by Kala Merseal
Cirith sighed, taking one last glance at the mortal lying on the wooden table. The black substance clotted the wound once more, as if Cirith had not removed a large chunk of it. Raethin seemed unaffected, deep in the comatose. His breath leveled.
The Guardian turned and left the chamber, black tar still coating his golden claw. His lips thinned as he stewed over Rasilvanor’s words.
The attendants stood outside of the chamber, eyeing the threshold. When Cirith appeared, they cleared their throat and straightened, waiting for his next order.
When he brushed past them in silence, they relaxed and entered the chamber.
Kiri met Cirith at the main level. She waited, pacing before the stairs.
“They’re waiting in the council chamber.”
“Thank you,” Cirith muttered with a nod.
She followed him as he headed in the chamber’s direction.
“Do you need something to wash off the black...stuff?”
Cirith glanced down to his arm then back up.
“Yes.” He sighed again. “But for now, I must speak with Misandreas and Vilithian.”
“The Heir and her companions are with them.” There was a deliberation in her words, as if she were concerned that he had not heard her the first time.
“Yes, I know,” Cirith retorted, restraining another sigh. “And it might be best that Ara Zypherus hears what I have to say to them as well.”
Kiri hesitated in her response then bowed her head in deference.
They split off after climbing the stairs to the council’s main hall. The sun had entered late afternoon, its light casting an orange glow through the stained-glass windows.
When he turned the next right, he entered the main council chambers. It was a circular room, with a dome ceiling filled with the same stained-glass design as the windows outside in its hall. Most of the walls were lined with bookcases or reliefs of their goddess, a trend of the druids’ keep. But on the wall opposite the entrance was a relief of Rasilvanor and his birth, an event with which even Cirith was unfamiliar.
A round table filled the center of the room, where Vilithian, Misandreas, and the mortals sat in hushed silence
“How long have you all waited?” Cirith’s voice broke the silence, and Ara jumped, disturbed by his quiet entrance.
“Not long,” Misandreas responded, though her smile was tight-lipped. Which meant longer than she liked.
Cirith took a seat at the head of the table, facing Vilithian directly.
“Then I will make haste with this,” Cirith said as he leaned back in his chair. “We have much to discuss.”
His golden eyes then met Ara’s cerulean and catching the trepidation in her gaze, Cirith smiled.
This was not going to be pleasant—for anyone.
Chapter Twelve
The sight of Cirith and his blackened claws sent fear thundering through the mortals’ hearts. They had all studied the Guardian in his late arrival, everything about him regal and pristine, until their eyes had trailed down to his hand, blackened from mid-forearm down to the golden-tinged, sharp claws.
Of course, none of the mortals knew what it meant, but dread clenched Ara’s heart. The demons had black, tarlike blood. Was there a demon below, in the same levels as Raethin?
She stilled when Cirith smiled at her.
"You have all seemingly disappeared from the mortal realm for a week now," the Guardian said. "I'm sure you're all curious about what has happened to your kingdom."
Ara's stomach dipped. She was not sure if she was ready to hear this.
Because she knew—they all knew—what had happened.
Cirith studied her for a moment, his golden eyes flashing. His clawed fingers drummed the table’s wood surface.
"When the Kaevari attacked, we sought to defend Therilea from their destruction," Cirith said. "We learned of the siege with little time to respond. When we arrived, the Therilean citadel and its palace within were in flames. Bodies covered the floors. The miasma had already filled the air. I ordered my druids to return to the edge of the Forest, where the air was still clean. I went further in. I had to be sure that you had escaped, and that your father died."
"Why—" Ara's words caught in her throat as she processed his words. "Why should my father have died?" "He is one of the greatest magi of his time, Ara." Cirith's expression darkened. "If he were compromised…to be changed, then that asset would've made the Kaevari's conquest ever more victorious. If I could not save him, then it was best if he did die."
Ara could hardly choke out the question, "And did he?"
