by Kody Boye
A strand of purple shrouded his vision.
He blinked.
Directly before his face, shielding the vision in his right eye, was the strand of hair Ardut had bonded to his head, fresh from his father’s scalp.
You wouldn’t want this, he thought. You wouldn’t want any of this.
Miko would have wanted him to continue on—to fight the pain regardless of how supreme it was and deny his body the emotions that could only be summoned from the mind. Human emotions, he would have said, will only make you vulnerable in a state where you cannot protect yourself.
Though he knew he was already in such a state, he couldn’t help but feel as though he could protect himself just fine.
“Odin,” Parfour said, setting a hand on his back.
As though instinctively, the muscles in his shoulders tensed. Odin imagined, had he looked up, he would have seen a look of indecision within Parfour’s pale eyes.
Go ahead, he thought, daring himself to turn his head up and look at the young man who sat beside him. He’s not going to hurt you.
No words could bring upon him bodily harm—stick and stones maybe, but not words alone. The sooner he got that through his head, the sooner he could proceed with his life and continue on in the quest for sanity.
After turning his head up and staring directly into the boy’s pale, nearly-golden eyes, Odin reached out, clasped Parfour’s arms, then bowed his head.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, thankful in that moment that they were the only two in the room. “I don’t know what to do, Parfour. I feel like I’m spiraling out of control.”
“It’s natural, Odin.”
“Is it natural to feel like I could kill someone?”
Parfour had no reply.
There, his conscience whispered. You’ve done it.
The hammer on the nail, the strike to the face, the icing on the cake and the grand, lucky cherry on top—he couldn’t have done any more to further destroy the situation.
“I don’t know what I’m saying,” Odin said, turning his head up once more to look into his friend’s face.
“First of all,” Parfour said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of Odin’s face, “you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Second of all,” Odin replied, “I have to be.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a champion.”
“Champions aren’t allowed to be weak?”
Champions aren’t allowed to be anything but strong.
Odin stood and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” the acolyte asked.
“Outside,” Odin replied.
“It’s cold out there.”
He chose not to reply.
Instead, he made his way out and into the biting-cold air.
Odin walked what seemed like the entirety of the town until he came to what appeared to be a graveyard. Bleak, cold, and anything but welcoming, he stumbled into the outer grounds and took extra care not to get too close to any of the gravestones, if only out of respect for those long-departed.
I can never visit you, he thought, even if I wanted to.
That form of final rights should have brought peace to his mind, for there could be great and distinct argument that any scattered upon the wind could be seen and witnessed anywhere. Upon the breeze, within the woods, in the ocean and on the very ground he walked upon—the possibility of visitation was endless, if only he allowed them to be. Despite that, however, comfort did not come easily. He imagined that should he ever want to counsel his father’s passing, and had he the inclination to go where his final remains had been scattered, he’d have to return to Dwaydor, if only by principal.
Crouching down, he brushed a strand of cobwebs from an old, whitewashed grave and tried to read the text inscribed into it.
“Someday,” he whispered, “I’ll do something like this for you.”
Where he would go from this point was beyond him. While his thoughts led him toward the castle, his heart drew him to the Abroen—where, most likely, he would attempt to steal a book and commit treason that could possibly sentence him to life in prison.
Bowing his head, Odin closed his eyes.
A wisp of wind came up, shifting the hair across his face.
Father, he thought. Please… if you can hear me, wherever you are… give me a sign.
“Any sign.”
A shiver ran up his spine.
Odin tilted his head up and raised his eyes.
Though he saw nothing in the near distance, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d just been delivered what he’d asked for.
The night brought with it a chilling sense of reality that he could hardly begin to imagine.
Standing in the office with the door locked and a quilt about his shoulders, there should have been nothing to disturb him on this night cold and without regret. Contrary to that, something seemed amiss—a plaintive sense of normalcy in the air. As the moments continued on, and as his sense of reality began to distort even further, Odin wandered to the window to examine what he could only begin to imagine was a glowing ball of light.
At first unsure whether or not what he was seeing was actually real, then baffled at the possibility that such a thing could be occurring, he trained his eyes on the distant walls across the street and toward an alleyway that lay shadowed by two outcropping roofs. The moon bright, its light all but present, there should have been nothing to hinder the progress of the thing that made its way along the alleyway and toward the side of the street, but it seemed as though the glowing ball of light was limited to the shadows and all but vulnerable to any source of light.
What in the world? he thought.
His first inclination led him to believe that this thing—this glowing ball of light—had to be conjured by a mage, though where that mage was could be anyone’s guess. When the orb tilted, spun, then began to flicker as though a pale lamp disturbed by a passing figure, the muscles in Odin’s face began to pull his lips into a frown as the construct slowly began to descend to the ground.
