by Dan Zangari
“I love you so much. May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time!”
Crimson Eye? What was that? That seemed odd way to end a letter.
Iltar folded the letter and stuck it back in the journal. He closed the journal, then moved to put it back in its place on the shelf, but hesitated.
Why? There wasn’t anything he wanted to learn about Rovin. Iltar hated the man, almost as much as he hated his brother. His brother…
Images of a forest aflame filled Iltar’s mind. His mother’s horrified screams. Eruptions of magic. The smell of smoke.
No! Iltar growled, shoving the journal onto the bookshelf.
The fit began to fade, and Iltar walked away. “I won’t entertain such rubbish.”
He continued through the forbidden library, climbing the stairs. But, that phrase lingered in his mind. May the Crimson Eye remain hidden for all time. Iltar tried thinking of other things, of Pagus, his acolytes.
But the phrase kept repeating in his head.
“After days of wandering on the ocean I came to the shores of an uninhabited island. That was strange. It seemed untouched from the war. How could such a place exist? It was a paradise, and I claimed it mine.”
- From Origins and Oaths of the Keepers, preface
Krindal Heyardin paced at the bow of the Executor’s Breath, moving between the forward cannons atop the raised forecastle.
I hope they listen, Krindal thought, worried, glancing back across the ship. The Executor’s Breath was a large vessel, like the Sarin-class warships used by the Sorothian Navy, six decks and five masts. The ship required nearly fifty crewmen to sail, but there weren’t that many manning the rigging. Soldiers had to fill in for the dead crewmen. Each looked pitiful, but who wouldn’t after surviving the ordeal they had endured?
“We were lucky,” Krindal whispered. “That gives me hope. Perhaps I will succeed…”
Turning back toward the bowsprit, Krindal looked across the ocean horizon, to his island homeland in the distance. You can’t ignore me now! Krindal’s internal voice was furious. This was not some foolish errand he had undertaken. This quest was the culmination of years of research, planning, and exploring. And now, he had proof. No longer would they would ridicule him. Krindal had seen—with his very eyes—that the peoples of Kalda had once been more than they were now. Not only that, he had tangible evidence! Finally, Krindal could prove his theory of Cultural Regression.
Krindal could certainly compel his fellows, couldn’t he?
“Master Krindal,” a stern voice called.
Krindal spun, eyes wide. “Your Imperial Highness,” he said with a bow, “I thought you were resting.”
Prince Kaescis Midivar strode toward the ship’s bow, his gait measured. . He gazed at Krindal with his pale-violet eyes. “I was,” the prince said, his stern, blond-bearded face marked by pain. Not physical pain—the prince’s wounds were healed. No, this was a deep mental anguish. “But I heard reports of land, so I decided to search for you.”
“I see,” Krindal nodded. The prince came to rest beside Krindal, standing regally. That pose was so natural, but he was royalty after all.
“Are you sure you want me with you?” Prince Kaescis asked, eyes focused across the bowsprit.
“Yes,” Krindal nodded. “You will lend credibility to my work. They will listen if you’re present. I’m sure of it!”
“The tevisrals you found are not enough?” the prince asked.
Krindal looked at him frankly. “Many of my brethren are childish. It will take more than one witness to change their stubborn minds.”
The prince cracked a smile. Krindal hadn’t seen him grin since they’d fled to the ship. That was good; this young prince shouldn’t be so somber. But whatever drove Prince Kaescis cursed him with seriousness.
“You can corroborate what we found, what we couldn’t bring back. And, as our goals are aligned, your interest in the matter should be more than enough to persuade them. Too long have they ridiculed me for the knowledge I’ve sought.”
The prince nodded in agreement.
“Fate brought us together,” Krindal continued. “Our mutual discoveries couldn’t be happenstance.”
“We are guided,” the prince said, looking to Krindal. “Inspired by the Will.”
Krindal remained silent. He did not agree with the prince. They were not guided by a supernatural Will of some unknown deity, but arguing the point was useless. The prince was too devout.
