by R. M Garino
CHAPTER ONE
Arrival
The Patresilen: Autumn
304 years earlier
Arielle Rhen’val stopped and stared in awe as her platoon crested the rise amid the swirl of orange and golden leaves that played about their feet. The entrance to the fortress was open, allowing them their first view inside.
The Gates of Golorath loomed before them, set tall and imposing in the ragged outcrops of granite. The red stone was layered with tan striations, creating a shadowed effect which augmented the gloaming, and softened the contrast between the natural surface and carved façade. The Gates were not a natural formation, but neither were they hewn from rock. This was the portal into the land of the Lethen’al, and as such, it was an archway grown from the mountain without seam or division. High above the cloud layer they sat silent, proud, and brooding throughout the eons. The freestanding empty arch did not quite meet in the middle, but rather rose at an oblique angle like a pair of sharp-edged teeth. It nevertheless exuded a sense of finality that was hard to ignore, for this was the edge of the world.
Here, outside the fortification, the walls were carved in an intricate design of leaves and vines, interwoven and interconnected. Within the folds of the vines was told the story of her people, the scenes standing out in sharp bas-relief. From this distance, standing just beneath the entrance, she could see the rise of the Apostate, the Lo’ademn-Lord Tarek, and the devastation he wrought against her kind.
Her gaze returned to the Gates standing proud on the citadel’s parade field. The mountain continued upward behind it, and unabated on either side, cresting in summits that were glowing golden in the setting sun. She could not wait to unpack her paints and capture this image on a canvas.
A cold, leaf laden wind threw itself against the mountain and through the open arch, only to be thrust aside by the indomitable will of the stone. The swirl of eddies formed stray gusts that battered her companions from every side. Her platoon stood high above the valley floor, and the cold of the altitude had sharp, biting teeth. She reminded herself to move, to keep in step as they continued toward the Gates.
Elsewhere the forests were encouraged to grow deep and dark, but here they had been cleared away in order to keep the stronghold’s sight lines clear. Between the forest and the fortress walls sat covered gardens and small orchards in ordered rows. Pens for sheep, pigs, goats, and cows were interspersed throughout. Cultivated vines climbed terraced tiers. Squat, low-lying glass buildings, barely a meter above the ground, encased other crops, and massive barns were built against the mountain wall.
A single, slanted-roof building, the edges of the eves curling back upward, stood by itself in the middle of the grounds. That, Arielle said to herself, has to be the infirmary.
At the center of the complex was a large parade field, as well as obstacle courses and fighting pits. Arielle had spent years training on such equipment, and the familiar spaces brought a sense of relief, a touch of the known to the strange world she was entering.
As their steps drew them closer, she could make out the towering shapes of structures cut into the mountainside on either side of the Gates. Soaring doorways, with intricately carved lintels, and deep set windows were visible even from this distance. Pillars framed the doors, creating wide covered cloisters that undercut the rock face by several yards.
Check out the House Barracks, Ba’ril, one of the teammates, telepathically sent to her and the rest of the squad, unable to mask his excitement. His long black hair was pulled back in a bun at the back of his head, accentuating the points of his ears indicative of the Lethen’al.
That has to be House Fel’Mekrin, another graduate, Nessah, said, sending along an awed impression of the largest and most ornate structure.
Indeed, it is, Gwen sent back. Home sweet home, folks.
So that’s Mer’Chien next to it? Denuelle sent, mentally pointing to the smaller structure off to the side as she continued to march.
Yes, Gwen said, her pride evident in her thoughts. Le’Manon and Kal’Parev keep to their side, across the parade field.
Why are there no Rhen’val barracks? Nessah sent.
We’re too small, Arielle sent. We don’t need barracks of our own.
Yeah, but still, Denuelle sent. The Great Houses get barracks, but the Noble House doesn’t? That doesn’t sound right.
Life’s not fair. Gwen hitched her pack higher up on her shoulders.
