by R. M Garino
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The Return
Fel seated himself on one of the cushions facing the fire pit, crossing his legs underneath him. A fire had been set in the middle of the circle; the tinder was dry to the touch, and the wood well-seasoned. Fel cleared his mind of questions, and inhaled deeply through his nose. He exhaled through his mouth, and breathed deeply again. He extended a long slumbering part of himself toward the fuel. The kindling smoldered, and then combusted. He did not wonder at what he had done; he was not surprised in the least. This was a part of him, and always had been.
He refocused on his breathing now that the fire was lit. He was aware of the torches sputtering and winking out as if of their own accord, but he paid them no mind. All that mattered was his breathing. He was out of practice, but his body remembered the required motions. His mind, however, was more persistent in resisting his control. Random thoughts floated through his awareness. The laugh of his wife, the flicker of the candle as she darned stockings in her chair by the fire, her warmth as she lay beneath him at night, the smell of fresh cut hay, the playful laughter of his adopted sons. The list was endless. Fel stopped fighting it, and let it continue uninterrupted. He did not linger on any one image, but rather let them roll over him.
His mind stilled, and he floated in darkness.
Physical sensations nibbled at the edges of his awareness, but he ignored these as well. An itch on the sole of his foot, a hair tickling the side of his cheek, a trickle of sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. He pushed them all aside without conscious thought. Decades upon decades of practice made certain reactions automatic even after years of disuse. His breathing was even, slow and deep, taking as much time to exhale as to inhale, a pause of equal length between each action.
He was detached.
He was almost at peace.
Peace was a sensation that had often eluded him. He had been content as he played the role of Fel among the Extipana. But he had never truly been at peace. Perhaps it was his nature, or perhaps it was the cruel confines of eternal imprisonment. Perhaps it was his fate.
The thought, unbidden and freely associated, made his breath pause as he inhaled. Eternity was not a friend to him. The years piled on top of one another, blending into a long series of successive moments, and indeed, disappointments. And still he stayed the same, static and preserved, never changing. Deeper, older memories floated to the surface of his mind to intermingle with those of his more recent past. It was this past that formed the thick, heavy chain that weighted down his soul. Such was the penalty for immortality, each year forged a new link that pressed down upon him.
His memories from the time before he was Fel were returning to him. This was why he had come here. His time as Fel of the Extipana had expired. He had sensed this, and it was the cause of his growing discontentment. This role had been longer than some and shorter than many, but it was time to cast it aside. He allowed a moment of grief to swell within as he thought of his wife, alone in the house he would never return to. He accepted the grief, welcomed it, tasted it in its fullness, and let it pass on. She was still young enough to wed again and find happiness with another. She would not be alone for long. That was his burden to bear.
Why had it been so short this time? He had crafted a good life for himself, though he made it a habit of denying himself his usual pursuits and indulgences. The answer that presented itself was sublime in its weakness: he did not wish to bury another wife. That had happened far too often, and he had lost the strength for it. The tragedy of human existence, he mused, was how brief it was, and how abrupt it was when it ended. The Extipana were luckier than some of the other humans he had lived with, for they were reborn. A smirk of pride spread across his face. The Extipana were indeed progressing better than he had hoped. At first their rebirth was a sporadic thing, given to all the vulgarities of chance. But the intervening millennia had perfected his design. Now, they were a wonder to behold, and ready to ascend to the next level.
The man who once called himself Fel descended back into his body. The name brought forth a chuckle. Odd that he had chosen that name. It was, of course, a corruption of the name his mother’s family held so long ago. Fel’Mekrin did not sound at all like the name of an Extipana, so he had shortened it to suit his purpose. He had not thought of the poor female that had birthed him for some time, centuries at least. He was glad, however, that he had remembered her, even if it was a subconscious action.
He opened his eyes. Their color had changed, from a deep brown to a deep blue with golden highlights around the irises. The effects of his transformation were complete, and he no longer resembled the human he’d once pretended to be. No human would confuse him as one of their own now. He was closer to the Lethen’al, or the E’ine, but he was, of course, neither. He was something more, something different.
He was Rastef Rhom De’Veldrin, the son of the Apostate Tarek.
And he had returned.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
To Wander Again
How many lifetimes, Rastef wondered? He stood in a portion of the cavern he had opened just that morning. Convincing the energies of the rock to move aside, he had created yet another chamber connected to the central cavern. Now, he stood inscribing his thoughts and memories onto the wall. His talents and abilities were many, and the exertion had not been taxing in the slightest. It had required little more than seizing control of the mountain’s sin’del and forcing it to behave the way he wished it to.
A small globe of light hovered above his left shoulder illuminating his work surface. It was a variation of the soul lights the human Sharakeen Mages used, though he had modified the design to suit his needs. There was much to its construction that lent itself to his inclinations: The simplicity of the design, the flawlessness of its function, and the ritual murder which had seized the soul whose energy powered the vessel. The light itself was soft and steady, mimicking many of the qualities of sunlight. As such, it provided the perfect source by which to work.
