by Dan Zangari
Polnia shrugged as the farmer—most likely her husband—returned with bandages and splints. She stroked Dith’s hair again, trying to soothe him. “Our first king taught that we should always be kind to those who are in need,” Polnia said, her tone motherly, “and that we should give where we can.”
“Succor those who stand in need of succor,” the farmer said, kneeling beside Dith’s injured leg. “And you, Mister Dith, need some succoring.” He set out the bandages and examined Dith’s leg.
The children entered the room a moment later, and Polnia grabbed the plate they had prepared and the glass of milk.
“Here,” Polnia said, handing him the milk. “You need to eat.”
Dith took a sip of the milk, expecting it to be sour, but it was actually quite good. He gulped most of it down and took the plate from Polnia. Three slices of warm bread were neatly stacked next to strangely cooked vegetables. They looked like they had been cooked in oil.
“I’m going to start wrapping,” the farmer said.
Dith nodded and broke off a piece of the bread. It had a slight hint of sweetness to it, and the texture was fluffy. Not bad, he thought, and took a bite. It’s actually quite good. Dith grabbed the vegetables with the bread and ate them together. He finished the plate just as the farmer finished with his leg.
“Thank you,” Dith said, “for all of this.”
“You’re welcome,” the farmer said with a smile. “Rest up. Your leg will need it. You can stay with us until you’re recovered. I have to leave to go to market in Klath in two days. But Polina and the children will be here to take care of you.”
“I can’t,” Dith protested. “I have to get to Kinedahl as soon as possible.” Dith moved to stand, but pain surged up his leg. Clearly, he couldn’t make the journey on foot. Defeated, Dith plopped back on the couch, and leaned his head back.
He glimpsed Polnia looking to her husband with concern. “Could you take him? Leave for the market a day early?” she asked.
The farmer sucked in his breath, looking at the floor in a contemplative gaze. After a moment he turned to his wife. “I think that’s what Dorin would do,” he said.
Who is Dorin?
“We can leave in the morning,” the farmer said, then hurried to the door. “Children, come help me. I need to prepare the wagons. I hope you can drive, Mister Dith.”
* * * * *
The next evening, Dith arrived in the town of Kinedahl. The farmer, Haldor, and his family had taken him in one of their wagons. They were supposed to be at the market in Klath the following day and had sacrificed an extra day of milking to drive Dith to Kinedahl.
Haldor offered to take him to the inn where Master Amendal was waiting, but Dith didn’t want him to sacrifice more than he already had. Besides, Amendal wouldn’t take kindly to someone helping him finish his test.
Dith hobbled on crutches—made by Haldor—through the dirt streets of the town, looking for an inn called the Dancing Yidoth. Haldor said it wasn’t too far from the city’s entrance. He gave Dith directions, but they were wrong.
As the sun disappeared over the horizon, Dith found the inn. He hobbled inside, finding a tavern off the entry. The scents of wines and alcohols tingled his nostrils.
Rowdy commotion carried across the tavern where a crowd was gathered around a booth. The men and women were laughing at whoever was sitting there. Dith thought he heard a patron accusing someone of being a fool.
“Let him talk!” said one of the patrons. “I want to hear the rest of the story.”
“Oh, where was I…?”
Dith knew that voice. Master Amendal! His spirits lifted.
“Ah, yes,” Master Amendal said. His voice was coming from beyond the crowd. Was he telling stories?
“There I was, sliding down the icy slopes with Fench, here, fluttering beside me. We barely escaped with our lives. Everyone else had been slain, food for that abominable monster. I thought we were done for…”
Dith pushed his way through the crowd as Master Amendal continued his tale. “I looked back to see if we were being pursued, and then I saw—Dith!”
Smiling, Master Amendal jumped out of his seat and leapt toward Dith, grinning like a madman. Compared to Dith, Master Amendal was well groomed, with neatly cropped gray hair and a short beard. He was a tall man with a slim physique, despite his old age.
“You made it!” Master Amendal exclaimed, grabbing Dith by the shoulders. “You’re alive!”
The crowd looked at the old mage with confusion. Some demanded that he resume his tale, but Master Amendal just ignored them.