One moment it was hovering perfectly above the line of dirt on the side of the road. A short breath later, it collapsed, then lay blinking before it disappeared entirely.
“Father?” he asked.
The word a mere whisper on his lips, the idea more than present in his mind, he pushed his arm forward, then channeled his will through the length of his appendage and toward the digits that lined his hand.
Outside, the construct once more burst into light.
“Is this you?” he asked, watching as the thing flickered in the alleyway first by bobbing up and down, then shaking back and forth as though signifying a no.
If not his father, then just what could this thing be? He’d read of such superstitions—heard that, on long, lonely nights, wisps would come and mark their passage amongst the world: signifying that there was, in essence, a life after death. The fact that this thing reacted to his magic once seemingly ‘dead’ led him to believe that it was not, in fact, one of the fabled apparitions, though he couldn’t necessarily be sure of that matter.
If his father had wanted to speak to him from beyond death, would he not have channeled something that would have resembled his intuitive color?
Maybe colors don’t matter on the other side, Odin thought.
Maybe, possibly, colors became distorted—lightened, darkened, then adorned with a glow that made them appear to be white and anything but in the realm of the living.
Not sure what to think about the thing currently before him, Odin lowered his arm, set it at his side, and waited.
For several long, undeterminable moments, he watched the thing as though his life had no other purpose.
His eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight penetrating the outside world.
A breath whispered from his lips.
Slowly, and with grace he felt incapable of having in that particular moment, he reached forward and pressed his hand to
the pane of glass.
Instantaneously, fog shadowed the windowpane.
“Father,” he whispered. “If this is you, please… let me know that you’re here.”
Let me know that you’re watching out for me.
It took but a moment for Odin to realize that the room had taken on a horrible chill.
He turned his head up and looked at the apparition floating across the road.
A shiver ran down his spine, eclipsed at the center of his back, then shot off the tip of his tailbone.
He dropped to his knees.
His breath caught in his chest.
A pain so unbearable he felt as though it would split his head in two flowered at the front of his vision.
No, he thought, clawing at his face, his hair, his eyes. No no no no no!
His chin shot up until it stared directly at the ceiling.
His eyes watered.
Snot began to run from his nose.
Tendrils of ice began to develop along his forearms. Flowering across his fingertips as though great vines from exotic, blooming plants, they snaked their way up and around his arms until they touched the quick of his elbows. There, it seemed, they began to merge within his body, chilling his blood as though water tainted by ice and allowed to grow perpetually cold despite its natural inclination in the world.
Father, he thought.
Light showered over his vision.
The world became but one great, instinctual light.
A hum began to drone in his head.
Odin, a voice whispered.
“Who are you?” Odin whispered, reaching forward, as if hope would allow him but the grace of God or Gods and allow him to touch whatever it was that had come to him on this horrible cold night. “What do you want with me?”
An eclipse of pain shattered his entire body.
Had he the ability, he would have screamed. Instead, he fell to the floor, then bowed as if before his one and only king.
The world returned to focus.
The room lost its chill.
To his side, the single burning candle flickered, then winked out.
Across the street—beneath the awning on the neighboring building—the hovering ball of light winked once, then twice before disappearing entirely.
Behind him, his swords began to hum.
Odin closed his eyes.
He knew what he had to do.
Chapter 2
Through the throngs of sleeping people adorned upon the floor Odin made his way across the waiting room with a weight in his heart so heavy and thick it felt as though his chest would simply collapse. His lungs on fire, his breath hot and rapid when it came in and went out of his chest, he stood before the locked door firm in purpose and stout in need. Though as hard as he tried to control the bouts of emotion rolling through his frame, echoing of things that could serve him wrong and turn him back to the office, he managed to persevere, despite everything already set against him.
You can’t go back, he thought, not now, not with so much at stake.
One false move would surely rouse one of the men sleeping no more than three feet away. If that happened, he would be caught and interrogated by not only his friends, but his recollections on the situation at hand.
His cloak tight around him, a bag secured but haphazardly-packed, he realized in that moment that there would be no turning back.
In the moments he prepared to leave city hall and, likely, Dwaydor for good, he took it upon himself to first undo the locks on the door and mentally prepare himself for his flight from the city. First he maneuvered the deadbolt out of place, his breath thick and his flow of oxygen uneasy, then he released the chains snared at the top of the door that almost lay out of reach with unsurety that threatened to turn him back. Shortly thereafter, and once fully in position, he pushed the door open and tried not to look back at two of the best friends he could have possibly ever imagined.
“You won’t be left without an answer,” he whispered. “That much I promise you.”
Well in advance, long before he’d packed and eons away from the time he ever considered trekking across the waiting room, he’d written a note telling them of not only his plight, but his feelings—that, in his current state of mind, he was apt to go insane unless he followed his heart toward a place he could only refer to as his ancestral home ground: where, he felt, he could likely find the answers he was so desperately looking for.
