Into the Fold

by Chase Blackwood

  Sigerica was watching Aeden. Studying him like Jal Isa Sha’ril had.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  A smile touched the master’s lips.

  “Of all the questions…” she uttered in surprise, “There’s an old Q’Bala expression: ‘Truth shall not be swayed by the interpretations of lesser men, but found by those who truly seek it.’ I see now, that you are one who seeks it,” she paused, as if considering her options, she nodded once and spoke, “So, let me relay the truth to you as I know it.”

  Aeden leaned back. He noticed Master Sigerica glance once more out the window.

  “But I ask something in return,” she said, her face partially cast in the warmth of golden light.

  Aeden hesitated.

  It felt as if fate’s own hand had guided him here. Every step he’d taken since he’d stumbled into his father’s armory, had led him to this place. He was tempted to refuse. He was tempted to snub fate and create a new path.

  Part of him wanted to find a quiet place to live out his life. A place he could reside in peace with the woman he loved. The thought curdled and broke under the weight of reality.

  Thea was angry with him. He’d betrayed her. He’d killed her father.

  A deeper, more hidden emotion bubbled to the surface. Revenge. His people needed him. They needed to be freed from the bounds of purgatory. What if everything were somehow connected, and he was merely playing out a story already ordained by the gods? A story that would lead to his people being freed?

  Perhaps, Master Sigerica knew something he didn’t. Aeden was done hiding. Fear held no sway over him. He had so little to lose, or at least so he had thought.

  “Name it,” Aeden finally said.

  Sigerica turned to face him. Her eyes were sharp with intent. Her voice was conspiratorial.

  “There’s something I need you to find…”

  Chapter 42

  “Corruption is directly proportional to power.” Herlewin’s Letters of Apology

  The following week crawled by at the rancid pace of rotting meat. It dripped past Aeden’s awareness like near frozen honey, filled with a quiescent unease. To be fair, there was a singular moment of excitement that bestrewed the sheer weight of hostility. It was a moment shaped by revelation, desire, and greed.

  The source of Aeden’s discomfort had come from the students themselves.

  Public opinion had turned against him. The weight of uninformed social reasoning crusaded through the hallways, gaining strength with each new fabrication as a new group of victims struggled to define themselves.

  Students who once greeted Aeden, now spread rumors behind his back. Acquaintances that once conversed with him, actively pretended he didn’t exist and failed to correct false accusations that formed in the shadows. Worst of all, many of his so-called friends ignored him, passing him like wraiths in the night.

  Fighting the tide of negativity were three students. Three who fought against the colloquium of righteousness. Three who stood by Aeden, despite the onslaught of presumed judgement.

  The first needn’t an introduction. Adel had been Aeden’s friend since Bodig. He’d smuggled books into the dungeons for Aeden to read. He’d taught Aeden the all-important game of kayles. He was the one of two, to have both endured and survived the pilgrimage with Aeden, a friend who’d been captured as a slave, and a friend Aeden had saved from the Inquisitors as the University of Galdor burned.

  Adel was a pillar in the eye of a storm.

  Yet, Aeden distanced himself from his friend. It had been done out of kindness. Aeden moved away so that others wouldn’t speak ill of him, so that Adel wouldn’t be hurt again by the storm that perpetually hung about Aeden like a sickness.

  Adel, in response, felt hurt. He became more reclusive and spent time playing tafl with whomever he could find. He returned to his sketching in earnest and fell into himself in a manner that few noticed. He would still join Aeden for meals, but he would say less. He no longer brought his playing cards with him, and he rarely smiled.

  The second friend defending Aeden was Garit. He proved to be immune to the groupthink that had enveloped the Tower of the Arkein’s student body. He’d wave to Aeden when he saw him. He’d sit with him for breakfast and lunch. He’d speak of the Inquisition, as Aeden and Adel ate in silence.

  Aeden knew that Garit just wanted someone to listen to him. But, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t realized how much he needed positive human interaction. It had been easier in the dungeon of the monastery in Bodig or within the Shrine of Patience in the S’Velt. Those were purposeful, they were truly solitary.

