara. We shall speak of this later.”
She didn’t want to wait until later. She’d just embarrassed him in front of the nation’s leader. She needed to offer him some apology, however ineffective it might be. But when she looked into his eyes, her mouth snapped shut and all thought of speech left her. It was a look she had only seen in father’s eyes one time before, and it made her blood run cold.
Fear.
8
Devan
Agarsfar, a land of stark dichotomies. To the south, lush green lands, crowned by the land’s capitol, Tragnè City, the City of Light, at its extreme southern edge. To the north, the Darkerland, inhospitable and barren. Looking over this wasteland is Trimale City, the City on the Mount. Yet, in many ways, these two centers of Agarian life are very much alike.
-Excerpt from the Almanac Agarian
“UHHHH.”
Devan rolled over, bones creaking on the Conclave’s bare stone floor. The ruin of Val’s murder still lay about him. The bodies had begun to stink days ago. The thought of them all just lying there tore at his very soul, but he hadn’t the energy to stand, much less see to a proper burial. The scabs that had formed over the burns on his arms itched to the point of madness. He pulled his robes more tightly about himself, resisting the urge to scratch. He’d made that mistake already and screamed himself hoarse after.
“IT WAS A PARTICULARLY nasty rogue strand,” Devan said. He peered at Val through the steam rising from the stewpot. As usual, his friend was eschewing the traditions of their people. His long, dark hair was down, flowing around the shoulders of his cordovan robe, collar hemmed in golden scrollwork. He wore a close-cut beard and stared at Devan with scrutinizing eyes. It was difficult to picture them ever holding a smile, though they sparked with interest now.
Beside Val sat Devan’s latest pupil. She’d been under his tutelage these past 20 years now; the most promising he’d ever had. None had joined the Aldur since he’d mastered peregrination and been admitted to the Conclave, over 1,000 years ago. She would be the first. Her left hand was entwined with Val’s right, eyes shut, savoring the aromas from the bubbling pot, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.
Devan allowed himself a half smile of his own and went on. “We were working to resolve it. That is to say,” he laughed to himself, “Stephan had sent Alexos to investigate and he’d made such a mess of things I had to join him to set things right.”
Val snorted. “I’m sure he was helpless without you.”
Devan nodded, expression serious, though the upturn of his lips endured. “Indeed.”
The smile on his pupil’s lips turned to a knowing grin, though her eyes remained shut. This banter was nothing new to her.
“Anyway, we found ourselves in the unfortunate position of facing half a dozen Southern Keepers, all of whom had gotten into their heads we were Northern spies whose time for drawing breath was at an end. And they nearly succeeded. Wolves in the dark and the path’s blocked! They almost did. Alexos took a blade to the gut and they’d, well...” He paused, grimacing, but couldn’t think of a better way to put it. “They’d managed to relive me of my blade.”
“A Linear disarmed you?” Val barked a laugh.
“No,” Devan replied, flicking some hot stew in Val’s direction, causing him to nearly topple from his chair. “Six blademasters of the Symposium—all quite bloodied and battered I might add—managed to temporarily get my sword from my grasp.”
“I believe that’s the definition of disarm.”
Devan raised his spoon again and Val threw up his hands in mock surrender. Devan glared at him before continuing.
“That was when Alexos muttered for me to take these.” He wiggled his fingers before his face, the interconnected rings on them murmuring an ethereal requiem. “I was skeptical, of course. Items of such power don’t just change hands on a whim after all. But in times of need they have been known to present themselves to new owners. And I certainly needed them.”
He looked down to his hands, smile momentarily fading. “It was the strangest thing—they seemed to almost detach themselves from Alexos and flow onto my fingers of their own accord. Even seemed to take the exact shape of my digits. I’m not sure I could remove them now if I tried.”
He tugged at the ring on one of his thumbs thoughtfully. It didn’t budge.
“Not sure I want to remove them in any event. Once they were on, it was like a punch to the brain. I felt so... awake. Energized. I might even be able to take you in a duel now.”
Val raised his eyebrows. “Don’t get carried away.”
They stared at each other through narrowed eyes. Then burst into laughter.
“Really, though,” Val said once he’d regained his breath, “how is Alexos?”
“Oh he’s fine. Died of his wounds, but I resolved the rogue strand, so no permanent harm done. He had the typical headaches for a few days, but he’s no worse for wear now.”
“And he let you keep those?”
“Of course. Said he doesn’t plan on going off to resolve any more rogues any time soon, so I need them more than him. He owed me anyway.”
Val rolled his eyes. “Just what we need. Another member of the Conclave thinking you’re infallible.”
Devan shrugged. “They just see the truth is all.”
“A fine story, Devan.” His pupil opened her eyes, revealing irises that nearly matched Val’s robes. “But if I hear one more word of your exploits before dinner I might die from hunger.”
“We certainly wouldn’t want that, my love.” Val favored her with a look Devan had never thought to see in his friend’s eyes. She returned it with a wry twist of her mouth, followed by a kiss on the cheek.
