A shiver passed through Jherrick. Archaeon’s words held warning of something terrible. Something that ran in Jherrick’s own veins, yet to be unleashed.
“Trevius began to raise armies of un-dead.” It was Ethirae who spoke, taking up the tale as she stared out across the universe. “He found that arisen warriors fought harder – without pain, without a mind of their own. They could be controlled to his will, and his will at the time was battling the hordes of nightmares the Demon unleashed upon us through every gateway that connected to our world. You have heard of the Valley of Doors? Or perhaps the Aphellian Way?”
“I’ve heard of them.” Jherrick’s throat was dry.
Ethirae’s gaze was level. “There are places in every world that must be watched, Noldrones Jherrick. Ways through the Great Void. Gateways like these we stand before here, to other worlds. Some worlds are not so forgiving as where you come from. Do you understand?”
“The Demon opened the gateways,” Jherrick murmured. “Blasted them open, and unmentionable things attacked from these other worlds. Decimated your people.”
“Indeed. Causing us many trials and vicious battles, before he possessed my brother Trevius, after Trevius rose as King of the Giannyk at the end of the Demon’s Wars.” Archaeon’s voice was a hard growl in the luminous dark. “Twisted by the Demon’s Rise inside of him, Trevius raised armies of the un-dead against his own kin, and against what was left of the Albrenni, the Tundra-Men, and our Ajnabi allies. Dead Giannyk rose upon the battlefields. Dead behemoths, dead creatures of nightmare, things we had already vanquished at terrible cost in the worst battles our world had ever seen. All of them rose – to fight us anew, and when one of our own was slain, he too would rise, turning on his companions and slaying on. The carnage was unimaginable. And unstoppable, except by fire. We learned to burn our dead in those days. Anything that died. The tradition of the pyre lives on among the Elsthemi, our Tundra-mated descendants.”
“And the fire that burned through you?” Jherrick nodded to Archaean’s wounds.
“Was sacred. Holy fire.” Archaeon’s tone was low, and in it, Jherrick heard strain. “I sought it out, a rumor of a rumor from the oldest Albrenni legends. Of a people called the Fyrrini, born of salt and ash, who could confer upon me the only thing that could stop the Undoer. The Key of Fire – the Key of the World Shaper. Needless to say, I found the Fyrrini, and they gave me what I sought. To my eternal damnation.”
Ethirae set a hand to Archaeon’s broad but emaciated shoulder. He did not shake it off, but slumped under her touch as if exhausted. “Forgive me. I will need to continue this conversation at a later time. Rising from my rest... has made me weary.”
“Come.” Ethirae moved under his arm, and Jherrick saw how old and worn the ancient battle-lord truly was. He leaned heavily upon her as he nodded his goodnights to Jherrick and then set two fingers to his forehead in respect for Flavian.
Jherrick and Flavian watched them go. When they ascended the first turn of stairs and were lost to view, Jherrick turned. “Will he be alright?”
“No.” Flavian’s visage was thoughtful, sad. “He will never live well again. I still hold out hope that we can find some cure for his malady, but,” Flavian shrugged, an elegant gesture, “it is a dimming hope.”
They turned back to the archways, staring at unseen winds that stirred the gossamer veils until at last, Flavian sighed. “Noldrones Jherrick. Ages turn, and the rise and fall of the World Shaper’s spindle causes patterns to repeat. Societies rise and flourish, emerging into a Golden Age. When they begin to understand and weave currents of the universe, of wyrria, the Demon’s mind is attracted from the nothingness where it resides. It begins to seek those who can wield the worst destruction – those of broken heart but of great magic. Those who are susceptible to the devouring darkness of its red eyes. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Jherrick rubbed his chest. He could still feel it, the raw ache of Olea’s passage from his life, and Aldris. The countless innocents destroyed by Lhaurent; and his Khehemni parents, dead by fire. Death followed Jherrick, and with it came this horrible darkness of his own broken-hearted sorrow.
“My grief. It lets the Demon in.”