Something had brought them together, but it wasn’t a divine force. There were no gods. Krindal had seen enough of the world to know that. There was, however, something that pulled things together, a force of sorts. This new alliance wasn’t just a happy coincidence. The Lost World had yearned to be discovered.
The times of darkness were coming to an end. He could feel it. Truth couldn’t stay hidden for long, no matter how hard one tried.
“We should moor soon,” the prince said, sighing. “I will rest some more. I suppose you will go to the Necrotic Order immediately after landing?”
“Yes,” Krindal said, his succinct answer ringing with determination. “I’ll call for an emergency council meeting. It could take several hours to gather each of them if they’re not all in the city.”
“That’ll give us time to clear the unscheduled mooring with your people’s port authority,” the prince said, walking away.
“Thank you again,” Krindal said, glancing over his shoulder. “I appreciate your faith in me and in what I seek, Prince Kaescis.” The prince stopped briefly, but only gave a nod before crossing the main deck. Then he ascended the quarterdeck and disappeared within the aft portions of the towering ship.
Alone again, Krindal turned around, gripping the railing near the forward starboard cannon. His island homeland grew in the distance, spreading across the horizon.
“I will no longer be the old fool of the Order,” Krindal whispered. “I will be remembered for these discoveries. I will change Kalda.”
* * * * *
Kaescis entered his cabin atop the highest deck of the Executor’s Breath. He continued his regal gait across the cabin though he was alone. He could relax, but why be different in private? Narrowing his eyes, he stopped behind a lounge chair and leaned against its back. He stared out the windows lining the cabin, into an ocean view behind the vessel.
“Are you sure about this?” a familiar feminine voice asked.
I thought I was alone, Kaescis thought, but didn’t turn. He knew his visitor. “Why do you always sneak about, Laeyit?”
A soft chuckle echoed from behind Kaescis. Laeyit enjoyed theatrics, both on and off the battlefield. “Was that rhetorical, Kaescis?” Laeyit asked, stepping across the cabin. She stopped beside Kaescis, eyeing him briefly. “We don’t need this old necromancer.”
“He’s been to everywhere else besides Klindala,” Kaescis said. “It’ll take months to retrace his steps. We don’t have time for that.”
Laeyit grunted. “I don’t see why you’re so worried. If the Alathians strike again that’ll only put you closer to the throne.”
Did she see him as an opportunist? No… he was far from that! Kaescis could not let his last uncle fall to another Alathian assassin.
“Besides,” she continued, “involving another organization only puts our discoveries at risk. We’re already in competition with that damned Aristocracy.”
“The Sorothians are our allies, Laeyit,” Kaescis reminded her, his tone firm.
Laeyit sighed. “If you go, don’t you think it’ll arouse suspicion? Krindal is not one of us. He speaks no token, nor promises a vow.” Her tone was hostile, even resentful. “The one he seeks aid from is one of us.”
“Do you doubt the Devouts of Cheserith?” Kaescis asked, finally turning to face Laeyit.
She was dressed in her typical tan outfit: free-flowing clothing with a plain sash tied around her waist. Laeyit carried an empty metallic-gray sheath upon her back. Her dark-blond hair was pulled back in a
simple braid, her hair ornamented with enhancing tevisrals. The tevisrals looked like simple jewelry, a good disguise for such things.
As always, her face was free of makeup. Her eyelashes were short, giving her eyes a masculine appearance for a woman. Those yellow irises didn’t help either. Though Laeyit was not ugly, she was definitely not the ideal specimen of a fetching lady.
“I don’t trust him,” Laeyit retorted, teeth clenched. “I saw him during the Feast of Sorrows. He fought those who beleaguered the palace alone. He’s self-centered. Men like that seek to forward only their ambitions.”
Kaescis grinned, amused by her observations. She could always discern one’s true character by watching them on the battlefield. Strange gift. But it had proved useful.
“I know you’ve made up your mind, Kaescis, but I will still try to persuade you.”