His finger traced a pattern on the rock face, and the stone bled away beneath his flesh to reveal the inscribed symbol. He connected the symbol to the next, the flowing script appearing as his finger passed.
This was the work of his lifetime, he mused. It was, in fact, the testimony of his many lifetimes. Inscribed here on these walls was the collection of his memories from all the different lives he’d lived. It was as detailed an account as he was capable of, capturing all the sensations, emotions, and occurrences he had lived through. Here was the record of his friends and family, his accomplishments and failures. Recording his time as Fel of Mejir was a painful process, but he allowed the emotions to flow through him with free abandon. He needed to grieve. Fel had been one of his more fulfilling lifetimes, short though it had been. There was nothing in his time there that he was ashamed of, nothing he could berate himself for. He had lived a simple life, but an honest one. He could not say that about most of his various incarnations. Fel’s simplicity had a heroic grandeur that appealed to him. There was a tremendous reward for such a virtuous existence. It really was a shame that he could not stomach it for more than a few decades. A fault within his nature, maybe, or a learned disposition. Either way, the people and events deserved careful attention to detail. They had brought him a degree of happiness, and he was sincere in his hope that he had done the same in return.
Rastef put the final flourish on the final symbol, and stepped back to examine his work. The story of Fel took up a good deal of space, and had taken several months to complete. But he was glad he’d given it such a prominent position. The script was broken by intricate bas-relief carvings depicting his wife and adopted children. Any human who saw them would be amazed at how he’d made stone appear as figures in repose and play. To him they were only pale reflections of the reality, yet he still ran the backs of his fingers over their faces in a gentle caress. This would be a special corridor for many years to come.
He extinguished the soul lam
p as he exited the chamber. The muted flicker of torchlight was more suiting to his mood than the brightness of day. Now that the task was done, that the memory was secured and etched in stone for all time, he felt he’d put it behind him. They would haunt him for a while yet, but he had paid his final respects. It was time to move on to new business, to new works that required his attention. He had been idle far too long.
He walked with a firm, determined tread through the hallways of stone, past the vast collections of books, scrolls, and artifacts from civilizations long since crumbled to dust and forgotten. The passage led to his workroom, a large cavern dominated by an enormous table. Detailed maps, most of them drawn using his own skills with pen and ink, covered the walls. They were more complete than any others in existence, for Rastef was meticulous. The world was his prison, and he’d kept detailed notes of all his travels. His latest edition, a detailed survey of the Extipana village of Mejir and the surrounding forests, held a place of prominence amid the assemblage. He had spent an inordinate amount of time wandering and exploring that particular area in the last twenty years.
A black leather-bound book, perhaps a foot thick, rested in the center of the table. He unhooked the clasps that held it fast, and folded back the cover. The crystals the E’ine and Lethen’al used to store information were far more efficient than the primitive method of writing in the book, but the process layered the information with an echo of the emotion and a residue of memory affixed to it. There was much he would like to forget, and he’d no desire to traipse back over the repressed landscape of his mind.
He scanned the contents listed, searching for his most recent projects. He flipped pages with an idle and uninspired lethargy.
No, he was not interested in the hunt for the Temple of Morning. Let his father stay damned and rot in his prison. He wanted nothing to do with the old tyrant. Besides, he was still feeling the ripple effects from his destruction of the Temple of Night millennia before. One guardian hunting him was enough for now.
And no, the Extipana were progressing, so there was no need to check in on them.
No, he was not in the mood to manipulate the financial markets.
No, the dynastic ambitions of Porth held little appeal to him.
Nor did the political machinations of Pather’an, Aers, Ter Manzel, or Er’ast. He had no desire to visit the latter land most of all. There was more trouble there than he wanted to deal with right now.
He could enroll in one of the human Great Schools, but that would require subsuming himself in another role. It was far too soon for that.
No, no, no, no . . . no.
Rastef slammed the book closed and walked away. His heart was not in it today. Nothing held an appeal for him. He needed something new, something fresh. The problem with immortality, he reflected, was the absolute, unending boredom that consumed him. What was the point of living if there was no excitement?
It was time then to cast his fate to the winds and see what he could find.
It was time for the son of the Apostate to wander the world again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
A Clasped Hand
The weeks passed in a steady rhythm of enforced routine as winter deepened and meandered toward spring. The Feast of Night, the longest night of the year and the largest celebration in the Lethen’al calendar, came and went. The next batch of potential yearlings entered the Gates for the annual hunt, and returned with their grizzly trophies.
As Angus and Arielle’s potential continued to increase, they wondered at the wisdom their parents displayed. The life of an unaffiliated graduate kept them apart more often than they would like. The growing bond was often obvious for those who knew to look for it. Soon, it would be plain for all to see.