“Oh…” Master Amendal flinched, eyeing the crutches with a raised brow. “Oh…” he muttered again, glancing at Dith’s leg. Shaking his head, Master Amendal took one step back and folded his arms. “Well, I didn’t expect this…” He gestured to Dith’s leg.
Dith chuckled, then heard his name called from behind. He turned, seeing Lorith holding two steins of bubbling ale. Lorith was a tall middle-aged man with a thick build. His auburn hair was neatly trimmed, as was his short beard.
“You did it!” Lorith exclaimed. He handed one of the steins to Master Amendal, who drank long from it. “Was it… bad?” Lorith asked. He looked at Dith with empathy.
“A nightmare,” Dith said. “I hope I never go back there again.”
Lorith slapped him on the arm, nodding. They both knew the horrors of that accursed forest.
Master Amendal inhaled deeply, slamming the stein onto a nearby table. “Okay, let’s go!” He rummaged through his pockets and removed a small rogulin crystal. The crowd dispersed upon hearing Master Amendal’s declaration, leaving all three conjurers alone.
“B-but our things!” Lorith stammered.
“Oh yeah,” Master Amendal squinted and set his jaw. “You should go get them. And take Fench.”
Fench—a strange winged creature that Master Amendal had kept by his side for decades—flew through the air, zipping by Dith in a flash of blacks and grays. Some people called him a fairy, because of his small stature and his odd amalgamation of features. But Dith didn’t know what Fench was. About the size of a toddler, Fench had a seahorse-like head, a human torso, and a snake-tail instead of legs. His wings were as tall as he was and were a transparent gray with black spots. Most of his body was that same muted color palette.
After a short while, Lorith returned with several bags. Fench fluttered behind him, struggling to carry one. He bobbed up and down through the air, trying to stay aloft with the weighty bag.
“Here, Master!” Fench said, sounding, as always, as if his nose was plugged.
“Thank you, Fench!” Master Amendal took the bag and turned to Dith. “You did well, son. You are now a full-fledged Aramien Conjurer. As your prize I will let you have Fench rub your toes tonight!” Master Amendal cocked his head, proudly turning up his chin. Actions like that gave Master Amendal his crazed reputation.
Dith couldn’t help but laugh.
Master Amendal cleared his throat and held out the rogulin crystal. “Onward, to Soroth!” he exclaimed, uttering the teleporting incantation. Golden light shone from the crystal. They would be home in seconds. That realization lifted a weight from Dith’s mind. The farther away from that accursed forest the better. Golden light erupted from the crystal, consuming Dith’s vision.
At last, the Aramien Test of Valor was finished. Though he had failed to capture the gangolin, Dith had completed his master’s grueling test. He had braved the horrid Melar Forest, a feat not many could claim. But now, he could be considered an Aramien Conjurer. And that was something he had always wanted.
“It is uncertain when Cheserith first claimed deific status. His claim, however, wasn’t insubstantial. Somehow, he became immortal and transcended the need to use the Words of Power to manifest the various Channels of Magic.”
- From The Thousand Years War, Part I, page 7
Colors blurred, zipping past Iltar as he flew from Vabenack. Reflection had banished him from that ba
rn with a simple gesture. Iltar hadn’t the faintest idea how Reflection had done it. In fact, everything he had experienced in Vabenack was puzzling.
Iltar had watched helplessly as Cornar nearly died in that treacherous battle. For reasons unknown to him, Iltar couldn’t interact with anything besides the landscape. He was like a ghost, moving through objects and people. Not even his magic had an effect. Iltar had tried saving Cornar from that crass man’s assaults, but no matter what he did, Iltar couldn’t intervene. He was forced to merely watch until his father—Adrin—and the other man left the barn. It wasn’t until then that Iltar could finally interact with Cornar. But Reflection interrupted them.
That bastard, Iltar growled, still flying backward. He expected to feel wind rushing past him, as before, when he’d fallen from a great height. Now, the only indication of his repulsion was the zipping lights.
But then, everything went black.
Was he still falling sideways? He couldn’t tell. Was he still in Vabenack?