That has to be the Ledge, Darien sent. His dark hair was worn short, shorn close to his scalp, giving his rounded features a more pronounced effect.
A vertical platform loomed high above the arch of the Gates connecting two separate cliff faces. Tiny figures could be seen walking across it in sporadic intervals.
Note the covered archer platforms, Ba’ril added, and the stairs cut into the rock.
Today was their first day at the Gates; the first day of what promised to be the start of a very difficult, if dull and uneventful tour. Her platoon comprised three squads, all of them were new graduates from the Areth’kon, the martial school all her people attended. They called the soldiers “the Blades”, and the Areth’kon was the Gathering of the Blades. Tradition dictated that they spend a segment of time in isolation, here in the most desolate part of the realm, to contemplate their future. After today, this group would disperse into its three components and be at odds, competing against each other for top rankings in the tiers. Here they would perfect the skills they had learned, and harden their discipline, but it was doubtful she would gain any experience in unsupervised combat.
They say it hasn’t been opened for seven thousand years, Caradoc sent, his sense of wonder clear.
Nonsense, Gwen said. They open a sally port twice a year. They need to let the Yearlings test their mettle outside the walls. How else are they going to choose the next batch of Elc’atar?
I thought there were no native creatures living in the Pass beyond the Gates, Denuelle sent.
There’s not, Arielle told her. It’s a place of sadness. The Magi made it that way so no one enters. Nothing can stay there. It’s said that not even the hordes of the Apostate can break through to the Gates.
So, why do the Yearlings go out if there’s nothing to fight? Nessah sent.
There’s plenty to fight, Gwen sent. They just have to go out beyond the pass to do so.
They leave the pass? Nessah sent. They enter the human lands?
Not really, Arielle sent. They keep to the forest of Aklediem. It’s so thick with shrulks that humans never enter.
Thought you wanted to become Elc’atar, Ness, Gwen teased. Didn’t you pay attention?
Members of the other squads already stationed here, one of which her own was replacing, appeared as they marched. Some waved, some cheered, while others watched with distant, somber expressions. Most just returned to whatever it was they were doing prior to the platoon’s arrival. Work needed to be done, tasks performed, duties fulfilled, and steam let off. Apparently, fresh-minted graduates were nothing new here. Much to the delight of the new arrivals, two squads were embroiled in a Hurlin’ match in a far corner of the field. The shouts and cheers floated across the intervening distance arriving small and insignificant as the two teams fought to move the small ball into the opposing net using their curved sticks.
Glad I brought my hurley, Darien sent, arching his neck to keep the match in view.
Creft mentioned that another company arrived several days ago, Gwen sent after nudging Darien back to focus. Another should be coming soon after us.
I heard one group is coming from Reven Marthal, and not the Vaults like everyone else. Ba’ril sent.
Look, Denuelle called to them all. Lo’el!
Large creatures, resembling wolves in all but their tremendous size, walked beside some of the Lethen’al, while others had a Blade riding upon their backs. Arielle was thrilled to see them, and had to depress her excitement that soon she too would be able to choose a companion. If, she reminded herself, she wa
s found worthy.
Arielle’s platoon remained in formation, as they had for the past eight days during their trek across the valley. They stepped as one unit, staring straight ahead, and when the order came to halt, froze in place and waited.
“At ease!” came the barked command they’d been awaiting.
In time with her companions, Arielle shrugged off her pack and swung it to the ground before her. Every one of them took a step to the left and clasped their hands behind their backs, settling into their parade rest stance. And then, they waited. Creft, a pledged Blade and their commanding officer, walked up and down the lines inspecting their posture.
This was their first appearance as graduates to the larger Areth’kon community. The way they were viewed after the grueling journey would establish their reputations, both collectively and individually.
It’s official, Gwen sent. Eight days for the march from the Vaults.
Only took Logan four, Ba’ril sent.
Shane took nine, Arielle sent, allowing her pride and pleasure to shine forth.
