INTO THE FOLD
(Book 3: Kan Savasci Cycle)
Kan Savasci Cycle of Books
Book 1 : Tears of a Heart
Book 2: Tower of the Arkein
Book 3: Into the Fold
Book 4: Dimutia (in the works)
Copyright © Chase Blackwood 2019
Map by Tad Davis
All rights reserved
The right of Chase Blackwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act of 1988.
ASIN: B07VKM8HBK
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, character, places, or ideas are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, historical events, business, religions, or ideas is coincidental.
Acknowledgments
There were many who helped with the crafting of this book. I’d like to thank all those who took the time out of their busy schedule to help me flush out the book, improving upon the characters, world building, grammatical issues, and depth of story. My Beta/Alpha readers, you’re invaluable. To those who read and reviewed the first version/edition, thank you for taking the time to write a review and allowing me to be understand what works and what doesn’t.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART ONE – Galdor Bound
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART TWO – Way of the Arkein
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
PART THREE – Sages of Umbra
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
PART FOUR – Dimutia Bound
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
PART FIVE – Bryn Yawr Bound
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Epilogue
PART ONE
Galdor Bound
Prologue
“Words are but reflections of reality.”
Prince Mazin – Adumbrate Peak
Perched on a crumbling cornice stood a falcon. Its piercing eyes gazed across an expansive hall, peering into the inky darkness that marked its corners. It observed the deliquesced ramparts, the cleft walls, the discontinuous roof, and the melancholic note that permeated the air. Finally, the falcon cast its patient glare upon two figures, one female and one male.
The female clutched a letter in her hand, the very letter the falcon had delivered from the Isle of Galdor.
She stared at it, unblinking.
The handwriting was at once familiar and strange. It was the siren call of a distant love, buried under an avalanche of history. It was the clash of broken emotion etched onto parchment, confusing and violent.
Her mind felt tired and thin.
The muted lines of despair had been drawn and now action waited in the wings. Yet, the breath before the storm was often the most difficult.
It was haggard. It was hesitant.
She stood in disbelief. The massive hall seemed to close in on her, challenging her preconceptions and confronted her understanding of reality.
The falcon remained still, watching, waiting to see if the self-proclaimed Queen of Gemynd would pen a response.
She did not.
Instead, she stood silent as the night before a storm. The annalist’s letter clutched tightly in her hand, as her skepticism gave way to a budding fear.
She read the words once more.
Words that glared back at her defiantly. Words that she had dreaded.
“I have worked out the intricacies necessary to create a new doorway into the Fold. The portal, once closed, has been re-opened. Seek the hidden stone, within the glade of our escape, and come find me at the Tower of the Arkein…”
Her mind churned like the Dimutian Sea in Sumor. Thoughts flooded her mind and threatened to spill over into unbridled emotion. But Thea wouldn’t allow that. Her composure remained steadfast, unassuming, even as memories struggled to drown her in the past.
They were nothing less than the bloodstained recollection of a young adolescent on the cusp of womanhood. They were the memories of the night the Inquisition had attacked the University of Galdor.
Thea closed her eyes for a moment, attempting to clear her mind. Instead, she remembered the night she had been celebrating with her friends at a tavern in Imp’s Landing. She had been angry with Aeden. She had been drinking.
Time stained her memories in a hazy shadow, yet aspects were as sharp as the swords that had attacked her. Time had endeavored to rid Thea of the shrill cries of men in despair. It had fought to free her of the insipid dreams of mutilation and raw violence.
Yet, time had failed.
Within her mind’s eye, images as clear as Templas glass, bled before her. The echoing sound of Dan’s whistling had etched a unique place inside her. She could vividly see John’s stumbling attempts at walking, and she could hear Adel whispering loudly.
It was what she had failed to detect that had almost killed her. Highly trained men, soldiers of the Inquisition had surrounded them. They had waited in ambush for the Kan Savasci. They had wanted him alive. They had wanted to teach him a lesson, and they had died for it.
Thea placed a hand to her face, remembering the feel of hot blood. It had been warm and slippery.
It had happened so fast. It had been so violent. Aeden had saved her, the Kan Savasci.
Thea’s hand shook slightly as she looked down, once more, at the words on the page. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the pain of the past to slip away. Her face fell into a comfortable mask of neutral ambiguity.
The words, however, repeated themselves in her mind. They had seared themselves into her consciousness like the hot tip of a prodding iron.