  Being surrounded by people who despised Aeden felt worse. It was isolating in a way that he’d never experienced before. Aeden had become an island unto himself. He felt like a lone fish swimming up river as the other fish enjoyed the comfort of the current, inexorably swimming toward a waterfall of destruction.

  Last, there was Harmon.

  Harmon was a unique case. He wasn’t so much a friend as an acquaintance. In fact, they hardly exchanged more than a few words. These words weren’t even Harmon’s. They were passed along from Dan and Laurent, informing Aeden of the latest gossip. Perhaps Dan and Laurent felt guilty for ignoring him. Perhaps they had another continued bet. Aeden didn’t care. He did, however, appreciate Harmon’s small effort.

  Harmon wasn’t afraid to correct the outright lies others spread. It was this aspect that most resonated with Aeden. It was a social bond in the defense of truth, a bond that secretly united them.

  This isn’t to say that Aeden had no human interaction. Quite the contrary. He still attended classes. He still ate in the dining hall. He still saw Caine.

  Caine seemed to flourish as Aeden wilted. Caine had gathered a larger following, as people flocked to his perceived ills. Caine had been publicly insulted by a warrior, by a belligerent Thane.

  People were fearful. They sympathized with Caine. It was easier to side with the victim than the accused, regardless of the facts.

  Many wondered, what else had Aeden wanted to say? What had he thought of the other students? Did he secretly hate them? Did he see them for who they truly were?

  It was this hidden insecurity that drove many to participate in their ostracization of a man who’d lost nearly everything.

  Interestingly, the one person who didn’t gravitate toward Caine, was Rafe. The normally social figure had become more reclusive. He’d slipped away, temporarily, from the public eye.

  Tempering Caine’s insults and his broad disapproval from the other students, were his private lessons with Master Glass and Master Xuban.

  They had become his saving grace. Master Glass had seen something special in Aeden. Therefore, it was no surprise that Aeden strove for Glass’ approval. He studied harder and dedicated himself to the arkein like no other. It was within the confines of Master Glass’ office that Aeden began to understand the practical applications of the arkein.

  Which sets the scene and leads to the moment of revelation, hope, and greed…

  The plants within the vast libraries of the Tower of the Arkein remained still. They painted the space in bright blues, greens, yellows, and purples. They basked within the faint light of gloaming and the reflected light of the moon.

  Polished mirrors hung suspended, focusing and refracting the ambient light of gloaming.

  Aeden sat within one of these soft pools of light. A book lay open before him, Amevi Origins by Master Van Buel. It wasn’t a particularly interesting book. Nor would it have been a book he’d have gravitated to on his own, but he felt obliged to read it.

  Consequently, Aeden found himself staring upon the spiraling leaves of an aloe plant, as he looked away from the words on the page. The aloe grew vertically upon a stone archway, which itself was covered in plant life, separating one section of the library from another.

  “Fascinating,” a voice said, pulling at Aeden’s latent attention, “Aren’t they?”

  Aeden looked
up at the approaching figure of Master Glass.

  “Plants in a library,” the master stated as if to himself, “It’s contradictory. Books don’t last long in a place of moisture, or direct light for that matter,” he said, gesturing to the levered arms and gears that supported the mirrors above, “Yet, here they are, bringing beauty and color to this vast collection of knowledge.”

  Aeden was nodding quietly. He knew the rules of the library. No more than three books per student. All books must be returned to where they were found. No books leave the library. Silence at all times. And, don’t touch the plants.

  “You know they don’t need to be watered,” Master Glass continued, “it’s not even fully understood how they survive.”

  Aeden glanced again to the plant-covered stone archway.

  The master took that moment to glance over Aeden’s shoulder, at the open pages before him. His eyes narrowed slightly. He rubbed absentmindedly at his goatee.

  “Dimutia?” the master questioned aloud, all trace of concern falling away.

  Aeden nodded, turning to look back at his teacher.