Cirith paused.
"Yes, he did die."
Ara closed her eyes, visions flashing of that horned demon ripping out her father's heart.
"Did you find him?"
Another pause of hesitation, then Cirith said, "I did. It was then that I met Aeskrius for the first time."
Her eyes flew open. She gripped her chest, feeling her heart constrict.
"The horned Kaevari seems to be the general of the demons," Cirith said with a sigh. "He had ensured that Raifeld would not rise again. I am unsure if he knew of the advantage of having King Raifeld as a…subordinate. It seemed rather personal that he didn't make that military move."
"How?"
Cirith's eyes flashed again as he tilted his head back.
"Why shouldn't I spare you the gory details, Ara?" Cirith's lips curled, even as his gaze darkened in pity once more—the only emotion Cirith refused to hide. "Would you like to know how he died?"
"Why not?" Ara snapped. "I know it happened—and I know that my mother died as well. Why not learn of how and save me from creating imaginary scenarios?"
Silence fell over the room. Then, in a calm murmur, Max spoke.
"You don't deserve any more grief, Princess."
"But why?" Ara turned her strained scowl to the older elf. "They didn’t save our people and they almost didn’t save us. How can we put trust in them?"
Max stilled. The mortals all turned to study the druid elders and Cirith as her words settled over them. Ara leaned forward, her fingers splayed across the table, and scrutinized Cirith and the druid elders.
Cirith had not reacted to her words, knowing that they were words of fury, grief, and spite. Misandreas looked upon the princess, beset with pity and regret. Vilithian was just as unresponsive as Cirith, his mauve eyes watching the princess with an unreadable emotion.
“What can you do to save us besides hide us away until they tear down even the most blessed of wards?” Ara asked, her words as sharp as Cirith’s claws drumming the table.
“You’re right, Ara,” Cirith said. “I cannot deny that if we had managed to be ahead of the demons that we may have saved a great deal many souls. But you must understand that while my people are magical and legendary people to the mortals, they are not gods. They are of the in-between— between mortality and immortality, but not of divinity.”
Cirith sighed and his drumming stopped.
“It will take divinity to triumph over the Kaevari, Ara,”
Cirith said, his eyes flashing once more as he straightened in his chair. “It will take power that only the gods can supply. It will take thousands of more souls—if not millions—until the Kaevari have devoured all this world can give, then even that will not sate them. They will find a way to move on to the next realm, then the next, until existence has diminished to a sea of blood and void. And it is only by the gods’ might that we can stop them before that happens.”
“The gods have not come thus far,” Ara quipped, her eyes swollen with unshed tears. “They have not come when the Plague first hit, when our peoples of Altana became frenzied with grief and fear and flocked to their temples for salvation. They have not come when the Kaevari appeared and began devouring our lands piece by piece. They have not come now, when all that is left is refugees who were lucky enough to escape into the crevices of our world.”
“Child.” The word hissed out of Cirith’s teeth; his eyes
gleaming as he stood. His palms flattened against the table as he spoke once more, and his voice rang.
“The earth does not understand what happens in the stars. Can you observe from the stars?”
The question was rhetorical. Ara shrank in her chair as Cirith waved a dismissive hand at her.
“The gods cannot dwell in this realm like mortals can. Purely spiritual beings cannot enter the purely physical without a vessel.” Cirith scoffed as he waved at himself.
“Rasilvanor and I made a covenant for such an arrangement.
For immortality and great power, I swore to honor and duty. Thus, he dwells within me. In likeness, all immortal spirits must be borne within a mortal vessel.”
“Is that how they are going to save us, then, Great Spirit?” Ara retorted. Her arms crossed. “Will they belittle themselves to weaker existences to save this world?”
“If they must.” His golden eyes darkened. “They have—and they will.”
Ara fell silent, her eyes stinging with tears. She wanted to argue more but knew that it was pointless. Cirith had a point. Ara knew nothing of the greater scheme of this world; nothing about the demons and their origins or why they sought to conquer her realm.