I heard a company took twelve, Caradoc sent. Last year, I think.
Wouldn’t want to be them, Darien said. Could you imagine having that hung around your neck on first night?
Eight is respectable, Arielle told them all. I’ll take it.
A stray gust of wind moved a strand of her silver hair free of the severe ponytail she wore, and she tucked it behind the elongated point of her ear.
From one of the doors walked a Blade, his form long and lean, and his gait purposeful. The sides of his head were shaved to the skin, and the center tuft of dark hair was braided and hung over his left shoulder. A large swirling design was tattooed across his right side, with pointed barbs climbing across his face and neck. Several bone fragments pierced both of his pointed ears.
Elc’atar Guard. Ba’ril warned them of the approaching Blademaster. Twelve o’clock.
Check out his sin’del, Darien sent, referring to the aura of energy that emanated from him. Arielle had already taken note. She did not need to see the way the colors drifted and swirled together, indicating a capability for sudden and drastic carnage.
Arielle’s hazel eyes flicked back to the bas-relief on the Gates. One image in particular caught her attention: El’Cain and his guards holding the mouth of Golan’s Pass while the rest of the race fled through the mountains toward safety.
Arielle stood a little straighter, her chin lifted a little higher.
“Attention!” Creft barked as the officer drew near. As one, the graduates squared their feet and shoulders, arms at their sides. All silent communication ceased at the command.
He stopped in front of Creft, the newcomer seeming to loom above their commanding officer.
“Sir!” Creft said, his voice pitched to project, but not so forceful as before. “Squads Twelve, Five, and Nine reporting for duty. Sir!”
“Eight days,” he stated, his scrutinizing the assembled company.
“Sir, yes, sir!” Creft said, although he had not been asked a question.
The officer continued his appraisal. He lingered a moment on Arielle, although she ignored the raised eyebrow that followed.
“Very well, XO, stand down,” he said. The commanding officer slapped his arms across his chest and bowed in salute. He straightened and stepped to the side, relieved of his duty.
“I am Trenton,” he said, his tone harsh, his voice thick and gruff. “Welcome to my Gate. I say it is mine, because I am charged with making sure it continues to stand. Make no mistake: though it may cost me every one of your miserable fecking lives to ensure it, my Gate will continue to stand.”
Not an Elc’atar, Arielle realized. He was Mala’kar, a Bladeless Master.
His thumbs were hooked behind his belt, and he moved with an arrogant swagger. He wore no weapon. He squinted into each of the twenty-one faces as he spoke, committing each to memory, his expressionless stare seeming to glower nonetheless.
“The tour,” he said, “is long. It will appear longer if your discipline is weak, or if you forget what you should have learned. We are self-sufficient, and each of you will take turns doing your share. Do your work, follow orders.”
He stopped before Arielle.
“There will be no special treatment. You are defined by your actions, not those of your family. You earn your own honor here.”
He continued onward, and Arielle allowed herself to swallow. There was no doubt in her mind that his words were specifically meant for her. Mother’s family would not help her here; Father’s name would not help her, nor would Shane’s or Logan’s. Here, she would be forced to create her own name. Her pulse and sin’del quickened at the thought. This was what she had waited a lifetime for: to step out from beneath the shadows of her family, and carve a place for herself in the world.
“Your tasks,” Trenton said, “will help you decide what your future will hold. Some of you will return to your families when the tour is done. Some will wash out before that. Some of you will decide to stay. Some may even elect to seek entry into the Elc’atar Guard. Your time at the Gates will wash away all your illusions and reveal who, and what, you truly are.”
Trenton stepped away from the platoon.
“Right face!” he barked, and twenty bodies moved in unison to the command.
“The first exhibit of your education,” he said, indicating the formation that had been hidden from their view as they entered the field.