  A moment of silence fell over them in a wash of reflected moonlight.

  “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” Glass finally said.

  Aeden nodded, closing Amevi Origins. He stood, tucked his chair under the table and replaced his book on the shelf it had come from. Master Glass watched patiently, before motioning for Aeden to follow.

  Aeden trailed master Glass as he strode out of the library. They made their way to the spiraling stairs, moving at a brisk pace. Aeden watched as his instructor’s robes billowed momentarily, accentuating the single serpent and triple helix stitched into the dark material on his back.

  They moved quickly through the Tower of the Arkein. Before Aeden knew it, they had come upon Master Glass’ office.

  The familiar sight of the wooden door and the smell of half-burnt sage, greeted him like an old friend. He followed his master into the office and settled into a corner chair. A single candle flickered as he moved, casting broken fragments of light upon the stone walls.

  Master Glass closed the door behind them and moved to his usual seat behind his desk.

  Aeden watched his master. Something felt different. The air felt thicker somehow.

  Unseen hands clenched at Aeden’s stomach, twisting it into invisible knots of anticipation. What did Master Glass wish to discuss? What wonders would Aeden be privy to, if any?

  Normally, Master Glass would have launched into a prepared speech about some aspect of the arkein. After the short lecture the master would demonstrate a principle of the arkein, followed by some theoretical passage from Master Fared or Grandmaster Berinon, and the lesson would conclude with an opportunity to apply the theoretical knowledge.

  Instead of a lecture, there was silence. It was palpable the way Vintas was palpable. Aeden could feel it in the air. He could taste it upon the tip of his tongue.

  Master Glass simply sat there, unmoving, contemplating. He was framed by a solitary window and cast in the soft glow of purple light.

  “Are you familiar with the creation story of man?” Glass asked, the silence breaking before his voice.

  Aeden looked up, startled by the sudden lack of stillness.

  “I’ve read the story from the Book of Khein,” Aeden replied, “if that’s what you’re referring to.”

  Master Glass nodded.

  “The Book of Khein, the Bocian, the River of Time,” Glass’ eyes shone, “They’re all the same story.”

  “The River of Time?” Aeden asked.

  He knew of the Book of Khein from his time as a monk. He’d once glimpsed the cover of the Bocian, the sacred text of the holy prophet Sha’a. It had been nearly two years ago.

  Memory stirred.

  Aeden found himself standing at the threshold to Captain Nawfel Murad Q’Bala’s quarters on the poop deck of the Seventh Sage. The captain had berated Aeden for looking upon the book. He had quickly covered it with a cloth.

  Master Glass bit into Aeden’s memory, tearing it away with his words.

  “Cnawlece Tima, The River of Time. It was preserved in Templas,” Glass responded to Aeden’s question, “Supposedly it’s as old as time itself. Legend has it, that it originated from a jungle kingdom that existed long before the rise of the Holy Order of Sancire and Dominer the Pure.

  “Like the Book of Khein and the Bocian, the River of Time depicts equal parts history, parables of morality, the Great Schism, and of course, the creation of man.”

  Aeden found himself leaning forward.

  “The reason I bring up the creation story, is because it speaks of hubris and folly. It speaks to the weakness inherent in the self and within society. It’s the reason the gods cleansed Verold. It was a starting point for goodness…”

  Master Glass’ voice trailed off. He rubbed at his chin and glanced about his office, as if seeing it for the first time. He changed tracks and spoke again.

  “I hear you’ve talked to Master Sigerica,” Glass started again.

  “I did,” Aeden replied carefully.

  Aeden wasn’t sure what to say. Master Meidl had been quite explicit. “Tell no one about my request.” Yet, Master Glass was his instructor, his tutor, his mentor.

  Master Glass played with his goatee for a moment as he sat in thought, contemplating how to continue.

  “Each of us masters,” Sam Glass resumed, “specializes in a particular field. A passion that we focus on. Something we crave. Knowledge we seek….”