All she knew was the heartache of losing her loved ones and her people.
With a sigh, Cirith sat back down.
“The Kaevari are scouting the wards as we speak,” Cirith continued after silencing Ara’s outburst. “They are searching for weaknesses in the barriers and for entrances. We have not allowed a scout to leave since we returned. The weakest points of the wards are when someone exits or enters. Besides, we can’t be sure if the demons managed to capture my druids that they wouldn’t be able to coerce them into breaking the barrier.”
“How can a druid break the barrier?” Max asked.
“It recognizes druidic blood. Druids can pass freely— and if one of the druids are compromised, then it might be possible that they use the druid blood to go through the barrier. We have yet to be so caught off guard that a druid has been whisked away,” Cirith said. “I stress that it could happen each time we leave. That is another reason why I am very wary about leaving. Because of this though, they are using the Forest against us. As you may have noticed, the
Forest is starting to bear the taint of the Keavari’s curse. The more that we try to defend the Forest, the more exposed our stronghold becomes.”
“How long do you think we have then?” Max asked yet another question that all the mortals thought. “They will wait us out if they must, won’t they? The moment that something or someone slips up, then they will find that weakness and prey upon it.”
“That’s true. We do not know what they have in their arsenal. The ward is powerful, but not invincible.” Cirith cut his golden gaze to Ara once more. She wilted under the stare. Pity no longer filled his expression, but determination and expectation.
“Which is why we must train those who can be taught,” Cirith stated. “We all know the Therilean Heirs must be an arch-magus in their field of arcane. And while the princess wants it to be known, she is lame in the arts.”
Ara’s gaze dropped to her hands, pale and still healing.
“But those who have the ability sensed that you can be trained out of your disability, Ara.”
She peeked up and caught his stare once more.
“I thought it was my imagination.”
“It wasn’t.” Cirith smiled. “You so lack control that it has become unmanageable and inaccessible. You do not lack the gift. We will train you control, then you will be able to harness it.”
“I have had dozens of tutors over my years, Cirith,” Ara said. “Even the Crown Prince of Waetherea could not teach me. What would you do differently?”
Cirith’s expression tightened. Ara was not sure if it was her doubt or something else, but she frowned at him as he tilted his head.
“I have divinity on my side, Ara. They did not.”
She shrugged and turned her gaze back to her hands.
Cirith made a point and she could not argue against it.
“For the others, you will train with Solas and the scouts,” Cirith said, then grimaced when Misandreas shot him a disagreeing look.
“Solas refuses to humor the mortals, Cirith,” Misandreas said, disgust in her tone. “He will not accept that this is the course of action our goddess wishes. I fear that he will torture the mortals if we let him be.”
“We will discuss this with him,” Cirith said, glancing at Vilithian.
The eldest druid just nodded; the first response Ara had seen from him. Ara wondered if the elder ever spoke.
“When will this begin?” Ara asked, her tone weak and tired. She feared it would be today and though her terror urged her to hurry, she still was not sure how well she had recovered.
“This will begin tomorrow morning. At the break of dawn, the druids will wake you, rush you to breakfast, then escort you to training.” Cirith waved at Vilithian. “Ara, most of your training will be with him. We will harness your ability and train you in defense and offense.”
“And the others?”
“They will escort you to the training grounds,” Cirith said. “I will speak with Solas today. We will discuss the necessity of your training, so don’t worry that he will run you into the ground.”
“I can keep up,” Arlow quipped with his arms crossed. “It is insulting that he thinks that we couldn’t anyway. We were trained by Raethin and Raifeld personally.”
Cirith considered his words in silence, his lips urging on a smile.
“Would you like to be trained like the druids, Arlow?”
“I would like to not be treated like humans. Our stamina is much more prolonged than them.” “Fine. And the eldest elf in the room?”
