by C D Beaudin
“Kaniel.” That’s all he can say. Maybe that’s all he should say. Kaniel wouldn’t like who he is. Who he’s become. He doesn’t know who he’s become. He’s a stranger.
The Delcah looks weary, more ancient than he was when he was alive. His skin is gray, his eyes blacker than his hair or the ocean at night. No one knows how old he is, the only evidence of aging is the wisdom in his eyes.
“Do you know the purpose of Delcah, Aradon?”
“Kaniel, what—”
“My kind was carved out of a great mountain, by a powerful being. We were given life, made to remember all, scholars of Ardon. When we die, our knowledge and the history we have kept will be written in a great hall beyond the clouds, out of reach of any evil. Some of us were selected to guide certain families—I was assigned to yours. The line of Aguinar, one of the first Besgeds created.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“And you wouldn’t have. The first Besgeds have been forgotten. There isn’t anyone to remember them.”
“You remember them.”
“I’m dead. And the Delcah race has nearly been extinguished. The elves old enough to remember have disappeared.” Kaniel’s eyes are sympathetic. “Do you see what I’m trying to say, Aradon? Our world is being forgotten. And if Revera is not stopped, Mortal won’t have a chance to be forgotten because everyone will be dead. You can’t stay in this cell. You can’t sit on that bed, in the dark, and be blanker than the wall you stare at. Mortal needs someone to save it.”
“There are others. Awyn, the twins, Hagard, Saine—”
“They are broken, Aradon. The only one who is still intact is Ethiah, but she can’t do this by herself. You care for her, don’t you?”
Aradon shifts. “I don’t know her.”
“You know her well enough to know that if she has to, she will face Revera by herself, and she’ll die if that happens.”
“How do you even know about Ethiah? Know about any of this? You’re dead,” Aradon snaps.
Kaniel straightens. “But I’ve been watching. Delcah don’t go to the Isle. They go back to their mountain. I have become the mountain I was carved out of, alongside my fallen brothers and sisters. I watch you, Aradon. And those around you.” He sits next to him. “I care about what happens to you. What happens to your family. I have known your father, your grandfather, his grandfather and his mother and so on since they were children. I have watched your family grow, shrink, die, and rise up. You are a family that fights.”
Aradon looks at his hands, unable to meet Kaniel’s dark eyes. “I can’t fight anymore, Kaniel. I’m tired. I have no will to continue. No will for anything. I’m better off being left in a cell where I won’t hurt anyone.”
“You are a monster, Aradon.”
Shock makes him look the Delcah directly in the eyes. He knows it’s true, but to hear the words from Kaniel’s mouth hurts more than a knife to the heart. This man was his uncle, his family. All his life, he was there, drifting in and out of his life, but he always returned.
Kaniel’s eyes are soft. “And monsters fight. They never stop. They don’t have the instinct to flee, all they do is attack. When you were Slayer, you attacked. As the Bowman, you fled. You killed for purpose, certainly. But you were afraid of who you might be if you let yourself go too far. The Dia wasn’t what made you snap—you know this—your family above us knows this too.
“It was you because fear isn’t who you are. You’re a fighter, Aradon. A monster. But there are different kinds. In some eyes, I’m a monster, a gray-skinned, black-eyed creature that was born from stone. Elves are monsters to some—tall, powerful beings with pointed ears and the ability to look around in beings’ minds. The Spirits are, humans are. Everyone is that to someone, Aradon. In this case, it’s yourself and the families of the victims you killed. Their loved ones.” He shakes his head.
“But are all of them evil? Revera is a monster, and she’s a bad one.” He puts his hand on Aradon’s shoulder, and he feels like he’s a boy, Kaniel giving him words of wisdom that he doesn’t understand but knows they’re important.
“You don’t have to be evil, Aradon. But when you aren’t a monster, you are afraid. Now, you aren’t either. You’re a shell. Skin and bone and blood.” His eyes narrow, looking at his new haircut. “And short-haired.”