Devan cleared his throat. “Any more of that and I won’t be able to keep any food down. Val, grab some bowls and we’ll eat. Then we get to work.”
DEVAN AWOKE WITH JUST enough time to prop himself up on one arm before a fresh wave of nausea brought bile up his gullet to splatter onto the tiles of the Conclave floor. Not that much came up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. How long had it been since Val had attacked him? It didn’t matter. The joy he’d once found in food had long since left him.
His head throbbed from the sudden exertion; tears tore their way down his cheeks as if they couldn’t get away from his eyes quickly enough. He collapsed once more and had just time enough to wonder why his psyche tortured him so before losing consciousness once more.
“STEPHAN, TELL ME OF Ral Falar.”
Fear flashed in the elder Aldur’s eyes. So brief, Devan wasn’t sure he’d seen it. But Stephan turned too quickly for Devan to have imagined it. The following scoff and hand wave lacked their characteristic vehemence.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Nothing less true had ever been said. But if something scared Stephan, it terrified Devan. He never asked his mentor of Ral Falar again.
“STEPHAN,” DEVAN CROAKED through cracked lips. Reality slipped away like an icy cliff face beneath the grasp of a desperate man, but not fast enough to stop him recalling that Stephan was dead.
Devan plunged back into the relentless current of his dreams.
BELLY FULL, DEVAN STRODE down the street, the scorching Northern sun beating down. There was always a sort of dusty haze this far North, but this was a particularly clear day, blue sky shining bright, barely a cloud to be seen. It did nothing to shield the oppressive heat. The few who wandered the streets cast wary glances his way, giving him a wide berth down the avenue. Not fear, exactly. More like respectful terror. They knew what he was, and it suited Devan just fine for them to stand clear. Talking to most others was a chore at the best of times, and at this exact moment he was in a sour state, ruing the task that lay ahead. He shrugged his shoulder to adjust the strap of his satchel, weighed down by the sole object it held.
His pupil and Val trailed immediately behind him, the former still eating a hunk of the bread Devan had baked that morning. Being in charge of the Conclave’s horology left little room for hobbies, but he liked the calm certainty that cooking brought him. He so often found himself engaged in various forms of destruction that it felt good to create now and again. And his pupil certainly never lacked in appetite. He realized he was smiling and quickly banished the expression from his face. Paths clogged with debris on a sweltering day! It wouldn’t do walking into the job ahead of him with a fool’s grin painting his features.
His companions clearly didn’t grasp the gravity of what they walked towards. Probably because he hadn’t told then. He nearly snapped at them to be quiet, but couldn’t quite bring himself to interrupt them.
“Why is there always so much dust here?” Val asked, wiping at his robe with distaste. He’d donned a hat before going out, a detestable spectacle of round edges soring high above his brow to a pointed tip. No doubt the latest fashion from the South. Val glared about like one might inspect a wet dog after it had just shaken its filth on you. “I knew there was a reason I hadn’t been to Mount Trimale in decades before we met.”
“This?” Devan’s pupil replied through a mouthful of bread, turning in a circle with arms spread wide. Her long hair caught the light as she spun. “This is nothing. Wait until the summer, when it’s twice as hot and it
all sticks to you.”
Val gave a dismayed grunt, momentarily abandoning his conversation with her. “Couldn’t you at least stay closer to the summit?” he said, eyes turning to Devan. “Surely the Keepers would give you all the space you requested at Second Symposium? Or even the Cathedral. It’s ours, after all.”
Devan waved a hand absently at him. He wasn’t in the mood for this idle chatter now. “Too many prying eyes around the Symposium. And too many uncomfortable with what we do.”
If it was possible to exhale sarcastically, Val did so admirably. He turned his attention back to his lady. “I’ll have to bring you to Tragnè City once you’ve been raised to the Conclave, my love. Much more civilized. If I wasn’t Aldur, I might live there fulltime. I don’t know how you’ve born living here your whole life.”
Devan shook his head. Typical Val. Impatience for anything that didn’t live up to his oft-arrogant expectations. Mount Trimale was simple. Sure. But it was purpose built. Agar, Trimale, and the rest hadn’t had the time or resources for grandeur when they’d established the Mount as their primary stronghold during the Shadow War. And the North didn’t lend itself to pointless frivolities.
The city was constructed in tiers, slowly winding up the mountainside to its peak, where sat the Second Symposium and Domkirkja Aldur, the so-called Cathedral of Angels. To call it a mountain was generous, truth be told. Compared to the Raging Mountains in the east, home to the Conclave, it was little more than a hill. But it was the highest point in any direction for leagues.
Positioned at the continent’s northwest corner, Mount Trimale was bounded by ocean on two sides. The craggy terrain of the North formed a natural wall around the remainder, passable only through Morte Valley, which in turn was accessible only through Glofar Stronghold to the east. Once through the Great Ebon Gate at Valley’s End, a barren expanse stretched far into the distance before the beginnings of the Mount’s elevation. Not even the Seven could take the City unawares.