A Sellsword's Hope

by Jacob Peppers

  “Wait,” Kevlane said, and Aaron looked up to see the mage frowning. “Who…who are you talking to?”

  A moment later, the ghostly apparition of Aaron Caltriss appeared standing beside the sellsword, and Kevlane gasped, backing away with wide eyes. “N-no,” he said. “I-it can’t be. Y-you’re dead.”

  The long-dead king gave a small, sad smile. “Not dead, Boyce. Not truly. Now, please, hear me. You were a good man once. You can be that man again. Even now, it is not too late.”

  “I-it’s not possible,” Kevlane said, and there was no mistaking the fear in his voice. “You died. I saw you die.”

  Caltriss went on as if Kevlane hadn’t spoken. “You have suffered, Boyce, and for that I am sorry. You have let your grief and anger make of you a vile thing. But it is not too late to save yourself. You must only choose to do so—none can go so far into the darkness that they cannot be brought again into the light.”

  The mage began laughing then, a loud, shrieking laugh that echoed with madness. “I am not who I once was,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper.

  “No, you’re not,” the king agreed. He stepped forward, reaching out a misty hand to the mage. “Will you stand with me, Boyce? One final time?”

  Kevlane stared at the offered hand as if it were a viper baring its fangs, his eyes wide, his mouth working as if he would speak but couldn’t manage the words. Then, a hardness came into his face, madness dancing in his eyes. “No,” he grated. “No! They must die for what they did to me. They must all die!” He was screaming now. “And even you cannot stop it! I am the ruler here now, not you. It is I who have the power.”

  A profound sadness came over Caltriss’s face, and he nodded slowly, turning to Aaron. “Finish it, Aaron Envelar.”

  “Finish what?” Aaron gasped, from where he had fallen to his knees, the pain making it difficult to talk.

  “You know,” Caltriss said. “The spell—it was begun, but never finished. The Virtues exist, Aaron Envelar; they need only someone with the will to guide them, to bring them together.” And with that, the form of Aaron Caltriss vanished into mist.

  “N-no,” Kevlane said, his voice screeching, “that isn’t possible! You can’t—”

  Understanding bloomed in Aaron’s mind, and a small smile came to his face. “But I can.” The Virtues had been fashioned by the Art, but they had been made by the power of Will, the will of Aaron Caltriss, a man who had wanted nothing but to defend his people. They had been separate for thousands of years, alone, waiting only for someone with the will to bring them together once more.

  Aaron, Co said, sounding afraid, you know what it will do? The Virtues…we should never have been created at all. Don’t you see? The virtues my father strove for are nothing without the striving. They are only great because of the struggles and challenges we face to attain them. Without that…Aaron, you have seen the darker side of the Virtues, what they are capable of. To have them all, at once…it will kill you.

  A blade that cut he who wielded it just as it did he who it was wielded against. That, Aaron understood. “It’s okay, Firefly,” he said. “It’s okay.” One death to save thousands, to save hundreds of thousands. It was an easy trade to make.

  He rose to his feet, the pain of his battered body still there, but no match for his will. He raised his hands to the side, calling on the power of Aaron Caltriss’s will, of his own will. At once, he felt the Virtues, not just as they now were, but as the people they had been, with their own hopes, their own dreams, now only shells of themselves, hollowed out and broken. He felt them, and he called to them. And they answered.

  Power rushed into him, and a sound like a thunderclap tore through the air. Aaron screamed as the Virtues answered the call, as his body filled with their gift, their curse, and he fell to his knees, shaking from the storm raging inside him. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was done. And when he rose a second time, he was not just Aaron Envelar, not anymore. He was an old man, Palendesh, a seeker of wisdom, of knowledge. He was Davin, “Dav” to his mother, a young man, eager and hungry to use his power, with a fast tongue and faster feet. And he was Evelyn, the daughter of Aaron Caltriss, who wanted only to protect, to save. He was compassion, and he was strength. He was speed and charisma, and intelligence, and perception and he was the will to guide them all. The spell was finally complete.

