Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  Before he departed the capital, he composed two documents. One was a directive as to how to proceed. It commanded all archons to return to their cities, including Vikar, who was initially meant to join Morael.

  The second document was of greater importance. Aelir sealed just like the first one, but instead of wax, he used his own blood. Pressing down on the stamp, the seal glowed with golden light. It would not open unless specific instructions were met.

  For in the document, he exercised his most important privilege as an imperial prince. The right of succession. It was not used for over a thousand years, for the strife it causes within the imperial family is immense, often irreparable. The right was given to any royal heir as a legal, honorable way to challenge the rein of a current emperor. Once read by the court, the Emperor’s most immediate power is stripped, and, if the Emperor does not abdicate, a tribunal is called to decide.

  While the Emperor would never relinquish the crown and allow an heir to be crowned, the primary purpose is to show that the Emperor is not suited to rule and one, or multiple of his heirs believe he should be replaced.

  It was to be opened only if the Emperor sought to declare war or any other drastic action. Aelir specified his instruction carefully as the document being read in any other circumstance would be devastating.

  With all matters dealt with, he informed himself of Morael’s location - a small town by the name of Natind.

  Alone Aelir rode to Natind from the regional capital of Istra. He refused even the Crown Guard and instructed them to make sure his father is healthy and safe. In Istra, he was offered a battalion of soldiers, but he did not accept, and instead, he demanded a fast horse and a comfortable saddle.

  He was given what he wished and alone, he departed for Natind. So rarely, he left the safety and luxury of the palace. The lives of the common men were of great interest to him, but the soft cushions of the chairs in the palace library were far more to his liking.

  While not far from the small town, he passed through the edge of a forest. To his surprise, the trees were damaged, some even broken in half, and on the ground before him, the light reflected off something metal.

  He got down and picked it up, right away, knowing what it was. Through his entire body ran a great and terrible strength. It was a shard of Vanquisher, the forest was where Morael’s precious blade was destroyed.

  Ever since he first saw it, he hated the weapon. Glamorous and beautiful, it was, for sure, but also deadly and very dangerous. It was when Aelir was only nine when he touched it, and his own body fought against the weapon.

  With a sigh, he threw the piece away, a cold blow of wind running over him and remounted his horse. He considered bringing it to his brother, but it was not the time for sentimental meetings.

  Natind appeared before him less than an hour later, but all the way from the edge of the forest, soldiers were stationed, awaiting command.

  Quicker than even Aelir himself anticipated, they surrounded him and demanded to know who he was.

  In a hurry, he confirmed his identity; by saying his name, he and Morael were not exactly difficult to recognize, and the garments he wore told soldiers enough already. Some soldiers offered to send a word of his arrival, but Aelir refused and only asked for Morael’s location.

  It was a formerly abandoned house in the town itself. Aelir rode in as fast as he could, earning a few looks from the local residents.

  To his luck, Morael was just standing outside with a book in hand. “Morael!” he shouted dismounting. “We must talk.” His brother, greatly surprised, closed the thin tome and eyed him with raised eyebrows.

  Aelir would not let him say a word, and dragged him aside, quickly unloading all her learned. Of Areon, the gemstones and all he has learned.

  Morael’s eyes fell the moment he heard those words uttered, it was just then when Aelir noticed that his once golden eyes glowed with scarlet. Little he knew whether it was bad or not. Yet it was of no matter. He asked a simple question, “Did you know?”

  “I did not. All father told me was that our magic is a construct, even he knows little.”

  “What else did he tell you?” Aelir was displeased, weeks he spent searching for the answer Morael was given on a silver platter, just as many other things. The worst was that Alric also knew and let him and the archons search in vain.

  Morael sighed and looked at him with sad eyes begging for forgiveness. “The power of Areon, of the Derai, is within you. Father is afraid of your power. Do not fear, once I return, all will come back to normal.”

  “What of the one in your staff?” He asked snarkily. “How much do you know?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Aelir learned little, but the most critical information was about the second gemstone. In possession of a Berian rebel. It was Morael’s hope he could retrieve it from the city as the rebellion was most likely sparked by whatever power it gave its wielder.

  After they shared all the most critical information Aelir, with Morael by his side, walked around the town. Finally, he could look and properly see just how different a town is from a city like Sesteria or Istra. All of it so strange, the buildings of wood rather than stone, people dressed in silks that didn’t match. He could only shake his head. While passing by the tavern, they heard the loud shouts of the locals enjoying their meals, as it was time for lunch.

  The people outside yelled a variety of greetings and welcomes the two of them. Even some children ran out of the local school to look closer at them. Both brothers laughed, seeing the kids get scolded by their teacher.

  They walked through the entire town, and as they did less and fewer people took note of them, mostly minding their own business.

  Soon they came to the northern gate, and from there, Morael led Aelir to the camp. There most of his men were stationed, but he assured his brother that the entire border was secure.

  The legion’s commander, a recently promoted man of thirty, ran out to welcome them. He sang them praise the moment he laid eyes upon them, much of it about Aelir.

  Hearing him refer to him as Aelir the Great was most strange. Unless he meant taking care of flowers or daring to leave the palace, he has not done anything worth the monicker.