Anger simmering, Iltar spat an incantation, mustering an orb of acidic magic. It coalesced in his hand, hovering above his palm. The orb was motionless, and bits of it didn’t whisk away as it should when moving. It faintly lit his hand in a yellow-green hue, but nothing else.
He was in a darkened abyss. An abyss? A spike of worry eclipsed his anger. Dreamwalker mentioned nothing about an abyss—no, a void… That verse from The Codices of Soron Thahan came to his mind: “He will suffer in the depths of the void for a season. No light shines there, nor can it be made manifest.”
Anger returned, boiling within him. He would not be trapped in this place. He would find a way to escape. This void wouldn’t—
“Th-the light…” a voice boomed from behind Iltar, sounding labored. “You can muster it.” It sounded like that same voice Iltar had heard the last few times he was thrown from Vabenack, but there was something different about it.
“Who’s there?” Iltar demanded and tried to turn, but he wasn’t sure he moved. There was no orientation in this void.
“I… am Cheserith.” The voice came from in front of Iltar.
Iltar started. Cheserith? Cheserith, the god of the Mindolarnians, the deity of Cherisium. Iltar furrowed his brow skeptically. Could this be a trick from Reflection? Or was he really speaking to the so-called deity?
“Are you really Cheserith?” Iltar asked. “The god of Cherisium?”
The booming voice grumbled. “How is it that you have come to my prison?”
That question struck Iltar as odd. If this being was god, wouldn’t he be all-knowing? “Reflection hurled me here,” Iltar said.
The booming voice grumbled. “I know not any being called Reflection.”
“Well, that’s what I call him,” Iltar said. “Because he looks like me. It’s probably some trick, though. He thinks I’m some hero.”
A rumble echoed through the void. “Are you the Unspoken One? The One I saw in a vision? He told me you would deliver me from my shackles.”
Questions flooded through Iltar’s mind. Wasn’t Cheserith the one who prophesied of the Unspoken One? Who was this He that Cheserith referred to? And why was this so-called god shackled?
“Do you manifest His power without incantation?” Cheserith asked, sounding desperate. “A blackness that devours all it touches.”
“Yes,” Iltar said skeptically.
A booming chuckle resounded through the void. “I will be free!” Cheserith declared.
Light suddenly beamed from behind Iltar, illuminating the void. Iltar glanced over his shoulder, seeing an oval opening that revealed the Translucent Fields of Vabenack.
Reflection appeared and passed through the opening, walking on the blackness as if it were solid ground. He looked at Iltar, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re just in all the wrong places, Iltar.” Reflection shook his head.
Iltar turned back around, hoping to get a better look at the so-called deity, Cheserith. About several hundred phineals away was the outline of a gigantic figure, standing a hundred phineals tall. Arms and legs were splayed, as if they were being pulled. Something hung between the legs, curving slightly in the air. Was that a tail?
“You are Him!” Cheserith boomed. “You are the Unspoken One! I will be delivered!”
Resounding cackling echoed through the void, and Iltar felt hands on his shoulders, arms, wrists, legs, torso—dozens of hands gripped him, pulling him away.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Reflection said.
Iltar struggled against those hands and tried to focus on Cheserith, but couldn’t see more of the towering deity. Thirteen other figures caught his eye, all surrounding Cheserith. Their outlines looked similar, but seemed lighter in color, though Iltar couldn’t distinguish what color Cheserith was exactly.
Soon, Iltar was back in Vabenack. The portal to the void shut immediately, and the myriad of hands relaxed their grip.
“You’re full of surprises today, aren’t you?” Reflection said.
Iltar spun, facing the oddity. Nothing was manifest on this part of the Translucent Fields, not even a cloud in the sky.
“You don’t look happy,” Reflection said, studying Iltar with narrowed eyes.
“I have plenty of reasons to be angry!” Iltar retorted. “Why did you almost kill Cor? He could have died in there!”
“Cor was fine,” Reflection said, waving his hand negligently. “He was never in any real danger. I could have possessed any one of those characters at any time and healed him. Besides, he needed to experience Melthas’s death firsthand. It will help him make the right choices on Dalgilur. And, now you two have something more in common.” Reflection smiled wryly.