Aradon smirks, and sighs as Kaniel continues, “Monsters can be good. Why kill a good thing?”
Aradon looks away again. “Because I’m a terrible one, Kaniel. I kill, I hurt my friends. I wrestled with the desire to kill them for months. It caught up to me eventually, but if I let it out again, Kaniel…” He shakes his head. “I’m the type of monster you lock up in Kahzacore.”
“You can choose to be good or bad, Aradon.”
“I always fail the former.”
“Then try harder.”
“Don’t you understand? I have no will for it.”
Kaniel darkens. “I’ve failed you.”
Aradon’s eyes widen. “No, I’ve—"
The door opens and Kaniel is gone.
Aradon springs to his feet. “No!” He looks around the room, as if he’ll find Kaniel in a crevasse in the floor, or the shadows at the foot of the bed. His chest rises and falls rapidly, still searching for him. His hands go to the sides of his head, distressed and anxious. “No, come back. Come back!”
“Aradon?”
He turns around and strides toward the intruder with such force he doesn’t even see the familiar red dragon insignia on the cloak until it flies toward his face.
There is no time to react as it’s pulled tight around his head, his face, his neck—too tightly around his neck. He grabs at it, but his arms are pulled behind his back. He thrashes, knowing what this is, and he’s not about to let it happen. Twisting, he blindly kicks out, hitting a hard target. A loud grunt. His legs are kicked, and he buckles to the ground. Someone jumps on him. Aradon flips hard onto his back, pinning whoever has their arms wrapped around his chest. He definitely heard a snap and a groan.
More footsteps sound.
He struggles to his feet, frantically working to get rid of the cloak but it’s knotted tightly. So many knots he can barely distinguish one from the other. It must be reinforced with rope.
A hand grabs his arm. Quickly and without sense of sight, he finds the phantom hand. Grasping it sharply and tugging, the crack of the arm coming out of its socket is apparent, even without the sharp cry of the victim. Two hands either side of him restrain his arms. He feels the prick of something sharp like a dart touching his neck. Kicking forward, the sensation stops, and a metallic clang sounds on the ground, with a groan of pain. He feels the smile tick at his lips. This is what he craves.
Kaniel’s right. Why kill the monster? But Aradon’s right too. He’s addicted. And he’s ready for his next dose.
This time, he attacks. Sensing the position of one of them, he quickly grabs his neck and finds the usual position one of his own would keep a knife. Without a second thought he stabs the knife into the man and slices through the ropes and cloak before the others have a chance to stop him. His vision returns, and none of the faces he sees before him are familiar.
“The Master didn’t want to send his prized dogs?”
“Less we know about you, the better. His ‘dogs’ are too familiar with you.”
“And yet that might have been an advantage.” Aradon hurls the dagger at one of the warrior’s chests, hitting his mark perfectly. The last one in the room pulls out his sword and puts the point to his neck, but three others file in.
“Stand down, Zachary. This isn’t the time,” one says, a slightly shorter, older version than the blond-haired boy who had put the blade to his throat. He lowers it, but no relief floods Aradon’s veins.
Instead, he punches him.
The superior just rolls his eyes. “Aradon, you look…older.”
His brow furrows until he realizes who this is. “John. It’s been a while.”
“A while
too short, it would seem.” His long strides reach Aradon quickly. “You’re a traitor, Aradon.”
“I’m a traitor, sure. But at least I defied for something better.”
He laughs. “You call a cell something better?” His mood darkens. “You left the brotherhood, Aradon. We were family.”
“A family that kills because one may disagree with the rules?”
“I never said we were prevalent.”
“Oh, my apologies, Captain.” Aradon raises the knife in the air but another set of hands yank his back behind him and begin to bind his hands, as another does his ankles. He loses his balance and falls to the floor. Something sharp enters his skin, and he feels his limbs tire, his mind slow.
