At first Peter made no move to get up. Instead, he was rooted to his seat by the weight of memory. Images of his team; Sabin, Derek, Jon, Nell, David, and Edon, flooded his mind. He remembered the spray of blood as Nell fell to the snow, staining it with his life. He recalled the expression of shock Edon wore as he tugged on the suspended corpse of Captain Jakob. It was Edon’s final moment before vanishing from Verold.
Abruptly Peter stood. He crossed the room, pausing before a shelf that rested alongside the blue curtains framing one of the port windows. He poured himself some water and moved to the open doorway.
He looked out to the mizzen deck. He could see some of the crew working. They paid him little heed. Beyond, he could see a clear sky, transitioning from dawn. The distant line that formed the horizon was partially masked by the rising sun.
“Tell me then,” Thea’s voice reached out to him, pulling his attention back into the cabin, “How you came into the annalist’s service.”
Peter remained standing by the doorway. The smell of the sea air grounded him. The sight of an endless ocean as warm rays of light reached out to the ship, gave him purpose. There was still so much beauty in Verold. It needed to be saved.
“I followed him,” Peter began, half turning to face the self-proclaimed Queen of Gemynd, “Initially I had attempted reasoning with him, but there was fear in his eyes. He insisted the Kan Savasci was near, extremely near…”
Peter paused to take a drink from his cup. The water was stale but felt good.
“His words were still clear, your grace,” Peter said, “He spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a child, ‘Death follows me like a lingering stench, leave before you’re infected.’
“It was the look in his eye and the weight of his words that influenced me. Although, I had no family and no reason to return to Bodig, I knew I could not accompany the annalist in the manner I had assumed.”
Peter gripped the cup tightly in his hands, holding it as if to drink, but he didn’t.
“I was lost,” he began, “with nowhere to go. So, I did the only thing that made sense to me. I found my pack and followed him into the depths of the Shrouded Mountains.
“I masked my presence, concealing myself as I would have, were I on a hunt, or as I had when training with the Ranged Guard. I followed him as we descended into the foothills and skirted a valley before coming upon, what I believe were the Barre Mountains.”
Thea coughed, partially to mask her surprise.
“The Barre Mountains?” Thea said.
Peter merely nodded.
“Home of the Thane Sagan,” she continued, now in a whisper, “You saw where Aeden was originally from?”
Curiosity bled through her normally reserved tone.
“Yes,” Peter said carefully.
Thea smoothed out her shirt before asking, “Please describe it to me.”
Peter looked out the doorway and took a sip of water, masking the smile that found his lips. He couldn’t help but notice her interest. Perhaps she wanted to help the annalist find the Kan Savasci after all.
“There wasn’t much to see your grace,” Peter said, turning to look at her, “It was mostly destroyed, by draccus fire. Stone lay partially melted, buildings lay open and broken, and not a soul remained.
“It was toward one end of the shattered village that a larger building, broken and open to the snow, lay waiting a silver and gold-leafed chest. It held parchment with strange symbols and writing.”
Thea was nodding her head.
“That’s when you made your presence known.”
“No, your grace,” Peter responded, looking back out the cabin door.
The Wounded Soul adjusted course as they approached the northern tip of the Isle of Galdor.
“It wasn’t the right time,” Peter said softly.
Thea now stood and strode across the room, pausing on the other side of the open doorway. She too gazed out across the deck and to the emerald waters of the Gulf of Galdor.
“What do you mean, not the right time?”
Peter remained silent for a moment. He took another drink of water along with a slow breath of air. The sun had already pierced the horizon and sat heavily upon the line that separated sea from sky.
“He is sick your grace,” Peter said slowly, “and although he had gotten a little better, I believe he is getting worse. So, I waited to reveal my disobedience, until the timing felt right.”
Thea was now staring at Peter with a new set of eyes. Her face was once again a mask of serious lines. She was studying him.
“And when was that?”
“The right time never came,” Peter said.
Thea regarded him with anger rolling in her eyes. Peter wanted to continue, but he didn’t know what to say, and so the silence grew. It carried with it the weight of humidity and the inescapable torrent of displeasure.
“He discovered me,” Peter finally said, finding words to break the silence.
The anger faded and Thea nodded subtly. She glanced out to the mizzen deck, watching as men climbed down from the webbed shrouds that stayed the main mast. She then turned her attention back to Peter.
She took in the lines about his eyes. The shallow breathing. The excessive blinking.
He was tired, and he was stressed. What had Grandmaster Kaldi once said? “Memory is the weight that ties us to Verold.”
“Get some rest,” Thea said, a hint of gentleness in her voice.
Peter only half-smiled, before carefully replacing his cup on the table and walking away.
Chapter 10
“The attempt to forget, forges memory stronger than steel.” Emperor Karaka - Savikko
The Isle of Galdor loomed large before the Wounded Soul. Folded mountains of the deepest green receded into the misty fingers of morning. Sunlight beckoned from the great torchbearer of the sky as a gentle breeze swept in from the west.
The breeze played with Thea’s hair as the sun kissed her skin. She smiled as she looked at the topaz waters from her place on the mizzen deck, watching as it splashed against the hull of the Wounded Soul.