For life, for death, for what came after life and, possibly most importantly, what came before it all—he told of these things as though a poet grand and revered, his pen his sword and his ink his honor. Though he didn’t necessarily feel as though his attempts would be anything close to poetry, he knew that it would explain jut why he was leaving.
This is it, his conscience whispered. Your last chance.
No matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperately he wanted to pull himself from this venture and say that it was all too much, he took one last look back at Nova and Carmen, then closed his eyes.
One last chance for you to turn around and end it all.
Tears threatening to burn from his eyes, he pressed his way forward, catching the door before it could slam shut.
When it clicked firmly into position, and as the doorknob locked securely behind him, Odin made his way down the road and toward the stables that would set him free from his own personal version of madness.
He took extra care not to rouse the horses from their slumber. Once inside the stable—complete and content about the mission in hand—Odin arranged a saddle that he felt would ensure his safety along the trip. He bore no fresh water, no foods other than quickly-souring fruits and vegetables, and held no ingredients from which to make biscuits. While it would certainly be a long journey, he would not go hungry.
I can kill with one whisper, he thought.
That alone should have secured him all the more.
After he placed the saddle onto an ample stallion’s back, he pulled it from its stall with little more than a soft coo. This horse—fine, proud, towering over his head by at least three feet—walked forward without contempt, which only served to symbolize the fact that, regardless of whatever he may be about to go through, Odin could continue on without worry.
“There,” he whispered, reaching up to stroke the stallion’s snout and even managing a smile when it bowed its head into his shoulder. “Everything’s going to be just fine. I’m going to take care of you.”
The horse snorted, disturbing the hair at Odin’s shoulders.
With the knowledge firmly implanted in his mind that he wouldn’t have to worry about the horse disrupting the surroundings, Odin led it toward the mouth of the stable, cast a glance back at the sleeping horses, then turned his attention toward the streets, where in the distance gates stood indignant and without respect.
Now, he thought. All I have to deal with are the gates.
“And the guards.”
He snapped the locks from their places around the wrought-iron fences with simplicity he felt mocking. His attempts, while quiet, and the horse’s hooves, all but silent, didn’t bode well with the fact that he had just made his way through three different gates without setting off any alarms.
This is too easy.
Surely the security had to be more intense, for if it were not, just about any mage capable of increasing the pressure within an object could walk right in and do whatever it was he wanted. Most mechanisms were pressure-triggered. It didn’t take much to bend iron if you began to heat it from the inside first.
Stepping forward, taking extra care to lead his horse along the dirt-lined sides of the road in order not to disturb the cobblestone beneath their feet, Odin trained his eyes on the two guards that stood at the top of the southern gates and tried to decide just how he was going to deal with them without causing brutal or lasting harm. He couldn’t kill them—that much he already knew—but he would have to incapacitate them in order to escape.
Is this illeg
al?
In the end, who cared? It wasn’t as though his venture was within the limits of the law anyway.
After stepping into an alley to ensure that neither he nor his mount would be seen when a guard turned and regarded the darkened scene, Odin raised his hand and lifted two fist-sized rocks from the ground before them.
Here goes nothing.
Efficient, targeted, and perfect in shot and execution, both rocks hit their targets and sent the guards stumbling forward, then onto the ground.
“Well, friend,” Odin said, leading his mount toward the expanse of open lowlands before them. “I guess you and me have a long ways to go.”
To the future, for the past, toward the beyond and, hopefully, toward an answer that would solidify his feelings and place within the world—he marched forward without a care in the world and mounted his stallion once they stood on ample ground.
With one look back at not only the city, but friends that would likely fear for his safety, he took off down the path in a full-out gallop.
Under the cover of darkness, he made his way along the path that cut through the Dwaydorian Lowlands that would, eventually, lead him to the bisecting road that led to both Ke’Tarka and Elna. His mind made up, a decision met and orchestrated, his spirit weary, heavy and throbbing within his chest, he hung his head low and trailed his eyes on not only the dirt beneath his horse’s feet, but the death that surrounded him.
This is your future, his conscience whispered. This is your cause.
Who could say, though, that the death around him was meant for his accord and not another’s—that, regardless of his place in the world, he had not truly caused the catastrophe that could be seen around him? Some, he knew, could argue that this was his fault—that, given his purpose within the Ornalan Court and how some years ago his knighting ceremony had occurred, he was the reason Herald Monvich had fled crazed and out of his mind—but what would others believe when they looked upon the situation and weighed in for themselves? Would they say he was not, in fact, the cause, that the power of the human spirit, once tainted, was great, or would they simply count it as a fluke, a stroke of luck caused by several variables that had managed to come to one individual point?