“What—” he mumbles. “Stop… leave m—”
Addiction. A high that doesn’t last. It’s a strong creature that lives in his mind, but his unwillingness to do anything is stronger. He gives up.
A hard thud and a jarring pounding, then he falls asleep.
Chapter Nine
The freeze of the wind isn’t blocked by the rock she leans on. She’s unlucky enough that it’s coming from the side. The fire is nearly spent, the flames clinging to whatever breath they can find in the air, in the gaps between the stillness. But they’re dying, and Brega’s too chilled to do anything about it. But while the chill is a result of the winter around her, the fear that has its hands around her heart may have a hand in it too. It grips her, stopping the beat of her heart. She swallows, tears pricking her eyes but not willing to let them fall because that means it’s true. It means her denial can no longer shield her from the truth. But she won’t admit it. She can’t.
Brega’s face falls into her hands, trying to stop the tears that will inevitably fall, for the truth can only hide for so long. But she must, even if she cannot deny it to herself forever, she will hide it from others until the day she dies. Perhaps it’s not even what I think it is? I could have been seeing things? Maybe, maybe the Spirits are watching out for me? Yeah. She’d rather believe in the beings that have caused so much bloodshed because of their worshippers than believe in the fact that she has…
No. She won’t say it.
But the stillness finally smothers the last of the flames. Brega rushes to blow on the ashes, hoping the fire will return to her. “Please, please, please,” she mutters under her breath, a silent prayer to whatever god cares. But they don’t return. Defeated, Brega wraps her jacket around her tighter, tucking her hands under her arms, shrinking into herself for as much warmth as possible.
Why not just go back to the palace?
She can’t. Not when she now knows. She may be in denial, but she won’t return to her home until she can admit it to herself. And has a grip on it, a plan. But how can she have a plan? She’d be going back as a hypocrite, ruling as one. She can’t rule as that. She can’t fathom…
But she never promised that. To be fair, or forthright. Her hypocrisy would be for her own and her kingdom’s survival. She promised to be brave, to not stop fighting until this war was won. The words “I will be honest and genuine” never left her lips. Maybe that shouldn’t excuse deceitful behavior…but she’s going to die out here.
And yet she doesn’t move. She lifts her hands, taking off her last remaining glove that wasn’t destroyed by the flames she created. She created flames. Brega studies them, her soft skin, the light freckles dotting the top of her hand. Turning them over, she tilts her head as she looks at her palms. There’s a lure. A pulse they send to her mind. It only takes the slightest thought of fire and her focus to ignite the flame in her palms. She flinches, expecting to be burning out of pure human instinct. But there is no burn, no sting. Just a surge in her veins. Her blood heats, and she’s warmed. Her hands feel strong, powerful.
“Magic.” Brega cocks her head. It’s a familiar feeling. She didn’t realize until now, but it’s the same feeling she felt leaving Marduth. The magic of Kahzacore must have revealed its power, but not its presence within her. “Magic.” Saying it will make it easier, right? By saying it…she’s no longer denying it. “I…” She takes a breath. “I have magic.”
“Well, the basics, at least.”
In her fright, the flames diminish rapidly. Brega looks up to see Revera standing there, the crimson smile haunting against the white and black background. She’s frozen again, unable to move.
“It always starts the same. Fire, earth, water, air. The basic elements of magic and the physical world. Magic is the most powerful force of the physical world.” She tilts her head. “I wonder what that makes me?” She smirks.
“I was lured here by your discovery, magicians are always attracted to other magicians whose gifts are freshly uncovered. There are so few of us.”
Brega shakes. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“No one ever does. It chooses you.” She sighs, almost disappointed. “I’m surprised, out of everyone in the world, that it chose you. The Rohidian Queen, pathetic, desperate to live up to her mother’s reputation, all the while calling her father a coward and her brother a forsaker. Did I mention pathetic?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good.” She puts a hand on her hip. She wears no coat, no gloves. She looks cold, but not because of the weather. Revera is cold inside and out. “You have a gift. You should let me help you improve upon it.”