  Glass’ voice trailed off again as he looked about the office as if looking for something to illustrate his point. His gaze lingered and fixated on a small glass jar. He stood, grabbed it off the shelf and placed it onto his desk. The master then looked about until he found a clay decanter.

  “There is so much more to the arkein. So much we don’t understand. So many possibilities,” he poured some water in the jar from the decanter, “Take water as an example. We typically see it as a liquid.”

  His eyes shone as he spoke to Aeden. Aeden nodded with interest. He sat forward, curiosity creeping into his veins.

  “However, the Table of Elemental Phases by Master Fared, informs us that water can take the form of a liquid, a solid, or a gas.”

  Master Glass glanced at Aeden, ensuring that he was paying attention. The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at the master’s eyes, before a mask of concentration befell him. Glass now stared at the water.

  Aeden’s attention was drawn to the beaker. Pearl-like beads of condensation gathered upon the glass like sweat upon a brow. The water became cloudy as if attempting to hide from Aeden’s gaze. Within the blink of an eye it expanded and solidified. It was such a rapid transformation that the glass jar cracked under the strain of it.

  The bijenna master took the jar and handed it to Aeden.

  “What text states that this is even possible?” he questioned.

  Aeden blinked, holding the jar in his hand. He couldn’t believe it. The outside was wet to the touch, and cool. The inside was solid as a brick.

  Slowly the fog of amazement lifted, and Aeden saw Master Glass looking intently upon him. He’d asked Aeden a question.

  What book outlined the theoretical application of phases of matter?

  He didn’t need to think, for he had memorized it, “the Table of Esoteric Bindings,” he said aloud.

  “Exactly!”

  As Aeden examined the ice within the jar, Master Glass lips moved silently, his intent once again with the frozen water. Aeden nearly dropped the jar as the ice instantly boiled off into a cloud of steam. He leaned back to avoid the heat of it.

  “Those are simple bindings,” Master Glass stated, “It’s easier with fundamental elements. Master those and the power you can attain is bound only by your imagination, however, it is still nothing compared to the power of the old gods.”

  Aeden felt his heartbeat quicken.

  Power was one of the very reasons he’d come t
o the Tower of the Arkein. He wanted to become so capable that no one could ever hurt him or anyone he cared about again. The idea of unrivaled potential swelled within, constricting his chest, and threatened to blind him to the moment.

  “The power of the old gods has been buried by history. It’s been hidden,” the master dropped his voice to a whisper, “hidden by those who captured Ansuz himself.”

  So many questions clamored for Aeden’s attention that he found it difficult to pay attention. What was Master Glass talking about? What did any of this have to do with Master Meidl?

  “Have you ever heard of the Scrolls of Destiny?” Glass asked, changing his tone.

  A memory stabbed at Aeden with relentless intensity. The image of the Scapan, all thirteen of the old gods, carved in exquisite detail upon a marble cliffside, invaded his mind. He stood beside the archduchess as she relayed a story about Enlil, Ansuz, Huta and Balder.

  “There were once thirteen gods. The greatest of them was Enlil, for he held the Scrolls of Destiny, the Dup Shimati. Ansuz, his greatest friend, tricked him and stole one of the scrolls. With it he was able to reshape Verold and create the Fold.

  “Ansuz’ son, Huta, not of the original pantheon of gods, was jealous. He too wanted to have control of the stolen scroll. Ansuz hid it from his son. A great war broke out amongst the gods. It decimated the lands. It broke Verold. So long, so protracted was this war, that many of the gods died. But the scrolls…”

  Master Glass looked intently upon Aeden, “…they survived. They were hidden. Grandmaster Kaldi has one, locked and hidden and protected. Now, Master Sigerica, Kaldi’s former apprentice, seeks the others.”

  Aeden began to understand. The purpose behind the conversation began to take shape. It was the silhouette of omnipotence. Aeden’s mouth grew dry.

  “At one point, I too was driven by the desire for power,” Master Glass’ expression became nostalgic, it became sad, “It took me to the furthest corners of Verold. I devoured books on ancient histories and legends. And do you know what I found?”