“Your sundered heart lets the Demon in.” Flavian’s dark eyes were compassionate. “The summation of your woes that you cannot move through. To find the light, Noldrones Jherrick, we have to embrace our darkness. See that which we hate about our lives, about our faults and wrongdoing. To conquer your grief and not be a lodestone for the Demon, you have to face what you are. You walk the Path of the Dead, louve wyrdi – Dusk wyrria. It is your nature, your power, and your bane. And it will be your Undoing if you cannot learn to face its dire magic.”
“Dusk wyrria,” Jherrick glanced at Flavian, “what is it, exactly?”
Flavian heaved a great sigh, turning his visage up to the endless stars. “How can I explain the vibration of the dusk? For such a thing is so subtle and powerful as to exceed all expectations and boundaries. In basic principles – the universe, the Great Void, breathes with currents that are all part of the World Shaper’s creationary music. Vibrations that when harnessed, can create or destroy the areas they affect. Your people call the entirety of this vibrational system wyrria.”
“Wyrria is magic, though, isn’t it?” Jherrick frowned.
Flavian glanced at him, clasping his hands behind his back. “Wyrria is the vibration from which all things come. It is the summation of the World Shaper’s music. Learn to hear different strains, learn to master the seven different vibrations of it, and you shall learn how to use it as the World Shaper herself does.”
“To create or destroy.”
Noldrones Flavian nodded. “For the Shaper herself made her Undoer. The Undoer is a natural process. It is something her Great Void does, as galaxies are born and die, as stars explode into being and snuff out. But when the Undoer possesses manifest flesh, it becomes unbalanced. Death exceeds life. Do you understand?”
“I begin to,” Jherrick murmured. “But if the Undoer is a natural process, is it the same as the Red-Eyed Demon?”
A slight smile lifted Flavian’s lips, his starlight eyes glittering with humor. “Astute, Noldrones Jherrick. Very astute. Indeed, we do not know. The Red-Eyed Demon is so vastly ancient and powerful that we are unable to tell any difference between it and the Original Undoing. If it is not Her Original Undoer, it is so corrupted by that vast discordance that even the ancient ones who taught us Albrenni could not say precisely what it was. Only that it has decimated worlds – entire galaxies – because it was allowed to come into being.”
Jherrick shivered, a chill racing through him. “Is it only Dusk wyrria that the Demon corrupts?”
“No. Of the seven major strains of wyrria in the universe, the Demon can corrupt them all, except for the Shaper’s original vibration.” Turning towards Jherrick, Flavian watched him. Stepping close, he set his fingers to Jherrick’s chin, raising it so he could look in Jherrick’s eyes. “I see,” Flavian spoke in a hushed whisper, his gaze moving from one of Jherrick’s eyes to the other.
“What?”
“Khehe wyrdi,” Flavian chuckled. “Conflict wyrria. I believe your ancient kin called it the Wolf and Dragon? It runs in your veins also. Though strangely enough, you do not carry it as your primary vibration.”
Startled, a shiver raced through Jherrick. Heat shot through his veins, thinking about Khehem and the horror he had experienced in that dead place.
“Yes, Khehe wyrdi is there,” Flavian breathed, watching him intently. “Conflict pours through your veins, just behind death. No wonder the Demon seeks you.” Flavian’s touch slipped away, and Jherrick shuddered to lose its cool calm. His gaze straying to the cosmos, Flavian’s aura flowed out amongst the endless stars as he breathed in stillness for a long moment. He gave a long blink, and when he returned, he was still not back all the way, his gaze resting upon the seven archways before focusing on Jherrick once more.
“You have a hard road ahead of you, Noldrones Jherrick. Dusk and Conflict simmer in your blood. You will have teachers, but not here. We have no one here at the Sanctuary with enough strength in the khehe wyrdi to train you.”
Jherrick went chill to the tips of his fingers. He shivered, watching the veils of muted light ripple and breathe in the archways. A dead boy’s glassy eyes rose in his mind, then Olea’s opal orbs dying to a flat grey.
And then Aldris, laying cold in kingly attire in the Memoriarium.
“I can feel your thoughts, Noldrones Jherrick.” Flavian spoke abruptly, his endless eyes boring into Jherrick, stern and devouring. “I can feel you obsessing about resurrecting your dead friend. Trying to call his spirit back into his body. And I feel I must warn you: King Trevius Stranik was the same – vibrating with Dusk and Conflict wyrria both. The Demon rose inside him because of the terrible conflict that death brought him. And his equally burning desire – to end that death.”