Anger boiled within Iltar, compounded by his erroneous assumptions of Soron Thahan’s prophecy.
“I see you can now access this realm at will,” Reflection said, pacing. “Things are unfolding differently than I remember,” he hummed thoughtfully. Reflection raised an eyebrow and squinted at Iltar with his left eye. That was something Iltar would do when he thought deeply on a subject. Why was this thing copying him? The mimicry was infuriating.
Footsteps boomed across the horizon, followed by the clattering metal that sounded as if an entire city was crumbling.
“Oh good,” Reflection grinned, “you’re waking now. Continue your research, Iltar. You’re about to stumble across something startling.” Reflection’s grin turned to a beaming smile, then the yellow tones of Vabenack swirled.
Iltar blinked, finding himself back in Alanya’s bedchamber as his anger faded like a fleeting dream. At the foot of the bed, Hazais was organizing a tray with a morning meal for two.
“Oh, you’re awake,” the butler said aloofly. “Her Excellency wishes to eat here with you this morning.”
Iltar sat up and looked out the window, where the sun was barely peaking over the horizon. Faint pitter-patter sounded from his right as Alanya emerged from her lavish closet, dressed in a pale-violet robe. Her hair was covered in a towel.
“Did it work?” Alanya asked eagerly.
“Yes,” Iltar said. “I was able to enter Vabenack.”
Alanya beamed with excitement. She hurried to the bed and crawled to Iltar, sitting beside him. “You have to tell me all about it!” she said excitedly, taking his hand.
Iltar nodded. “Is anyone else awake?”
“No, they were all passed out in the sitting room off the kitchen. Those poor boys were just lying on the floor.”
Boys? Her words struck Iltar with panic and frustration. Had his acolytes drunk from the dream elixir?
Iltar tossed aside the covers and leapt out of bed. He hurried past Hazais, who was finishing preparations on Iltar and Alanya’s breakfast.
“Where are you going?” Alanya asked warily.
Iltar ignored her. He bolted down the hallway and hastily descended the stairs. His acolytes might be in danger. Iltar dashed through the kitchen, to the pot containing the elixir. It was less full than when he had taken h
is goblet. Stupid boys!
He stumbled into the sitting room, seeing Elsia still passed out in the chair. Pagus was lying on the couch, and all the acolytes were on the floor.
“You stupid boys!” Iltar growled, hurrying to Bilda. He knelt beside the boy, shaking him.
“Bilda, wake up!” He shook the boy again, but the youth didn’t respond. Iltar checked his breathing. It was normal. Good, he thought, moving to Tigan. The boy’s breathing was normal, too. Iltar checked the others, and they all seemed fine.
With his acolytes accounted for, Iltar examined Elsia. Her lips were parted, and her breathing was heavy, even panicked.
“They’re all alive…” he muttered as Alanya approached.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking worried. “Why did you run off in a panic?”
Iltar sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “That place is not safe for them.”
Alanya chuckled. “Iltar, you train them against armed men. How much worse could that place be?”
He took in a deep breath and averted his gaze. Vabenack was dangerous, far more dangerous than his training sessions. For magic’s sake, that dream he had before going into Vabenack was just as deadly.
“Lock up the elixir,” Iltar said. “I don’t want them touching that stuff.”
Alanya sighed.
“Inform your guards that only those we chose are permitted access to the elixir.”
“How dangerous could Vabenack be?” Alanya asked.
Iltar glanced to her for a moment and then resumed studying his acolytes. “I saw my friend nearly die, his blood pooling on the ground.” Iltar imagined Cornar would have been covered in blood when he awoke; at least that’s what Dreamwalker intimated. Poor Cor probably hadn’t a clue as to what was happening to him. But why was he in Vabenack at all? Iltar knew why Reflection was communicating with him, but why Cornar? What role did he have to play in all this? And what was this Dalgilur? Cornar was headed to Klindil…
Those questions troubled Iltar. Then, there was that connection between his and Cornar’s fathers. It was a connection Iltar had never considered. And Kaescis… The prince was far older than he seemed. If what Dreamwalker claimed was true—that one could visit any event in Kalda’s past—then that battle had actually taken place. That realization alone was enough to give Iltar pause.