Her mind was alight with questions and a strange sense of nostalgia. Memory weighed heavily and wrestled with loss. There was one emotion in particular that Thea fought to contain. It underlie all the others, residing in a self-made prison.
Excitement.
It began as a slow trickle, infecting her blood, and drawing her attention from the unfolding scene before her. It blinded her to the beauty of Galdor and trapped her in a quagmire of thought.
Thea was going to re-enter the Fold. She was going to meet the annalist, and with luck, they were going to find Aeden. She was going to find the man who she had loved. The man who she had hurt. The man who had left her.
She knew it was wishful thinking. What if he had never escaped? She knew it was stupid to hope in the face of impossible odds, but she couldn’t help herself. Thea knew, deep within her heart, that Aeden needed her. Perhaps now would be different. Perhaps now he had forgiven her.
A tall plume of ocean spray splashed upward and fell upon her face. The water was warm and salty. She closed her eyes and felt the water drip away, carrying the weight of her melancholy with it.
She was a grown woman, Queen of Gemynd, and her fate was tied to no one.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the familiar site of two massive, granite blocks covered in green, marking the passage to Imp’s Bay. The passage itself was a narrow waterway, cast in shadow, connecting Imp’s Landing to the Gulf of Galdor.
Leafy branches reached across the opening and blotted out the sun’s receding light. A strange darkness fell upon the deck of the ship as it drifted through the slender passage. The air felt cooler. It felt still.
In the distance the echoing call of a howler monkey pierced the jungles of beyond.
“Where are we?” Peter asked, emerging from below deck.
Thea turned away from the wall of green and took in Peter. He appeared rested. Excitement was clea
rly pulling at his attention, as was a hint of anxiety.
“Heading to Imp’s Landing,” she answered.
Peter nodded as he looked about. His elation reminded Thea of her first trip to Galdor. She had been on a ship with Aeden and Adel. It was Adel who had been so full of life, so curious. He had been so full of questions and wonder.
“Do you require anything, your grace,” Peter asked, “Before we make landfall?”
Thea smiled.
“Not now,” she said, “Enjoy the view. If you move to the port side, you’ll be able to see the Millicent.”
Peter nodded and crossed the deck, careful to avoid the deckhands. The sailors were rigging the sails and readying the lines for landfall.
Thea watched as Peter leaned over the railing. Light now filtered through the overhead canopy and cast the bow in stripes of luminescence. She allowed her own thoughts to travel and circle back to memory.
When she closed her eyes, she could see Aeden brooding quietly. Even then, she had thought him handsome, if a bit rough about the edges. He had been bandaged, bruised, and mentally exhausted. He had looked like an old, battered cat.
She shielded her eyes as the Wounded Soul left behind the narrow passage and drifted into the open bay of Imp’s Landing. The triple mast of the half-sunken Millicent greeted them. She recalled Adel’s questions from nearly a decade ago.
Adel had simply wanted to know more about Verold. She had been too harsh on him. She had been hurt. She had been young. How little she had known.
Sailors leapt into action as the Wounded Soul glided into port. Lines were cast, orders were shouted, and men hurried about.
A gangway was lowered to the wooden pier, jutting out into Imp’s Bay.
“It’s time,” Thea said.
Peter pulled his attention from the scene and moved into the cabin to collect their gear.
A moment later they were walking down the gangway, leaving behind the Wounded Soul. They worked their way up the wooden pier and into the town of Imp’s Landing.
The street was half empty.
Shops and taverns had closed, only to be reclaimed by nature’s relentless grasp. Flowering vines, angel’s trumpets, and black bat’s flowers overgrew neglected buildings. Stinkhorn mushrooms hid in the shadowed crevices, their red, yellow, and black caps adding another layer of color to the scene.
People eyed the twosome wearily and with curiosity. It wasn’t often that ships visited the port of Imp’s Landing. Not since the outbreak of war. Not since the destruction of the University.
Thea ignored them as they worked their way over the uneven cobbles.
They turned south on the main road, passing an overgrown tavern, Millicent’s Folly. It was the tavern where the group celebrated on their final night after term’s end; Laurent, Daniel, Aeden, John, Thea, and Adel.
“Is it far, your grace?” Peter asked, pulling Thea from her revere.
“No,” she responded.
Peter only nodded.
Thea was thankful for his relative silence. There were memories here, lurking around each corner. Each was like a mental trap, waiting to be sprung.
As they left the town behind, she looked upon a set of stairs leading to the beach. Those were the stairs where she and Aeden had first made love. She closed her eyes, taking in a breath of the humid air. Hints of plumeria and dead horse lilies wafted by. Along with the smells came a hint of sadness.
She shook loose her thoughts and focused on the road. She looked at the plants growing in between the iridescent cobbles. She noticed the movement of small insects. She smelled the sweet scent of the air, and she listened to the sounds of the jungle.
Before she knew it, they had come upon the stone bridge. They passed over it and Thea watched as Peter stared at the dancing plants near the water’s edge.
It was on the other side of the stone bridge that Thea paused, as though memory rooted her to the spot. She flinched as a cool breeze blew in from the mountains to the west. She frowned as she remembered her last night at the University, as she remembered the Inquisition’s ambush.
