Borne Rising

by Matthew Callahan

  Will blinked. A new man? Din’Dael hadn’t said anything about this.

  “This man”—he leveled a finger at Will—“blood forged by the fires of Sapholux, this man is now Noctis Thorne, Blade of Light.”

  “Noctis Thorne, Blade of Light,” came the echoing Lightborne.

  Din’Dael’s smile twisted maniacally at Will’s startled expression. “Arise, Noctis.”

  Will did as he was bid, forcing his legs to remain steady. Din’Dael held his hand extended. Will retrieved the fallen dagger and passed it to the great man. Then one of the Blades—Rienne—approached and tied an ash-colored skirt about his waist. Another Blade—Penth—brought a brown leather pauldron and buckled it over his shoulder. More Blades approached, swarming Will, adorning him in the armor of a Blade. When they had completed their work, they backed away and he stood in their midst, fully armed, fully armored.

  “Noctis Thorne,” din’Dael boomed. “Welcome home.”

  “Thorne?” Will raised an eyebrow. His throat was still sore from the morning’s events and his voice came out as a hoarse croak. “You just had to bring my grandfather into it, didn’t you?”

  The ceremony had ended some time before. He had been paraded amongst the Blades while the remaining Lightborne looked on. Din’Dael had followed at the rear, carrying the white dagger. Once they exited from the great chamber, Dahla had swept over. She’d quickly clutched the dagger, barely hesitating before taking off in flight with the blade secure in her talons.

  The thirty Blades welcomed him into their ranks eagerly before din’Dael called them off and took Will for himself. They walked in silence through the corridors of the Sapholux until they arrived at a large chamber near one of the great gathering halls. Only when they were alone did Will finally break the silence. Now, having done so, he waited.

  Jero din’Dael mockingly raised his own eyebrow and leaned in until he was just inches away from Will. He paused there, gave a slow blink, then gave a great, booming laugh.

  “It is an apt name for our purposes, young Noctis.”

  “Will,” Will said with a snicker. “My name is Will.”

  All humor vanished from din’Dael’s face. “No, it is not.” He leveled a stern gaze at Will. “You are Noctis. Were you not listening in there?”

  Will rolled his eyes. “With all the thundering going on, it would have been easy to miss.” Din’Dael didn’t look amused. A shiver of nerves ran through Will. “I just figured it was a formality. No one is actually going to call me that, right?” Din’Dael’s expression didn’t change and Will suddenly felt very self-conscious. “Tell me I’m right.”

  “William Davis is dead.” Din’Dael overenunciated every word. “I watched him bleed out and die.”

  Will suddenly felt very cold. That wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I agreed to this whole Blade thing.

  “Come,” din’Dael said, grabbing his shoulder roughly and shoving him in front of a mirror. “Look at the man before you. Is that William Davis?”

  Will stared at his reflection and tried to hide his surprise. Din’Dael wasn’t entirely wrong. The armored figure that looked back at Will was one he did not recognize. He looked . . . stony. Carved marble. He was lean and wiry. His face was gaunt. There were deep, dark circles under his eyes and the eyes themselves had changed. He couldn’t explain how but they looked cruel. Hard. Cold. The eyes of a killer.

  He tried to shy away from the sight but din’Dael held him close. “Look at yourself, Noctis. Look. William Davis was a child, a boy who played at being an imaginary hero. No”—he gripped Will tight, silencing the protest— “William played. His world was a game. One that he did not survive.”

  No, that’s not . . . The more din’Dael spoke, the more Will tried to fight what he heard, but he couldn’t avoid hearing elements of truth in din’Dael’s words.

  “You are not that. You are a warrior.” Din’Dael’s voice was hard as iron. “You are an instrument of devastation to our enemies. You are worthy of bearing your grandfather’s name. You are Noctis Thorne.”

  Will stared into his own eyes, foreign and distant. He searched for himself in the face that stared back. He searched for the subtle similarities to his brother, for the easy laugh and casual smirk. All traces seemed to be gone. What have they done to me?