“I’ll be fine.” Max crossed his arms.
“Then Misandreas and her apprentices will take you back to the guest quarters.” Cirith dismissed them with a wave and stood from his chair. Vilithian followed him, and Misandreas moved from her seat to usher the mortals back through where they entered. But as Ara followed her, Cirith called out to her.
“Princess,” he said. “We must have further discussions...about your commander.”
Her heart plummeted into her stomach, then lurched up her throat. She turned, eyeing the Guardian as she waited in silence for his next words.
“If I were to let you see him,” Cirith said, his words slow and deliberate. “You must not touch him nor get near him.”
She paused before asking, “Why?”
Cirith began to answer, but instead sighed and rubbed his eyes. Then, after glancing at Vilithian, who watched him in expressionless silence, he said, “It is better if I show you. Then we can discuss.”
♦♦♦
Ara followed the Guardian and the silent elder. She shrunk behind them, their height like looming giants ahead of her. Often, she caught herself studying Cirith. He looked young for a human, though she guessed that his age surpassed hers in strides.
She wondered what it truly meant to be a vessel of a Great Spirit—a rav’la, an avatar. Was he more of his human self or closer to his divinity?
The knowing glance he threw over his shoulder stiffened her back, and she turned her gaze from studying him to the glass windows they passed.
They descended into the front foyer and through a series of arches leading to descending stairs. Ara felt a shift as they went down the steps, a pressure under which she squirmed. Her hand instinctively clutched her chest.
If Cirith knew it affected her, he ignored it and led her further down. Once they reached the ground level, Ara hesitated at the bottom step, her eyes wide as she took in her surroundings.
More reliefs etched walls of stone, filled with more sacred, mystical expression as they went further down. Torches of blue light flickered shadows across the reliefs, lighting the way further down a hallway.
Their progression led them to a fork in the hall. Down one was an arch shrouded in velvet curta
ins. Down the other, four druidic attendants crowded the threshold, their whispers hushed when the Guardian, the elder, and the princess drew near.
Their gaze turned from curious to terrified when they looked at Ara.
“Master—” One began, then the words fell flat on his tongue. He swallowed and looked at the other druids.
“What is the princess doing here?” A druidess questioned, her bright lilac eyes narrowing at Ara.
“It’s best to sate her curiosity now instead of prolonging her suffering, Kiri,” Cirith muttered. Ara was sure his scowl was meant to quiet the druidess, but she cocked her hip and crossed her arms. Her defiance reminded her of Solas, with fire lit in her soul and an obvious dislike of mortals.
“Will she not get sick?”
“You have yet,” Cirith retorted, his voice darkening.
“Ara is capable. Do not question further and step aside.”
Hesitantly, the druids did, revealing a glistening pool carved into the cavern. Kiri simmered in silence as the Guardian led Vilithian and Ara through the threshold but followed them into the room.
Ara halted when her gaze ran over the makeshift cot displayed beside the pool. Laying atop, Raethin slept, his body draped with a thin cotton linen. His bared skin was pallid compared to his usual olive tone, adorned with purple and green bruises and dark burgundy crusted wounds.
Her heart stuttered but she ventured closer, each step hesitant as she waited for Cirith to forbid her to move closer. A sob caught in her throat at the black veins reached across his bare chest and up his neck. They quivered, living ivy under his skin.
“He still lives?” Her whisper cut the silence.
Cirith stood beside her, his arms crossed. Black residue still covered one hand to his elbow, and Ara made the connection then.
“You tried to cut out the curse?”
“I did.” Cirith nodded. “I’m immune. The curse is alive in him, and it is by my own spilt blood and Rakeva’s enchanted waters that he has not completely turned. He is in a magically induced coma now and will not wake for the foreseeable future. Until the curse has won, or until his body surrenders his soul.”
Ara could not reconcile with what she felt in that moment. Terror, pain, sorrow—but worst of all, grief. Her vision blurred with tears.