“I’d rather die.”
“And die you shall. But not for a long time. Because that magic within you will lure you. It will eat away at you until you cannot ignore it. You will give in. If you don’t have a proper grip on it, you’ll become more powerful than you can handle, and you will destroy yourself and those around you.”
“Haven’t you done that enough for the both of us? Plus, oh, I don’t know, a billion others?”
“Yes.”
Brega could punch her. “I won’t give in.”
“You already have, sweetheart.”
Brega bites her lip hard. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” The crack in her voice suggests otherwise. And by the spark in Revera’s eyes, she’s clearly noticed too.
“You felt the power. When the fire warmed your body, you felt it. Even before you lit the spark within, you sensed the lure the magic has. It wants you to use it. It needs you to use it.”
“It wants me to give in to it?” She never thought her own body would want her to ruin herself. But then, the magic is only in her body. Could I get it out?
“No.”
Of course, she was listening.
“If you are born to have it—and everyone who does, is—then you will have it until you die. There is no way around it.” She kneels down, eye-level with Brega. “But you can give in to it. And once you give in, you will never want to be the weakling you once were.”
Brega’s eyes narrow. “I’ll ignore that.”
Revera smirks.
Brega sighs. “But if I give in, I’ll end up like you, Crozacar—everyone who has ever used magic in history. I’ll end up the devil.”
“I’ll ignore that,” Revera quips. “Magic isn’t the devil. It’s what we use our magic for.”
Brega shakes her head. “But I don’t believe that. Weren’t you normal once?”
Revera looks at her for a moment, silent, staring. When she straightens, a new fire is in her cold eyes. “Maybe I don’t believe that.”
“I can’t help what you believe. But I know people aren’t born evil. Something must have happened to you.”
Revera’s nose twitches, anger seeming to flood her very soul.
Brega’s brow pleats when she sees a glisten in the sorceress’ eyes. Tears? But Revera doesn’t let them fall.
“You have no idea what happened to me. And you don’t want to know.” She starts walking away, but Brega bounds to her feet, not done with her yet.
“Why? What’s so bad about learning why you’re a demon?”
Revera stops, looking back at her, eyes thin. “Because you might feel bad for me.”
Brega
could retort. She could say nothing could ever make her feel bad for her. But she realizes if she were to feel some compassion for her…well… Does pity thaw the freeze that keeps enemies adversaries? Brega can’t afford it to, so she doesn’t say anything.
The sorceress huffs. “I once felt the same. But then he told me what history ignored, and I pitied him. Then I used him.”
“Who?”
“Karak.”
Brega’s jaw tightens. “He was normal?” She can’t believe that.
“Once upon a time.”
“And you didn’t think he might be lying?”
“Oh, I definitely did. But I had nowhere else to go, so I stayed with him. I didn’t want to, I knew what a monster he was. When I finally got powerful enough, I snooped into the Last Lieutenant’s head and I saw something amazing.”
Caution fills Brega’s chest. “What did you see?”
Revera smiles softly, a different smile to her former devil’s grin. It’s hopeful, almost. “Myself. I saw a hopeless child, a sad one. Someone without a family. I saw him weak.” She breathes in. “And then I saw the strength. He became strong, even with the tragedy he had faced. I knew, then, that I would be all right. I could be strong too. And I am. I am strong. The strongest sorceress since the Second Darkness herself. I’m more powerful than Crozacar. At least when I want to be.”
Brega’s eyes widen, but Revera continues, “I’m not that scared girl anymore, Your Highness. I’ve surpassed. I’m beyond my past now.”
“No, you’re not.”
Revera’s brow furrows. “What?”
“You aren’t beyond your past. You’re stuck in it. You’re consumed, Revera. Consumed with whatever happened to you. Revenge. This is revenge.”
Revera’s hand lunges at her throat, and smashes Brega against the rock. “This is so much more than revenge. I am not that petty a creature.”