She examined the stonework, half expecting to see John’s dead body. But there was nothing. There were no stains of death, only life, and memory. The heaviest memory was that of Aeden, his sword flashing in the starlight.
Her savior.
She struggled with the bitter flavor of a lost love, before stuffing it back down her throat.
“Is everything okay, your grace?” Peter asked out of concern.
Thea blinked away her feelings and looked up, shame momentarily painting her face red.
“Yes,” was all she said.
Ahead was the overgrown gateway to a destroyed university. It was now, nothing more than a testament to lost knowledge and the dawn of ignorance.
“What happened here?” Peter asked.
Thea regarded him for a moment, before responding.
“Friends of the Kan Savasci paid a visit,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
Peter glanced at her but said nothing. Instead, he followed as she led them down a separate path, through the dense, jungle growth. He struggled with the prickly leaves of the five-fingered giant’s leaf and fought off the thorns of mara’s revenge.
Peter hardly noticed as they stumbled upon an open glade, ringed by black palm. There, in the center, was a single stone statue.
“Is that it?” he asked.
Thea only nodded. She approached slowly, as if fearful, as if in disbelief. Her eyes traced the careful pattern of concentric rings upon its surface. This was where she had fled in the wane hours of night.
Something stopped her from stepping forward. It was as though the weight of the future formed an invisible barrier, begging her to abandon hope. Pleading for her to return to her small corner of Verold. For her to control what she could control.
With a slow and steady breath Thea stepped closer. She could feel a change in the texture of the air. It hummed with some unseen energy, as if it were out of tune with the plane of Verold.
She stopped before the stone monument and turned to face Peter.
“You don’t need to come,” she said almost gently, “there are dangers in the Fold that you couldn’t begin to imagine.”
It was not a threat, merely a warning. Peter looked at her undeterred.
“Your grace, with all respect, I will return to assist my master.”
Thea held his gaze for a moment. The echoing buzz of cicada droned off in the distance.
“Very well,” she said, “You’ve been warned.”
PART TWO
Way of the Arkein
Chapter 11
“Memories are but tangled emotions skewing perception.”
Prince Mazin – Adumbrate Peak
The annalist sat in the uppermost floor, of the furthest reach, within the Tower of the Arkein. A lavender sky cast soft hues of light and warmth upon the stray clouds that encircled the great tower. Hints of sage and frankincense permeated the air like the twilight kiss of a Bryn Yawr sunset.
Unfortunately, the annalist hardly noticed. He rubbed once more at his head, attempting to banish yet another burdensome headache.
“You look familiar,” a dark-haired woman said, seated across from the annalist.
The annalist didn’t respond. He dropped his hand and glanced once more out the window. He couldn’t tell what time it was, just that it was night. The sun never truly set in the Fold, it was unnerving. He had forgotten about that little detail. He suspected he had forgotten a great many things.
“You’re taller than I remember,” the woman continued.
The annalist nodded out of a semblance of respect. The pain behind his eyes made it hard to concentrate. It felt like a rat had become trapped in his head and was attempting to chew its way out.
“I’m here for Kaldi,” the annalist said in a controlled voice.
“Grandmaster Kaldi is a busy man,” the woman replied, undeterred by the annalist’s tone, “Tell me what bus
iness you have with him, and I can judge if it’s worthy of his time.”
The annalist tore his gaze from the narrow window and took in the woman. He too remembered her. Tilly Steck, a former student, and current apprentice to the grandmaster himself.
He wasn’t about to explain himself to her. What would he say? Verold is on the edge of collapse, if you’d be so kind as to allow me a moment of Kaldi’s time?
No. That wouldn’t do.
Tilly Steck was insulated from such events. She hadn’t witnessed the death of thousands. She hadn’t seen fire pour from the gaping jaws of a draccus fiend. She hadn’t relived the horrors of the young Kan Savasci’s life. What would she know of greater Verold? The portals had been closed. The Fold remained untouched by the old gods.
“Trust me, it is worthy of his time,” the annalist said carefully.
Tilly raised an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed with his response. She looked at him a moment longer, judging him with all the subtlety of a screaming mara. Her close-set eyes narrowed, and she momentarily wrinkled her overly long nose.
The annalist met her gaze. The first tingling of a deep-seated ire, rippled in his sleeping mind. Time had become a commodity he could no longer afford. Each minute within the Fold was worth two in Verold.
The grandmaster’s apprentice broke the annalist’s gaze. The imperceptible thickening of the air dissipated with the exhalation of released tension.
Without another word, Tilly stood and exited the waiting room. The sound of a door opening and closing trailed her, as she casually entered the chambers of the grandmaster, slipping beyond view.
A cloud passed before the tall window, blotting out the faint purpling of the sky. It marked the first hints of doubt that had been forming in the periphery of his mind. The annalist closed his eyes and thought.
What had Tilly decided after her moment of scrutiny?
A shadow of fear swept into the room. It masked the area in drab colors, muting the beauty of a lilac sky and dulling the faint odor of burning incense. It settled upon the annalist’s mind with the implied weight of consent.
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