A large, flat outcrop of granite jutted from the base of the cliff. Atop the rock stood a young graduate, swaying from side to side. He was shackled, the heavy chain leading down to the rock. His long, white hair was tangled and covered large swaths of his face. Dark, angry bruises peeked out from beneath the falls of hair, decorating his countenance. Arielle’s eyes widened. As if aware of their scrutiny, he straightened as far as the chains would allow, his broad shoulders as squared as he could make them.
Trenton watched him a moment, then returned his glower to the garrison. “If you forget your place here, you will be reminded.”
As he continued, explaining the importance of adhering to schedules, the graduate on the rock threw his head back, his disheveled white hair clearing his visage. Trenton’s words rolled over Arielle as she watched the prisoner, her being magnified at the sight of him. The mischievous smirk on the prisoner’s face froze in formation as he caught sight of Arielle. His sin’del increased in a brilliant display of light.
She felt her sense of self swell, lift out and beyond the bounds of what she knew. Her sin’del also expanded, seeming to raise her off her feet. Her hazel-eyed gaze latched onto his gray-blue eyes, and across the distance of the field she felt herself reach out to him. His face tugged the edges of her memory, pulled at the long forgotten shards she had pushed to the side.
Trenton’s face intruded into her line of sight, his nose pressed against hers. Arielle jumped back in surprise, but regained her composure with efficient discipline. Why was everyone facing the wrong way?
“Would you care to join graduate Kal’Parev on the stockade, Rhen’val?” Trenton said. His whispered voice was soft, low, intimate, but far more menacing than a shout.
“Sir, no sir,” Arielle said, her gaze locked to a position above his head after darting a quick glance at the rock.
“Then I suggest you turn with the rest of your platoon, and stop making lights at the prisoner.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Arielle executed a sharp pirouette the moment he finished speaking. She made sure to keep her gaze locked to the back of the head before her in line. Her cheeks blazing with embarrassment, her sin’del contracted tight against her, she could feel the laughter and scorn radiating from the company. Some were smiling, others turning to peek. From the six other members of her squad she sensed concern, surprise, and indignation. Twenty had turned in perfect unison, and she had stood gaping at the boy on the rock.
“Graduates get the first night to rest, write home, and acclimatize to the height,” T
renton said, his voice returned to its natural cadence of contemptuous scorn. “Graduate Rhen’val, however, needs to be reminded where she fecking is, and what is expected of her. The march seems to have made her forget her basic training of company mechanics. She will spend her first night on the Ledge to ponder what she has forgotten.”
Trenton paused, his glare sweeping over the company. “Have I made myself clear?”
The garrison responded with a choral shout of, “Sir, yes sir!”
“Creft, show them to their quarters,” Trenton said. “Rhen’val, you have ten minutes to stow your gear. Report to Kolsch on the Ledge at the top of the hour. Welcome to the Gates, scrubs. Dismissed.”
The company broke formation and grouped themselves by squad to head toward Creft. Arielle hefted her pack. She was aware of the puzzled and amused glances her cohort cast her way, and the questions they sent. She was also conscious of the boy on the rock, and her pulse raced with the knowledge. She forced herself to square her shoulders against the collective scrutiny.
The Ledge? Nessah sent, unable to believe the words she spoke. That’s the worst possible assignment, isn’t it?
And on first night, Denuelle sent, echoing and enhancing the pull that had formed at the bottom of Arielle’s stomach.
So much for celebrating our arrival, Ba’ril sent. Thanks, Arielle. We just get here and you blow first night.
I’m not on the Ledge, Darien sent. Damned well better believe I’ll be celebrating. No offense, Arielle.
None taken, she sent without emotion. Eight days is a respectable time. You have every reason to celebrate.
For forty years they’d heard the stories of first night. How other cohorts would come to their quarters to meet and celebrate with them, forging the bonds that would define their careers for years to come. Letters would be written home, presenting their thoughts and first impressions of the Gates. And finally, exhausted from the forced march through the valley, the excitement of arrival, and the frenzied friend-making, a warm cot and twelve hours of sleep.