Grunting, Kaescis turned back to the windows. “I am only obeying the Will, Laeyit.” He had to agree with Krindal. Kaescis was commanded to do so. That was not an excuse, though. Cooperating with Krindal made strategic sense. “Our enemies were stronger this last encounter. If we can round up even a handful of Sorothians, then this venture will be fruitful. Krindal thinks he can amass a small army, all in the name of scholarship. Whoever we enlist here will only add to our forces. Besides, there’s no telling what we will find on Dalgilur.”
“We could have killed them, you know,” Laeyit said, her tone sullen.
“When we encounter them again,” Kaescis said, clasping his hands behind his back. We’ll unleash the fury of truth.
* * * * *
The Executor’s Breath moored several hours later. Krindal left the vessel in haste. He was a citizen of Soroth, so entering the city was swift for him. The Mindolarnians, however, were not as fortunate. Though Kaescis was a prince, sixth in line to the Mindolarn Empire’s throne, he still had to be cleared by the city’s port authority.
Dusk had settled when Krindal arrived at the gates of the Soroth Necrotic Order. He strode boldly toward the Main Hall, speaking to the guards who stood outside as sentinels, conveying urgency in his voice and his words. That earned him an expedited meeting. Luckily for him, the masters who occupied the seats of the council were all present, a stroke of luck Krindal hadn’t expected.
Fate was on his side.
Krindal’s boots echoed off the stone atop the fourth floor of the Order’s Main Hall. He had walked this way many times. Traversing these halls reminded him of his childhood, every time. Since he had no family, this was home. Krindal stopped at a pair of double doors, pulled shut.
Clutching his pack, Krindal paced back and forth near the doors. He was nervous, but who wouldn’t be in his situation? Many of his Order laughed him to scorn. Some called him a crazed fool. Several of those ignorant men occupied seats on the council. But Krindal only needed a majority vote. Just four. If four of them would believe him, it would be enough.
One by one, each of the council members filed past Krindal and entered the council chambers through the double doors. Several ignored him. But, a few gave him a brief greeting. Their words were cordial yet cold.
Eventually, the last council member ascended a nearby stairwell. He was younger than Krindal, probably by twenty years. Krindal never knew his exact age. But of all the men who occupied a seat on the Necrotic Order’s council, this man was probably the most trustworthy.
“Good evening, Master Krindal.”
Krindal bowed but didn’t speak.
“Are you all right?” the younger man asked, taking him by the arm. He leaned in then whispered, “You look worried.”
“I am,” Krindal said with a sigh.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll put a stop to any snickering.”
“Thank you, Master Iltar.” Iltar grinned, patting Krindal on the shoulder, then entered the council chambers. He’s not like the others, Krindal thought. Why wasn’t he grandmaster? Krindal could follow a man like that. Many would.
Hushed whispers came from the council room, but Krindal couldn’t discern anything in particular. Then the doors were shut.
After what seemed an eternity, the doors opened and a guard emerged, waving for Krindal to enter. “They’re ready for you, Master Krindal.”
Krindal nodded, a knot forming in his stomach. He would not be the old fool tonight. He would not! Still holding his pack, Krindal stepped across the large room. He approached the seven council members, each sitting around an ornate wooden table painted to look like polished stone. The grandmaster was seated across from Krindal, at the head of the table, in a pretentious chair resembling a throne.
Does he think himself something divine sitting there? Krindal wondered, stilling his nerves. Alacor had ignored Krindal while entering the council chambers.
Krindal looked to each of the others. On Alacor’s left were Toroth, Melnor, and Jalel—he was the grandmaster’s younger brother. When had he ascended to the council? Krindal wondered. No doubt Jalel’s ascension was a by-product of nepotism. Jalel looked similar to his brother, with dark-olive skin and that same pointed nose. His hair, however, was dark-brown, almost black. Opposite those three were Kallan, Iltar, and Velkor.
Alacor spoke up, drawing Krindal’s attention. “Would you like to sit, Master Krindal?” Krindal nodded, and another guard brought a low-backed chair, placing it behind him. Krindal muttered a thank-you, and then sat, looking at each of the other necromancers.
“Your message seemed urgent,” Alacor said, relaxing in his would-be throne. “What discoveries have you for our Order?”