  Morael and the commander lead Aelir through the camp, talking of numbers and the strategy of their attack, which should take place only a couple of days later.

  Aelir let it not be shown, but he cared so very little about it all, he would much prefer no battle to take place but such a decision was not up to him. Not to arouse suspicion as to his arrival, he continued pretending to be interested in all the two had to say.

  With the sun setting and cold winds of the north reaching the town, Aelir decided to return to the capital on the next day. The night was not his sole reason for staying, the packed tavern piqued his interest, to say the least. While his last adventure ended not so well, the name of the boy who died escaped him, there was no trouble waiting in Natind’s tavern. He wished to forget what’s happened, and so he let go of that memory.

  Carefully inspected the houses he passed, the dirt on the cobblestone streets, and the various signs and posters.

  Finally, arriving at the tavern, he froze. He could hear the commotion from inside, and through the window, he saw people yelling and drinking. His time there was limited, and so he dared to enter. The door creaked as he opened them. Nobody noticed he walked in.

  All tables but one were occupied. Not intending to join the drunk commoners, he sat down on the hard and uncomfortable chair. The table was at least somewhat clean.

  Before he could finish his minor furniture inspection, a woman ran to him. “Welcome Your Majesty,” she said with a wide, warm smile. “What can I get you?”

  “I am not sure,” Aelir replied, forcing a smile too. “Beer should be an appropriate start.”

  Not letting go of her grin, the woman stood there, looking not at him, but through him for so long, it made him uncomfortable. “Oh my!” she whispered. “I a
m sorry. Been a long day.”

  “I understand,” he replied, not understanding in the slightest. The woman sighed and ran off, promising him the best beer he’s ever had.

  As he looked around the busy tavern, he noticed a young woman running between tables cleaning up, bringing cups back to the bar, and chatting with the guests. Out of all the people there, she seemed the most different, most out of her element.

  The innkeeper soon returned with a massive tankard in hand, foam running down the side. “Here it is!” she said. “Hope you enjoy it.”

  “Thank you so much,” he whispered with his eyes firmly locked on the monstrosity that was brought before him. “I will be sure to let you know.”

  As he took his first sip of the sweet golden liquid he had to conclude she was correct, it was the best beer he has ever had. It was also his second ever, and just like his first, it tasted terrible.

  As the night went on, Aelir switched from beer to wine as he found to have a genuine distaste for the drink after his second one. The tavern grew increasingly silent with some departing for their homes and some continuing their conversations, only sipping their drinks and speaking in whispers.

  Aelir could only smile, seeing the lives of the common men played out in front of him like a stage play. Those snippets, mere hours of their lives, were so strange, so unlike those he read about in books.

  In a way, it reminded him of his night with Arianna, a night full of drinking, boundaries thrown to the side, courtesy locked away far away. He missed her, looked forward to seeing her again.

  With his third cup of wine downed, he was ready to leave, but out of nowhere, the woman that was running around plopped down on the chair in front of him. “Hi,” she said in a totally exhausted voice.

  “Hello.”

  “Enjoying the spectacle?” She laughed. “Or did you come here not to observe us?”

  Aelir leaned back onto his chair, surprised not just by her tone but what she thought of his intentions. “It is a cold evening, and I wished to get a taste for beer. While the endeavor failed,” he said, raising his cup of wine, “I decided to stay for it is better than the dark rooms and sound of my brother planning his next move.”

  The woman laughed. “Fine.” With her hands, she messed up her red hair. “Why’d you not join someone? There were plenty of free chairs.”

  “I did not know I could,” he admitted embarrassed. “It is improper to join a table without an invitation.”

  She replied, hiding her laughter, “Well, you know for next time.”

  “What is your story?” He smirked. “You know so much about me, and I know so very little of you.”

  “My dad was a criminal, had to run to Beria, he was killed during the rebellion, my friends and I escaped. Now I’m working to get some money and go back to Istra.” She shrugged. “No story I can tell is going to be in the slightest as interesting as something you can tell me, Your Majesty.”

  With a chuckle, he finished his cup. “Well, I wish you the best of luck.” Looking around one last time, he stood up and clapped his hands. His eyes glowed up gold, and the effects of alcohol were gone.

  Before leaving, he smiled at her one last time and from his pocket threw a small coin purse on the table. “Go home. Live a story worth telling.”

  Come early morning, Aelir rode out of town. He bid Morael farewell, wishing him the best of luck, and left.

  Unlike during his journey, he could enjoy the ride, seeing nature, the open grassy fields. It was riding through the forest when he felt the most at peace. The smell of pine trees mixed with the cold morning air. It was not at all like the gardens or really anything in the capital.

  After he left the trees behind him and rode through the open countryside, his horse’s hoofs making pleasant clicks on the dirt road, he slowed down. On his left, far away, he saw Istra and its high towers, but to his right, he saw nothing. Just the land of the Empire with not a town nor a village for miles. On the coast, there was a small fishing town, but he could barely make it out.

  Approaching the crossroads, where the new Berian road joined the one leading from Istra to Trisicia, he began to feel unwell. His stomach growled.