Somehow, the annalist had managed the impossible. It was a perilous act for desperate times. Yet, now the gate had been reopened. But how?
“What did he say?” Peter asked.
Thea peeled her eyes from the scroll and took in the youth before her. Peter was the adolescent apprentice of the annalist. He seemed bright, eager, and full of life. In a way, she was reminded of another from her past, one of the Kan Savasci’s friends. His name had been Adel.
She let her memories fall away like feathers in the wind. There were more important tasks at hand. Verold was on the cusp of collapse. She had been struggling to fight for her small corner of it, yet as she glanced about, she knew it to be a futile effort.
The old gods were back and someone needed to face them. A small part of her knew who it had to be. Aeden. He couldn’t do it alone.
Thea took in a slow and steady breath. She would not allow fear to stay her course.
“We’re traveling to the Isle of Galdor,” Thea responded, “Pack what you have, for we leave tomorrow.”
Somewhere, high above in the shattered eaves, a falcon took to flight.
Chapter 1
“Generations are the imaginary lines of difference that separate us all.” Herlewin’s Letters of Apology
The Wounded Soul left the relative safety of Petra’s Landing. The Black Sea welcomed her with the open arms of endless rhythm. Waves lapped desperately upon her bow and spit great plumes of spray upon her deck. The sky was in stark contrast to the churning sea. It was still, like a painting, and as gray as Gemynd steel.
The scene was a measured reflection of Thea’s iron temperament and Peter’s unwavering devotion. They stood as relative strangers upon the deck of the lone ship, bound for the Isle of Galdor.
Men moved about in a haze of duty. Lines were tied. Sails were rigged. Supplies were stowed.
Thea ignored this. Her eyes were focused on the horizon. Her goal was to reach the Isle of Galdor. More specifically, to make their way to the portal and into the Fold. The Tower of the Arkein awaited and more importantly the annalist. The one person who could lead her to Aeden.
She turned to look upon Peter.
He stood, leaning against the railing of the mizzen deck. His eyes were faraway but held strength. Part of her felt bad for his treatment at the behest of her men. Yet, she knew she had to be sure. So many had tried to dethrone her. So many had come to topple the Blue City. They were the remaining insurgency of mystics that clung to the fabric of Gemynd like the faint odor of death.
“Tell me more about the annalist,” Thea questioned.
Although her voice was softer this time, gentle, for those who knew her. It was still filled with authority.
Peter tore his gaze from the dark waters of the ocean, lingering only for a moment on the great white and yellow birds that mocked the sky with a hint of color.
“What do you wish to know, your grace?”
A deluge of thoughts swept into her mind like the fierce undercurrent of a swelling tide.
She wanted to know everything about the man. How was it he was able to open a portal, when supposedly only those of the First Circle had the ability? Was he a member of the Syrinx? Had he learned the secrets locked away in Grandmaster Kaldi’s chambers, or had the gods themselves bestowed some of their powers upon him?
She only knew one man who had learned the deepest secrets of the arkein, and he was now vanished from Verold. The annalist hunted him, as did the Shadow Soldiers of Q’Bala, the Inquisition, and the Hoplites of Sawol. None had been successful thus far.
Despite their failures, hope kindled anew. If the annalist had the power to open the portal, then perhaps there was a chance. Maybe the Kan Savasci was alive. Maybe he could be found, saved, and convinced to fight the old gods.
Rumors swirled about the Kan Savasci like the mists clung to the jungles of Dimutia. So many names had been ascribed to him; Tui Faaroa as he was known to the Amevi Tribes of Dimutia, and Touja Keventaminen to those tattered souls in Templas, Pathach was what the white priestess had called him, but she was curious about one name in particular, Scourge of Bodig, for that name was ascribed by the annalist himself.
“Tell me of Tineman’s Pass,” she inquired.
“I wasn’t there your grace,” Peter responded almost too quickly.
A gentle breeze gusted against the mainsail and the Wounded Soul lurched underfoot.
“Certainly, he told his star pupil something,” Thea intoned with hues of rebuke and praise, “How many had died? A thousand men?”
Peter gripped the railing harder as the caravel turned, cresting a wave.
“The annalist rarely speaks of certain things.”
Thea regarded him for a moment, before responding.
“History is for the masses to consume, it is for us to judge, for us to understand, and for us to attempt to learn from our mistakes.”
Peter glanced up, “Then why is it we never learn?”