  “You burn, Noctis.” Din’Dael’s hands loosened on his shoulders. “From the day we met, you have burned. You fight it, I’ve always seen that, but you cannot deny what you are. You are a walking weapon, an instrument of justice. You are a gift to the Sapholux, to all those who call themselves Lightborne. You will help us bring peace to this flailing, misguided world.”

  Will was lulled by the cadence in din’Dael’s voice. “Peace . . .”

  “Peace.” Din’Dael smiled. “Once we stand victorious over the bleeding corpses of our enemies, we shall have peace.”

  Not unlike the Ancient Romans, Will thought as he remembered his grandfather’s lessons. Noctis, that’s Latin—of night. A thorn of night. Something about that resonated with him. What had Madigan always said? A dagger in the dark? Will smiled.

  “Noctis, then.” Just play the role. Let the Lightborne call you what they want.

  Jero din’Dael clapped him on the back. “Yes, my friend. Come, it is not every day that the Sapholux welcomes a new Blade.”

  Hours later and with a swimming head, Will returned to his chamber. The celebration had been immense, the great hall filled with liquor and trays of food. All in his honor. Noctis’s honor. He laughed. Noctis. There was something to it, something to the mad fantasy of a new identity. Was it so mad? Was it such a fantasy? What existed of his world before the Sapholux? Nothing—he smiled humorlessly—nothing that wasn’t burnt away.

  Perhaps din’Dael was right, he thought through the haze of liquor. Maybe William Davis really had been only a shell, a cocoon from which this new being had emerged. An ashen husk to a reborn phoenix. Maybe that name, William, had been the last vestige of an innocent ideal—that justice was possible through innocence. That peace was possible without bloodshed.

  He scoffed at the notion, his grandfather’s training too ingrained for one night’s revelry to undo. Nothing could take that part of him away, right?

  Hours ago—was it really only hours?—he had believed as much. Since the morning’s strange ceremony, he had heard enough to call it into question. Justice and peace would only be possible through the means that din’Dael foretold: over the corpses of their enemies. That, at least, had not changed. Valmont. The Necrothanians. Senraks the Vequian. Jero din’Dael and Noctis Thorne would destroy them all. Din’Dael had told him, professed it before the whole of the Sapholux. Had promised him his vengeance.

  You, Noctis, are the instrument of retribution. Din’Dael’s voice echoed in Will’s mind. Our retribution and your own.

  He snickered drunkenly and collapsed onto the bed. They had all cheered at din’Dael’s words. There had been feasting throughout the Sapholux, a celebration of survival. Of knowledge and overcoming all adversaries. The wonders of this place! The fantastical powers of Radiance! Had he ever wished for anything else? Had he really wanted to find a way to return to being Shadowborne?

  “Nope,” he said to the empty space. He could hear the slur in his speech. “Nope, nope. That was Will. Not Noctis.”

  He chuckled. Talking to yourself? Is that the touch of madness in all Lightborne? He rolled over. That was foolish, anyway. He hadn’t seen had the slightest hint of madness in any Lightborne since he’d first arrived. Jero was just eccentric. And who even said his grandfather was correct about all that? No one else had said anything about it, never warned against it. Hell, since he’d arrived, he’d learned plenty that Jervin Thorne had probably never dreamt possible.

  Don’t get cocky, kid. Madigan’s voice this time. Will wondered where his brother was now, wondered if Mad would even recognize him when they met again. If we meet again.

  He groaned and covered his face with an arm, bending h
is legs up onto the bed as he did so. Too much today. Too many voices. Too many memories. All those Lightborne. All din’Dael had said. All his brother and grandfather had said or might have said. It all kept playing over and over in his mind. He felt like he had when he’d just arrived in the Sapholux, a maddening slew of silent voices crying out for his attention. Maybe I am going crazy.

  He’d known all the voices, save one. Twice he’d heard it. The same voice. The same word. Come, it told him, once in his dreams, once when he was alone in the desert. Come was all it ever said and when she—for somehow, he knew it was a she—beckoned, he had followed. Who was she? The ghost of his mother? Will snorted. Right, Will. Now you’ve got ghosts knocking around your brain.

  THINK NOT OF HER.

  The roar filled Will’s mind like a thunderclap. He scrambled, letting out a startled cry and flailing before falling to the floor.