  “Almost,” he said, and those others, so long lost and left abandoned, spoke with him. He studied the mage in front of him, and Kevlane backed away, his hands in front of him.

  “N-no,” he growled, “you will not have it. The Virtue is mine, they will all be mine. Kill them!” he screamed. “Kill them all!”

  Something struck his consciousness, and he did not have to turn to look where the others stood. Instead, he felt the movement of the creatures, understood it in an instant, as if each of their steps, each raising of a sword, was a part of the carefully choreographed motions of a play, one he had seen a thousand times. One which he knew each part of, one which he understood better even than its actors. He knew. He understood. And then he moved.

  ***

  Caleb watched the creatures, waiting for his death to come, then suddenly, the air cracked with a sound like a thunderclap. Someone screamed then abruptly went silent, and he spun to see Aaron rising from where he’d fallen, saw Kevlane backing away from him, his face pale, his eyes wide.

  It has been a pleasure to know you, young Caleb. Truly, an honor.

  Caleb frowned. Palendesh?

  The spell, lad. It finishes. I am called, and I must answer. It is finished. Finally. There was relief in the Virtue’s voice, and Caleb was still trying to understand what he meant when something happened. He felt a tug, as if someone had grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, and he staggered into Gryle who had also stumbled. He and the chamberlain and Leomin were staring at each other, confused, when they heard Kevlane’s voice.

  “Kill them! Kill them all!”

  The creatures started toward them, but before they could reach Caleb and the others something was among them, a streak of movement, nothing more. Yet everywhere it moved, it left the creatures dead in its wake, and Caleb gasped as he watched them fall like wheat before a farmer’s scythe.

  In seconds, it was done, and Aaron Envelar stood among dozens of corpses. His chest rose and fell evenly, as if he hadn’t just killed dozens of Kevlane’s strongest creations, and if the hurts he had suffered earlier pained him, he showed no sign. But it was his eyes that captivated Caleb the most. They were alive with colors, a storm of them: blue and yellow and magenta and gray, all shifting in his irises like storm clouds.

  Without a word, he walked past Caleb and the others, toward Kevlane who was trembling, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his face contorted with rage and insane hate. “It’s impossible!” he screamed. “You can’t, I—I am a god!”

  “No, Kevlane,” Aaron said, and it seemed to Caleb that a chorus of voices spoke with him. “You’re not a god, but a man who has made of himself a monster. You are not ready for the power which you carry. No one is.” And with that, the sellsword reached out his empty hand to Kevlane, his fingers extended.

  The mage screamed, stumbling as if something had been ripped from him, and Caleb thought that he knew all too well what it was. He turned, with the others, to stare at the sellsword in awe.

  ***

  Aaron felt the Virtue of Adaptation as it entered him along with the others. His body thrummed with power, and he felt invincible. Yet, at the same time, he knew the power of the Virtues was killing him, tearing him apart, for no man could possess such strength.

  Aaron! Co’s voice, speaking among a horde of others, yelling, her voice sounding weak and frail in the storm raging inside him. You have to let it go—you have to let us go!

  But hers was not the only voice in his mind, not any longer. There were others—Melan, the Virtue of Strength, twisted by an insane rage; the Virtue of Adaptation, bent and perverted over thousands of years spent in
the mage’s possession. Their voices, too, echoed in his mind, as did the others. A chorus of voices, and in that chorus, a promise. Of power. Enough power to protect those he loved but more than that—enough power to shape the world to his will.

  And so Aaron hesitated. Yes, the Virtues would kill him, eventually. But, then, all men died, didn’t they? And with the gifts the Virtues offered, there was no telling what he might accomplish, what he might become. Kevlane had thought himself a god, but Aaron would be a god in truth, and with the Virtue of Adaptation able to heal his body, counteracting much of the side effects of the Virtues, there was no telling how long he might live.