  Then just beside his left ear passed a dark arrow. He steered his horse and turned him around. Not far was a figure shrouded in darkness, also on horseback. Another arrow flew, and Aelir caught it in his hand. It evaporated, and the runes around his wrist lit up.

  From the back, the figure drew a longsword, with a mighty blade of dark steel. It dismounted and ran against him. Then, out of a puff of smoke, it appeared just before him and drove the sword through Aelir’s horse.

  He jumped up, propelling himself up by the power of his light. “Who are you?” he shouted. When no answer was given to him, he waved his hand, sending wind to bring down the figure’s hood, but it countered it with a wind of its own.

  “Your magic is impure,” the attacker said in a deep terrible voice. “Death will claim you.” With laughter, it ran against him, slashing widely, Aelir only barely escaping.

  He was never in a fight before, and now, with even greater power at his fingertips, he knew not what to do. An uncertainty rather than fright. Yet, with the figure’s unrelenting attacks, Aelir was not given a choice but to engage.

  Instead of moving aside and dodging, he parried with his own sword, a blade given to him by Morael. Never before he used it, but just then it proved useful. As their swords clashed, it allowed Aelir to inspect the blade of his opponent from up close.

  Recalling Morael’s own description, it seemed different, as a strengthened blade of colored steel, not a conjured weapon of corrupted magic. It was cold, ordinary even, no blade of that sort could shatter vanquisher.

  Yet a crack appeared on his sword. He let go of the hilt and the blade shattered under the power of his opponent.

  Suspicious, he unleashed a series of magical attacks. Using nature against the hooded figure. First the ground, rising stone, and dirt, the wind pushing it aside, rain and thunder to strike upon it. While his opponent was able to counter all his magical attacks not once they unleashed a single one back.

  Aelir sighed and smiled at his opponent. It was not one of the Li’Ari, whoever it was they wished for Aelir not to know. Knowing as much, his eyes sparked with pure golden light. The runes around his wrists now circled as light itself around them. With a flick of his fingers, no more, from the sky above came a beam of gold and struck the attacker, burning their cloak.

  With a desperate scream, the man, one of longer hair, let go of the blade. Aelir walked closer, ground shaking beneath his feet. The man lay there, his face buried in the dirt.

  Too late, Aelir realized, and from below him, the very ground struck against him, sending him flying high up. The figure got up, revealing its identity.

  His hair and face burned and scarred it, but Aelir recognized him no less, it was Nael Di Reo, the Archon of Sesteria.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Aelir shouted from high above, using his power to levitate. “You are an archon of the Empire, Nael. Did you forsake your vows?”

  The old warrior sighed. “I have not, prince Aelir,” he said with a pain-filled voice. “I answer to the Emperor and the Emperor alone. Do not look to me to explain his commands.”

  Protecting himself against Nael’s attacks was simple; his light deflected all the archon could muster.

  It was the thought of his own father sending Nael, ordering his own son’s death, that made Aelir think. All the worst was that Morael must have known. His heart fell. Attacked shortly after he left town, his brother must have informed Nael.

  For once, even for the first time, Aelir was angry. True sorrowful wrath burned within him. He had to return to Sesteria. If Morael and his father were both against him, it was the capital where he would be the safest.

  “Leave Nael, I have no time for you,” he shouted at the archon.

  “I cannot, Your Majesty.”

  The world be damned, Aelir decided t
o fight, to allow himself to wield the true extent of his own power. He could feel the light in his eyes, the brilliant gold shining so bright.

  Nael avoided his first few attacks, but in a way, it seemed the archon was holding back. It didn’t matter, Aelir’s mind was full.

  The light grew stronger, blinding the archon and giving Aelir the opportunity to strike. From the ground with rock and from the sky with lightning, he attacked. He snapped his fingers, adding to the light. The archon’s eyes shattered, and he fell to the ground, powerless. His screams were echoing around, making his power go wild.

  “It’s over,” said Aelir and touched Nael’s forehead. “I beg you, yield!”

  Nael laughed. “I shall not; we both know as much little Aeli.”

  “Long lost nicknames will not help you.” With much pain, he sent light into the archon’s very body, burning his soul.

  The Moment

  His smile was warm like the summer sun shining down, caressing a grassy field; his eyes were the azure sky above.

  “I’m Ri’on,” he introduced himself, his voice a pleasant song carried by the wind.

  Frightened and surprised, she replied in no more than a whisper, “I’m Efri.” Looking at him, deep into his azure eyes, she knew he was similar to A’stri. If only his eyes were green.

  “Thank you,” he repeated himself. “Truly. I am very thankful.”

  “Can all of you speak?”

  He nodded. “We’re no scraps,” he said, amused. “We are the Li’Ari, the people of magic. Real magic.”

  “Real magic?” she questioned, not hiding her confusion in the slightest.

  With a sigh and a smirking smile, he offered to explain. “Thousands of years ago, there were three races born of pure magic, wielding it their birthright. But Areon, a human, defiled it. He stole magic for himself and locked it away. With it were created three gemstones, keys if you will.