“Time is of the utmost importance,” Krindal said, resting his pack on his lap. “I’ve relied upon the mercies of a Mindolarn prince these last few months, but I come to you seeking aid.” He let the idea sink in before continuing. Jalel gasped in surprise, he obviously wondered how Krindal could have royal connections. Several of the others displayed similar emotions.
“Many of you know what I’ve been doing the last few years,” Krindal continued. “I’ve been searching for what I call the Lost World. I believe in Cultural Regression.”
Kallan and Jalel had always snickered at the name for Krindal’s theory. But this wasn’t a wild theory. Many stories currently circulating through Kalda told of wondrous times and grand civilizations of the past, but there was no solid evidence, only random and isolated accounts from those who claimed they saw grandeur in the ruins of the past. Nothing more.
Simply put, the Lost World was a term used by scholars like Krindal to describe the long-forgotten greatness of Kalda: a world built and run on tevisrals, far more complex than what existed today; grand cities powered by magic and the absence of illness; the otherwise perfected humanity. Of course, the Lost World was older than the oldest recorded histories of the last several centuries. Many people claimed the Lost World concept a product of forced futurism, twisted to reflect on the past. There were many arguments against it, chiefly the lack of historical evidence.
Cultural Regression was a theory that explained the absence of the fantastical civilization painted by Lost World ideals. The general idea was that ancient cities were lost or destroyed during the fall of the Karthar Empire, which was nearly a thousand years in the past. Some scholars blamed the first monarch of Los. Others attributed the decline to a general ignorance that befell humanity.
Historically, not much was recorded after the fall of the Karthar Empire. Much of the information held by scholars today was secondhand.
“I finally have proof,” Krindal said. “I’ve found the remnants of a highly advanced culture far predating the Karthar Empire.”
“That’s impossible!” Jalel spat, looking at the other council members with wide-eyed disbelief. His brother, Alacor, waved dismissively at him.
Toroth cleared his throat, then put forth a hand signaling that he would like to make a comment, so Krindal paused. “Would you mind giving us details, Master Krindal? I think we are well aware of your work this last decade.”
“Very well.” Krindal sighed and
then took in a deep breath. “Three years ago I received a journal from a colleague of mine who was following a lead in Karbenath. It wasn’t his journal, mind you, but something he found there in the city. The journal had a family tale in it about a great-grandmother—many generations removed—who guarded a mountaintop fortress, a place of wonder. She was called a ‘Keeper,’ but of what it didn’t say. There was not much else. But there was another mention about this grandmother and her daughter. It spoke of the daughter making a pilgrimage to become like her mother. This discovery is what started me on my current quest.”
Krindal continued explaining the particular details. He and several others had searched for similar stories about mountaintop Keepers and sojourns. To their surprise, they did find more information in several cities. But none of the accounts were firsthand. Some even seemed fraudulent.
“Eventually I was able to cross-reference the same mountain peak in not two, but four accounts. I set out with a few hirelings and trekked to the mountain, which was along the borders of Comdolith and Maltin. It was one of the peaks north of the supposed ruins of Karthar.”
The council members sat silently, intrigued by Krindal’s story. Usually Krindal didn’t produce such tales. That’s because he came back empty-handed.
“After days of searching, we discovered a cave near the peak. At first it seemed natural, but as we got closer, we could tell it was man-made. Weathered architecture was built into the mountain.” Krindal paused, wanting to get this next part right. “Doors were cut from the mountain matching the strata of the nearby stone. They were hard to open, but we eventually entered this Keepers’ Temple.
“A foyer led to a circular room, lit by skylights. There were sconces on the walls, but there were no lightstones in them. Seven rooms branched off from the circular one. Most of the rooms were empty, except for one, the one aligned with the entrance. There I found this.” Krindal reached into his pack, removing a silvery oval disk, domed on one side. He placed it on the table—domed side up—and continued. “There was a raised dais in that room, with an altar of sorts. The altar had markings on it, arranged in three pairs: symbols in a strange dialect of the Kaldean Common Tongue, another that appeared Elvish, and a third pair that none of us could decipher.”