  Aaron, listen to me—

  But he didn’t. The storm of power roiling through him was too tempting, too seductive in its possibilities. He could be anything. Anyone. With such power, he could make of the world what he would. The gods had screwed it all up, made a place in which people suffered and died, but it wasn’t too late. He could fix it. He could fix all of it. No more squabbling kings and queens leading thousands to their deaths. No more children walking down the stairs to see their parents dead. He would be the king, for all the world. He would be their god.

  Aaron, please…

  He would do what those before him couldn’t—what even Aaron Caltriss could not. He would become a god and, in so doing, he would save the world. He took a step toward Kevlane, and the air hummed with the combined powers of the Virtues roiling through him. He was unaware of the feral snarl on his face, or the way his iridescent eyes danced with a fury that could only be borne of madness.

  He took another step, his sword held in a white-knuckled grip, but, suddenly the world seemed to shift, and he froze as he realized that he was no longer in the audience room of the castle. Instead, he stood in a circular parapet. In the center of the room was a table upon which a man lay, and the sellsword recognized him as Aaron Caltriss.

  Forming a circle around the king were seven men and women of various ages. They were knelt, their heads down, and they chanted something under their breath, words Aaron could not make out, and what little he heard sounded strange, alien to his ears.

  Beside the table, closer than the others, stood another man. Aaron recognized this one, too, and he snarled, preparing to launch himself forward. The mage’s hands were raised above his head, and the air in the room seemed to crackle with energy. Some small bit of Aaron’s mind registered distant sounds of combat—screams, the faint clashing of steel. Distant, but coming closer. And then, suddenly, he knew where he was, when he was. Here, now, was that dire moment in which the spell had taken place, in which the Virtues had been born. There, standing beside the prone Caltriss, stood Kevlane, the ancient mage who had caused so much suffering, so much death. There was a hunger on the mage’s face that hinted at the monster he would become.

  The storm of emotions within Aaron reached a crescendo, and with an animalistic scream he charged forward, his sword leading. The blade cut the air, swift and true, but when it reached the mage, it went through him as if he were made of smoke, and Aaron stumbled, nearly losing his feet.

  He spun, frowning, and saw one of the kneeling figures, a young girl, no more than sixteen, seventeen perhaps, raise her head to study him. Her mouth still moved, chanting the alien words, but her eyes watched him. She rose slowly to her feet and walked toward him. But strangely, as she did, another version of her remained kneeling, chanting the words while the other approached him.

  “You’ve come,” the young woman said. “I was not sure you would…that I could bring you here.”

  Realization struck Aaron like a hammer blow, and his breath caught in his throat. “Wait…Co?”

  She gave a small smile at that. “Not here—not yet. Here, I am only Evelyn, daughter of Aaron Caltriss, and one of those chosen to participate in this great folly.”

  Aaron was vaguely aware of the chanting in the room beginning to rise in pitch, growing slowly louder, but he was too focused on the woman standing before him to pay it much attention. “I don’t understand. Why did you bring me here? I was just about to kill Kevlane…I was going to fix it.”

  The girl cocked her head, studying him. “The world, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded slowly, her gaze taking in Kevlane and her prone father, a sadness in her eyes. “Others have set out to do the same. In the end, they all failed.”

  “But I won’t,” Aaron said. “With the power I have now…” He trailed off.

  “They do not fail for want of power, Aaron. They fail, more often than not, because of it. Wishing to change the world is a good thing, an admirable thing, but such desires are much like the Virtues themselves, a blade likely to turn in one’s hand, and many who set out to be heroes become tyrants instead. And the greater their power, the more suffering they leave in their wake.”

  Aaron opened his mouth to protest but paused when she held up a hand to silence him. “Wait,” she said. “Watch.”

  Aaron gritted his teeth in frustration, but he did as she asked, following her gaze to the circle of the mages. At first, nothing seemed to change. Their chanting continued, and from somewhere in the distance, the sounds of fighting grew louder, closer. Then one of the kneeling figures, an old, wizened man who Aaron somehow knew was Palendesh, raised his head, and there was unmistakable fear in his wide eyes as he gazed about him. Yet his mouth continued to work, continued to chant the words, as if even in his fear, he could not stop what had begun.