  SHE IS NOTHING.

  “What the hell?” Gasping for breath, Will placed a hand on the bed and pulled himself to his knees. “What in the goddam hell?” That was no memory, no way. There was nothing familiar in whatever had spoken those words. The voice had been like a physical presence, a screaming titan with the power of ages booming directly into his brain. Futilely, Will scanned the room. He saw no one, heard nothing.

  “Too much today.” He shook his head. “Too goddam much.” He climbed back onto the bed and put his head between his knees. His battered mind seemed at war with itself, answering whatever random thought it put into his head. Just need to get some rest, that’s all.

  He took a deep breath and paused. There was a peaceful silence in his brain. The scattered memories and phantom voices of inebriation faded into the obscure fog that lingers on the edge of dreams. He embraced it, the exhaustion of the day dragging him toward the abandonment of sleep.

  FIND MORELLA.

  The roaring words tore him from the brink of sleep. He thrashed against it again, clapping his hands to his ears. Nearly hyperventilating, he pinched his eyes shut and curled into a ball. What in the goddam hell?

  Silence.

  He waited. Nothing. Whatever it had been, it was gone, disappearing just as quickly as it appeared. Will wracked his brain for any trace of familiarity in the voice, but nothing came. Definitely not hers, whoever the hell she is. There was nothing gentle in this voice, nothing soothing or comforting. There was no soft urgency to it. No, it nearly shattered his sanity making its desires known.

  Find Morella.

  Morella. During the first few months in the Sapholux, din’Dael had done everything in his power to push Morella from Will’s mind. No use lamenting over the dead and lost, he said. Focus your energy on vengeance. Destroy those who took your happiness from you. Part of Will wondered if din’Dael would have said the same if he’d known that Will considered him among those who had separated him from Morella. The other part knew that din’Dael wouldn’t have cared in the least bit.

  She’s dead. You saw her, at the end. You saw the army of the dead. He’d told himself that countless times, but it never stuck. He didn’t really believe she was dead. He knew she wasn’t. There was no logic to the feeling; he couldn’t explain it in the slightest, but still, he knew she was out there, somewhere. And apparently, some strange, raging part of his unconscious self was screaming for him to find her.

  A fire of urgency lit inside him. What if . . . “Nope,” he said thickly. “Don’t go there again. Not you, Noctis.”

  I sound like a damn idiot. After the long, strange day and the flowing wine of the past few hours, he was far beyond logical thought. Morning would see things improved. Morning would bring clarity. Morning would bring a plan. Tomorrow. I’ll figure this all out tomorrow.

  Will stretched out again on the bed. He went to run his fingers through his hair but was caught off guard by the bare skin and bristling velvet of his newly shorn head. Din’Dael’s blade. Blade. I’m a Blade now. A Blade of Light. Whatever the hell that’s worth.

  He stopped the thought in its tracks. Where was this sudden flippant doubt coming from? It was reminiscent of his early days with din’Dael, not what he had now become. He had long ago abandoned that part of him. Din’Dael had taught him to forget the past, embrace the path of a true burner. A Lightborne. But something had been rekindled by that damn voice and its order to find Morella. Why? Why now?

  His question was met by silence. Instead, a small inkling of a forgotten memory sparked, a flash of memory he had thought burned away: Morella’s laughter.

  Will recoiled from the memory, but the years of training and thought-control within the Sapholux were suddenly of no use. Everything came flooding back with that laugh. Her crooked smile, the warmth of her skin, her—No. He forced himself away from it, focusing instead on the other Morella, the one din’Dael had trained him to think of. The sneering face. The cruel demeanor. The killer. Madigan had seen it in her. Cephora had seen it in her. Why hadn’t Will?

  Because Will was weak. Noctis would not have made that error.

  He froze. The thought was not his own.

  FIND MORELLA.

  The command burst into his weary mind once more. It tore at him, ripping through his defenses like paper. He knew, then, that this was not some part of his own self speaking to him. There truly was something else in his head. So that your minds may always be your own, his grandfather had often said. What had he known that he’d never shared?