“Resurrection,” Jherrick breathed, horrified. “But if I never train in my wyrria, then the Demon can never be able to use me.”
“Ask Trevius Stranik how well that turned out for him.” Flavian’s words were soft in the darkness, ominous. “When he was young, he avoided developing his wyrria because he was afraid of its vast power, but every person’s natural wyrria will out, in any way that it can, Noldrones Jherrick. Embrace yours. Or be felled by it when the Demon is stronger at wielding it than you are – from inside your very own body. Just like happened to King Trevius.”
Turning, Noldrones Flavian gazed up at the seven archways, his hands clasped behind his back. Jherrick turned also, feeling the World Shaper’s impenetrable music pour through him. Though it soothed Jherrick to watch that mutable flow, something dark roiled inside him.
Reaching out with hands of blackened starlight toward the Great Void – and the souls it wished to gather back.
CHAPTER 21 – THEROUN
After his meal, Theroun was led to a small chamber within the cloisters of the cathedral. A monk’s cell, it had a simple wooden bed that Theroun collapsed into the moment he arrived. He’d awoken in the dregs of night having sweated through his shirt and trousers and stripped them away, drinking down a pitcher of water and collapsing to sleep once more.
It was deep night when he woke again, his muscles and sinews stiff. A single candle lit his chambers, flickering in an autumn breeze that fingered in through gaps in the stone wall. Theroun didn’t remember lighting a candle. He sat up, rubbing his chest – his fevers had abated and his skin felt cool. The rioting of his wyrria slumbered, only causing a stitch in Theroun’s old wound. Stretching, he realized a man sat upon a chair in one dark corner of his room.
Theroun knew that solid frame, that subtle regard. Khorel Jornath had him at a disadvantage. Theroun hadn’t even heard the man enter the chamber through his obliviate slumber. He debated action, but against the mind-manipulator and without weapons, any action seemed moot. He settled for swinging his legs over the side and facing the man in his underdrawers as he stretched his side.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” Theroun growled.
“I did knock.” A rolling chuckle came from the shadows. “So many times and so loudly that I thought you might be dead.”
“But you knew I wasn’t.” Theroun tested the man. “From your silver net in my body.”
“Indeed.”
“So why are you here?” Theroun growled, twisting the other way.
“To see how you fare.” Jornath leaned forward into the candlelight with his elbows on his knees and big hands clasped, regarding Theroun frankly. “As High Priest at this encampment, it is my responsibility to shepherd my Brethren, and Initiates. Your welfare is of high priority to us.”
“To join your ranks and serve Lhaurent?” Theroun snorted. “I’d rather die.”
“You very likely will.” Jornath was frank. “And our service to Lhaurent den’Alrahel stands only as long as there is not one to supplant him.”
The answer startled Theroun, but he did not let it show. He ceased stretching and set his palms on his knees. “You would serve someone else against Lhaurent?”
“The Kreth-Hakir serve only the strongest.” Jornath’s smile was subtle in the wan light. “Only the most dominant power in any age may wield the might of the Scorpions. Lhaurent wears wyrric marks foretold by ancient prophecy, giving him a power so strong that it could unite the world in the most chaotic time ever seen. Unlike most who have heard the prophecy told from the tongues of lesser men, the Hakir remember the direct words of our god Leith Alodwine himself. We saw his fear of this future chaos, so we keep his faith and its primary tenet.”
Theroun scowled, but the story was too intriguing to abandon. “Your god was afraid?”
Lacing his big fingers, Jornath’s dark grey gaze evaluated Theroun. “Have you ever seen the eyes of a man who is so powerful in wyrria that he seems godlike, quail with fear?”
“What could such a man have to fear?” Theroun’s brows furrowed.
“Destruction.” Jornath’s murmur eased through the room. “Ultimate destruction, of all places, all peoples.”
“Don’t your people destroy wherever they go?”
“We follow Leith’s central tenet, and under it, atrocities can occur.”
“Which is?”
“That we serve the one with the most power in any age. And watch him. For the ultimate corruption that Leith feared.”