  The kneeling Evelyn raised her head next, and the fear in her eyes matched the old man’s. Their gazes met, and a dark realization seemed to pass between them. “We begin to understand,” the Evelyn standing beside him said, her voice full of sadness.

  “Understand what?” Aaron demanded, having to raise his voice to be heard over the chanting growing louder by the second.

  “The spell was tainted,” the woman answered, and he could see silent tears gliding down her face. As she spoke, more of the seven began to raise their heads, one that Aaron knew to be Melan, later to become the Virtue of Strength, trembling, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheek.

  A phantom wind suddenly rose in the enclosed room, snatching at Aaron’s clothes, as if it wanted to carry him away, to banish him from this place, this time. “What do you mean ‘tainted’?” he yelled past the roar of air.

  “Perhaps,” she said, and though she spoke in normal volume, somehow he could still hear her words clearly over the high-pitched chanting and rush of wind, “it always was. Perhaps, there was some failing in our Shaping or perhaps, even then, the one who guided us,” she paused, turning to look at Kevlane, “was twisted by his own desires. Either way, the spell was tainted, and we begin to understand that.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop?” Aaron asked.

  She smiled sadly, turning back to him once more. “Some roads, once they are started down, cannot be abandoned until you reach the other side. This is one such road.”

  Colored mist began to gather above each mage’s head in a thickening cloud despite the driving gusts. Aaron noted that the colors were the same as those Virtues the mages would become. Movement caught his eye, and he saw Aaron Caltriss raising his head from where he lay, his gaze meeting his daughter’s where she knelt. Neither spoke, perhaps because they could not, but still an understanding passed between them, communicated from her terrified expression to her father’s, and he nodded one short nod, giving her a sad smile, his eyes full of unquestioned love and regret.

  “He knows,” Aaron breathed.

  “Yes.”

  Kevlane began to wave his hands and arms in a series of intricate, precise gestures, and the colored clouds began to drift toward Aaron Caltriss. All the while, the king’s eyes never left his daughter’s, and though she continued to chant, Aaron could see tears running down the young woman’s face, could see her terrible, wretched grief writ plain on her features.

  The clouds of mist gathered above Caltris
s and slowly began to seep into his body, almost tentatively. The wind grew stronger, howling through the chamber, and it was all Aaron could do to keep his balance as he watched the dead king. Caltriss’s body tensed, his back arching as the Virtues entered him. His form was wracked with tremors as he struggled against some mysterious force, his muscles trembling as if under great strain. Then, his eyes finally left his daughter, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Abruptly, the mists exploded out of him in a shower of color, vanishing into the air, and Caltriss slumped onto the table. He turned to regard his daughter, a world of meaning in his gaze, then, slowly, his eyes closed. They did not open again.

  Aaron stared at the dead king, stunned. “He…he made the spell fail.”

  “Yes,” the woman said, her voice low, little more than a whisper.

  “But…why?”

  “Because, Aaron Envelar,” she said, meeting his eyes, “my father, in those last moments, knew the truth of the Virtues, knew their great cost. For power always has a cost, and this one was that, eventually, he would have become a terror more horrible than any of those he sought to protect his people against. And so, instead, he chose death.”

  Aaron’s mouth worked and, for a time, he could find no words. Then, slowly, he turned to her. “What would you have me do?”

  “We are tired, Aaron,” she said, gesturing to the other mages. Kevlane stood in the center of the circle as if frozen, studying Caltriss with a look of triumph and hunger on his face, as if he had not yet realized the spell’s failure, did not yet understand that, in the end, Caltriss had denied the power it would have given him, power no man should possess.

  But the other mages had all lifted their heads and turned to stare at Aaron, and in those gazes he saw the exhaustion of which she spoke, a weariness beyond what any mortal should have to endure. “We are so tired. We have waited, have been waiting, for so very long, reliving this moment over and over. We are the Virtues, but we are also our memories, our pain, a pain that has endured for thousands of years. I would have you end it. I would have you let us rest.”