  As the night wore on, Will grappled with sleep and prayed for the absence of dreams. His mind filled with forgotten memories and pain, Will slowly unwound thread by thread, thought by thought, until William Davis and Noctis Thorne were both bare in his mind’s eye, surrounded by everyone from his past. When the last breath of wakefulness faded from him and he finally drifted into uneasy sleep, his last image was of everything, everyone, erupting into flames.

  7

  Revelations

  Will awoke to the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and rose. He could feel a distinct presence, something both foreign and familiar. Scanning the room, he saw nothing. There was no sign of anyone nor any changes from when he had stumbled into the room the previous night.

  His head throbbed. Definitely too much. The entirety of the previous day itself, and the night that had followed, felt like a dream. Everything in his memories did. It was as though a thin veil of fog covered his entire life up to this moment. Only one thing, one thought, burned bright and true: It was time to leave the Sapholux.

  Will undressed and bathed, the movements mechanical. He felt a stranger in his own body. It was no hangover, at least not one that he had ever experienced before. Yesterday’s events, the strange induction ritual and surging power from the Lightborne left him feeling raw. What the bloody hell happened to me yesterday?

  He dressed and, without even thinking, reached for the trunk at the end of the bed. Opening it, he clasped the belt of blood fangs to his waist. He unwrapped the small cloth at the bottom of the chest and withdrew his grandfather’s key, draping it over his neck.

  Immediately, his mind cleared. His body relaxed with the cool touch of metal. It had been years since he’d worn the key, and yet the tingling sensation of its constant activity against his skin felt like . . . like coming home. The small jolt of electricity. The spiking hum. Its strange pulses surging through his body. How did din’Dael ever convince me to take it off?

  Will scanned the small, spartan room. He had his new armor and cloak. He had his blades and the aerilite cutlass from din’Dael. He had his key. There was nothing else worth taking; he had what he needed. He closed the door and set out in search of the Revenant. He’ll be furious. Taking the honors of the Sapholux and then leaving? Will braced himself.

  It did not take him long to find the man. Din’Dael was in the main war room of the Sapholux looking over a map stretched out on a table. A group of Blades surrounded the table, all listening to a report from one of them. Quennar, Will recalled. He had been absent from yesterday
’s ceremony.

  Din’Dael glanced up when Will entered the room. He met the young man’s eye and raised a hand, beckoning him forward without interrupting Quennar. His face was stern and hard, obviously taken by something of great import. Will saw that Kenwal, most senior of the Blades, had a look of deep concern on his face. Rienne was there as well, pinching the bridge of her nose. Whatever he had walked in on, it wasn’t good.

  Quennar was speaking at a near whisper. When Will drew within hearing range, he could hear a tremor in the man’s voice.

  “Numbers beyond what we previously estimated.” He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow then gestured at the map. “Or so my man says. I trust him, but if what he says is true . . .” Quennar shook his head and saw Will approach. “Then we need allies.” He waved vaguely toward Will. “Even given our newly bolstered strength.”

  “One man is not enough to make a difference, one way or another,” din’Dael responded. His voice was grave. “Not even one of your strength, Noctis.”

  Will glanced at the map on the table then met din’Dael’s eye. “Make a difference against what?”

  Kenwal answered. “Necrothanians, a large gathering. They have been clustered for some time around this small mountain”—he pointed at a spot on the map—“but a portion of them are on the move. Scouts have been watching for some time now, and there can be little doubt. They move on the Sapholux.”

  “Or so it appears,” din’Dael interjected. “Dorian would never be so foolish as to launch an outright assault on us.” He gave a grim smile. “He doesn’t even know that we exist.”

  “He knows that you do,” said Kenwal. “That may be enough.”

  “No.” Din’Dael’s tone brooked no argument. “That is not his way. There is something else at work here.” He paused then looked at Will. “What are your thoughts?”

  My thoughts? Will glanced from Kenwal to din’Dael, then to the trembling Quennar, then finally to Rienne. Her face gave nothing away. Looks like becoming a Blade means I suddenly get to have an opinion. He glanced at the map and hesitated. “I don’t think I have enough information to have any thoughts on the matter,” he said softly. “I only just arri—”