“You’re spying on Lhaurent?” Theroun leaned forward.
“We serve Lhaurent.” Jornath corrected, his gaze hard. “We serve him to the death of every last one of us. Our word to him is our bond, and our bond is everything. We shall continue to serve him until someone with a greater power bests him, but we also watch, Theroun. We watch Lhaurent den’Alrahel for a fate worse than death. For something Leith Alodwine, last King of Khehem, feared greater than war, greater than losing his family, his beloved city, even his life. We watch, for the Rise of the Red-Eyed Demon.”
Theroun sat forward, mimicking Jornath’s posture unconsciously. “You think Lhaurent’s abilities and his power will turn him into some kind of monster?”
“Not a monster,” Jornath shook his head. “The monster. Ancient lore mentions it only as the Destroyer of Worlds. The Red-Eyed Demon chooses only the most powerful in any age to seduce and enter. The most powerful, who are also the most alone.”
“So this Demon, he’s some kind of spirit?” Theroun knit his brows, trying to understand his enemy.
“He is a possessor,” Jornath corrected. “A god who can slip into the mind. Take it in dreams, in nightmares, and eventually in one’s waking life. Take a person to madness, and wield in them the ultimate chaos.”
“And this possessor,” Theroun continued, mulling it over, “could he enter a Kreth-Hakir?”
“No. In our training, the Kreth-Hakir do much to practice against such occurrence,” Jornath commented. “Our god Leith commanded it of us.”
“Was your god Leith possessed by this demon?”
“He never would say.” Jornath’s eyes darkened. “And despite our best mind-breakers, we could not wrest the truth of it from him. So we were formed to guard against the creature, to bind ourselves to the highest power in any land, to become close and learn their mind. To see if their eyes flashed red with the madness of the Demon.”
“And if one comes who can best Lhaurent?”
“If Lhaurent den’Alrahel is cast down, though he is of our god’s bloodline, we would marshal for him no more.” Jornath’s eyes were knowing by the candle’s flicker. “You hate Lhaurent. I can feel it seething inside you. A lifetime of loathing. You believe his gains are all false and his motivations dishonorable. Such things are not of concern to me, Theroun, nor to the Brethren.”
“So you serve a tyrant blindly.”
“Not blindly,” Jornath warned, his gaze dire. “In my span of years, I have seen the honorable and dishonorable rise and fall like the wheat and the
scythe. Tyrants cause ruin; heroes cause gain. Lhaurent has been blessed by a new power, and this power will be watched and served like we have served others before him – until he either falls or becomes tainted in his soul. The greater mind of the Kreth-Hakir thinks in millennia, Black Viper, not decades. If you join us, if you decide to receive our training to wrestle the wyrria inside you, you’ll understand.”
“Join your hive mind?” Theroun growled. “Become a mindless cur to those more dominant?”
“Dominance is a training tool, nothing more,” Jornath spoke quietly. “It is suffered until a Brother becomes strong enough to break a more dominant member’s hold over his mind. I have three Brethren in this company struggling to break my hold over them right this very moment. Two full Brethren, and one Initiate who has powers far greater than he knows.” Khorel Jornath’s glance spoke volumes.
“Your Brethren are cruel in their ways.”
“Have we been cruel?” Jornath eyed Theroun with a dark look. “When we took lives upon the battlefield, did we make them suffer? Or did we take their lives cleanly, making them slit their own throats with perfect skill? Did we not honor the best of the fallen, braiding their hair into adornments for our scorpions? Have we not caused a minimum of death as we rode through the countryside, sparing every hamlet and only making war upon the capitol? Have you seen a single Brother under the grip of my mind rape any woman or beat to death any man?”
“Adelaine Visek.” Her name dropped from Theroun’s lips before he could stop himself.
Jornath eyed him. “Would you have done any less, Black Viper, with a battle-maid who withholds information vital to the progress of your campaign?”
Theroun returned Khorel Jornath’s steady gaze. Though he detested the man, he couldn’t refute Jornath’s words and Theroun hadn’t seen any rape of the Elsthemi, nor beatings. They had been fed and watered as they worked, and only been mind-controlled enough to do their work without trying to escape.
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