Several Magi had taken residence at the Gates, under the pretense of refreshing their martial training. In reality, Angus believed, they were put in position by his mother to study them. Thenaria also made frequent appearances, seeking them out for no other reason than to share a meal. Oftentimes, she just watched them from afar, taking a position on a balcony while they ran through their exercises.
They had some time to spend together at their leisure. Dugal had been true to his word, and their personal time was more appropriate to that earned by their tenure at the Gates. The simple pleasure of an uninterrupted meal, a walk through the complex, or time together “reading” in her apartments had become a more open affair. They could practice the Vol or the forms with their weapons; Arielle helped him perfect his technique, while Angus, in turn, showed her how to memorize impossibly long sections of text, and how to separate her mind as the Magi did when pondering a problem.
Their friends were more of a nuisance than a true problem. Most of them had accepted their relationship and helped enable their time together. Indeed, some were more than eager to unite the two groups. Demona often found reasons to accompany Angus, for his own protection she assured him, when he went to meet Arielle by the Fel’Mekrin barracks. Gwendolyn and Denuelle often accompanied Arielle when the meeting place was by the Kal’Parev barracks.
And then there was Ba’ril. To say that he disapproved of the time they spent together would be to understate his position. Of late, he had grown surly and argumentative, picking quarrels with Arielle over the merest slight. He still did not speak to Angus, even in passing. At least, Arielle reflected, he was no longer hurling insults at him.
It was Caradoc who had stopped that.
The bite of snow and ice still clung to the world with a tenacity that bordered on cruel. In an attempt to make up for the disastrous introduction during Conclave, Arielle had tried to find ways to include Angus and his friends in their free time activities. Gwen was content with the arrangement, as was Denuelle. Nessah and the boys, however, remained aloof. Three days before, Ba’ril had almost declared a blood feud with the Third when an argument he and Ossian had digressed into blows. Angus had waited a judicious amount of time for all parties to cool their tempers, before he intercepted the Twelfth as they approached the river Miu for a bracing round of underwater combat practice.
Her friends crested the rise to find him standing beside one of the great pine trees that bordered the mud flats. Arielle could not help but smile. She was surprised to see him standing out in the open. His usual tactic was to merge with the environment and appear out of nowhere. Given the current mood, his sudden appearance would not lead to the best of outcomes.
“Wonderful!” Ba’ril announced his displeasure when he saw Angus. “So much for a peaceful outing.”
“Mind your manners,” Gwen snapped at him. “We’re none of us happy to see him, but what is, is.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arielle said, not bothering to hide her exasperation with them all. “And this definitely is.”
She stalked out ahead, angling toward the tree he stood under. “Am I interrupting?” she said.
Angus’ face was alight with his habitual grin, one-sided and mischievous. “Nope. He patted the bole of the tree. “Just talking to an old friend. Did you know that this tree right here porcupined me more often than any other? Good times.”
“You might be first tier, sweetie, but you may find yourself renewing your acquaintance,” Arielle said. “Fel’Mekrin is still itching for a reason after you all laid out the Fifth.”
“Nah,” he said, watching the rest of the Twelfth walk past, shooting him surly glares. “It’s just your squad who’s holding a grudge. Everyone else wants to keep their head on their shoulders.”
“Now you’re making me want to porcupine you.”
“Promise?”
“Do you practice being an insufferable beast?”
“What else is one to do while weeding? I tell you, I most definitely do not want to be a farmer.”
“So,” she said, “to what do I owe the pleasure? You are supposed to be in the fields.”
“I’m playing hooky,” he said, pushing away from the tree and giving her a quick kiss. “Figured I try and make some peac
e while I still can.”
“Probably not the best idea right now,” Arielle said, grabbing his elbow to stop him moving. “Ba’ril is still nursing a grudge. Nessah, Dairen, and Caradoc are no better. Leave it be for now.”
“Trust me,” Angus said with a wink. “I’ve got an idea I’m sure will work.”
“Oh no. Please don’t.”
“What? You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“I can hear you when I concentrate, remember?” Arielle said. “A hurlin’ match will not, I repeat not, help. You want to give them sticks and have them smashing against the Third over a ball? Are you crazy?”
“It’s a hurley, not a stick, and it’s a sli’otar, not a ball. Get the terms right, or Darien will never let you live it down.”
“My point still stands, regardless of what you call the fecking things. It’s a bad idea.”
“There’s nothing like a friendly match on the hurlin’ pitch to put things right,” Angus said. “Honestly, it’s a time-honored tradition. Two groups rough each other up a bit, and then beers all around. No better way to make friends.”
“And you want them all drunk,” Arielle said, in disbelief. “You really are trying to get someone killed, aren’t you?”
“They’ll have fun. They’ll smack each other’s heads around a bit, and afterward they’ll be thick as thieves.”