His voice was barely a whisper. There was sadness in his tone. He was sensitive to the plight of others. He was concerned for the direction of Verold and felt powerless to shape it. He wanted to help but didn’t know how.
“There’s still a chance,” Thea said more softly.
The words lingered like the kiss of a Lenton sun.
Peter didn’t respond, he didn’t need to. His eyes spoke volumes. There was interest writ upon them.
“We can still change Verold. We can stop the violence of angry gods and save countless cities,” she looked into his eyes, “We can still save tens of thousands of lives!”
Peter nodded his head almost imperceptibly.
“But without understanding the truth, the underlying truth,” she took in a breath, “Well, we might as well be lost at sea.”
Peter laughed, “You sound like him.”
“Who?”
“My master,” he said, turning his head as a plume of spray caught the cold air, “The annalist. He was always drilling the idea of the importance of underlying truth.”
Peter paused. He took in a slow breath as memory stirred.
The sea continued, unconcerned by the minor plights of men. It rolled in undulating waves across the dark breadth of waters before them. The clouds moved slowly, as if the very sky were retreating from the recent atrocities of Verold.
“You know,” Peter now continued, “few people like the truth. It’s often a glaring reminder of all they try to hide from the world. ‘Lies are the masks that people wear to hide from themselves,’ was what the annalist often told me.”
Peter fell silent, gauging the queen. Had he offended her?
Thea studied him carefully for a moment. She collected her thoughts.
“If I’m to understand your master and the underlying truth of recent events, I need to know more of Tineman’s Pass…” Thea whispered.
Peter nodded subtly. It had been the subtle push he needed. Gentle, goading, and guided.
“Of course,” he said, as much to himself as to Thea. “But, there are gaps, your grace.”
The last was said at barely a whisper, yet they were the words Thea focused on most.
“Gaps?”
Her expression was firm, unyielding.
“My master is not well,” he started, “He’s sick, and it seems to be getting worse. I think that perhaps the search for the Kan Savasci may be the cause, perhaps some hidden principles of the arkein had been left as traps for anyone searching.”
Thea regarded him quietly for a moment, before responding.
“And have you felt any of these effects?”
“No,” Peter said.
Thea nodded her understanding and waived a hand for Peter to continue. All the while the Black Sea churned softly about them.
“Good,” Thea said, “Perhaps the annalist has been shielding you.”
As she said this, her mind traveled elsewhere, glimpsing the merest hint of a strange possibility. It didn’t linger there for long, for the sleeping mind often touched upon hidden verity long before consciousness ever allowed it to filter through.
Peter nodded to himself. The forced smile that had touched his lips receded
like the reach of the northern sun.
“As I said,” Peter looked up, watching Thea the way one would a disbelieving child, “I was not there, but I do know a soldier who was.”
“No one survived,” Thea said with a gentle admonishment.
Peter looked up sharply, “If none survived, then how did the story spread?”
He looked back out to sea. He took in a breath of cool, sea air. His shoulders relaxed.
Thea’s face was stern as she regarded him more seriously.
“Trust me, he was there, your grace.”
A stray thought whispered at Thea’s ear, and she regarded Peter oddly for a moment.
“Then one last question,” she said, “Before you begin, of course. How did you know this soldier? I only ask to assess the veracity of his statements.”
Peter didn’t look at her. Instead, his gaze remained fixed to some unknown point.
“I took the King’s Coin when I was younger,” his voice was firm, “It was in training where we met. He was a verder’s son, young, ignorant, full of confidence, and stubborn as all hell. One thing he was not, and that’s a liar. His word is good with me, your grace.”
His voice tapered off.
Thea nodded silently and patiently. Her mind, however, continued to work.
“His name?”
Peter only hesitated for a moment, “Proctus, your grace.”
He remained silent for a moment, waiting for any more questions. There were none. With one final breath, he tore his gaze from the dark waters and began.
“He knew Tineman’s Pass as Vintas Pass,” Peter began, “Let me tell you what he had related to me.” Peter paused, taking in a slow breath, “Be warned your grace, it’s not a gentle story.”
Chapter 2
“Anger squanders awareness to the abyss of time.” Saying of the Amevi
Vintas had descended with the weight of an angry boulder. Snow fell in bitter waves of powdered fury as a chill wind descended the mountainside. Tree branches shivered, animals burrowed and hid, and a thousand Bodigan soldiers huddled by makeshift fires for warmth.
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