The way he had said Falco. Respect, with a note of fondness. He then leaned back in his seat. Cayne cleared her throat and took the floor. She might as well tell the same story she had told Jules when he himself had arrived here.
“Bravoure is not the same you remember. We’ve become a nation built for war,” she said. She did not start with easy news. “From what Jules told me when we first met, it is much different than when you left it.” Ahna gave her an ample nod of confirmation, and Cayne continued. “Shortly after the Rule of Sharr, well, according to history books, that is, there was an elected Regent. Goshawk...” Cayne had to think for a second.
“Charles Goshawk, the banker,” Ahna completed, distantly, remembering this toxic man who had wanted to rule Bravoure.
Cayne confirmed. “Goshawk thought himself more of a monarch than a regent. When the reform of the Congregation happened, Goshawk gave himself the title of Monarch of Bravoure.”
The reform? Ahna’s inquisitive eyes spurred Cayne to explain more.
“When Astea the Wise died,” she began again. “The Red Cardinals, probably in bed with Goshawk somehow, decided it’d be best if they took over, and not coronate a new Mother Divine. Then, shit literally went down.” Cayne paused, seemingly appalled by what she was about to say. Her copper eyes were flaming. She took a deep, angered breath. “Goshawk came up with the idea that a dokkalfar cleansing was the solution to Bravoure’s problem.”
A jolt of dread caught Ahna by the neck. Her stomach churned on itself, and Cayne looked at her with sorry eyes. First, the realization that she could never go back to the past was heartbreaking. Not that she had thought about it—after hearing of this new Bravoure, Ahna could not help but feel compelled to do something. But the idea had been there in the back of her mind. Maybe she could go back and make sure this never happened. Because, a dokkalfar cleansing, what did that mean? The elf dared not think about the implications of such an idea.
Cayne swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “They were butchered in the streets. Those who barely survived were sent down to the camps or sold as slaves. Some, the lucky ones, managed to return to the Dwellunder. After that, having no more scapegoats on which to blame the oppression, Goshawk went for the people, those who disagreed with the new regime.”
Ahna’s eyes turned to glass. She stared the void down. Anger began to boil in her blood. She felt it. A burning flare that climbed down the veins of her left arm. An ancient flow of energy. Her hand was about to burst. Her magic was gone, but one power still remained anchored in her bones. The power of the Arc of Light, ready to erupt. She needed to calm down, or she would blow this whole place to rubble.
“After Goshawk, the next monarch was elected,” Cayne said, pursuing her revelations. “And the next one. Though, you really cannot call our system a democracy when only one party dominates. No one dared to oppose, so the terror never stopped.”
Screw politics. Ahna listened no more. “All dokkalfar?” she asked, still ensnared by the Goshawk’s cleansing of her kin. She then veered her purple eyes to Cayne. “Thamias? My brother?”
Cayne was unsure if she had heard of Ahna’s brother before, but the elf did not give her a chance to ask for specifications.
“The Dragonborn?” Ahna raised, urgently.
Ah, now Cayne understood, but Jules was the one to immediately intervene to calm the elf’s distress. He knew of Thamias, or Sonny—this dokkalfar two-names tradition always had Jules confused. Most importantly, he knew where he was.
“Sonny still lives, Ahna,” Jules said. “He—”
“Have you seen him?” she interrupted. Her arm had begun to ache more. Something in her really wanted to explode.
“I haven’t seen him,” Jules confessed. “But with what I hear on the streets, he’s most probably in Sud.” His most probably was way too certain to be uncertain.
Ahna frowned. She shook her head rapidly, perplexed. “Sud? Why would he be in Sud?”
Jules and Cayne looked at each other. It seemed as though they struggled to tell Ahna the news of her little brother. But Jules finally mustered the courage to.
“You remember Sud’s Arena?” he asked the elf. Sure, she nodded, so he continued, this time in a more evident tone. “Well, look on billboards, and you’ll see the face of the Champion. A dokkalfar warrior with curled silver hair. Much like yours, Ahna. What men wouldn’t pay to get a chance at battling a dark elf...” Cynicism had gorged his words.
Ahna still shook her head.
“And...” Cayne began but hesitated.
“And there’s the fact...” Jules completed with pauses in between. “That the Arena...has...a....” He then closed his eyes and pursed his lips together before saying: “golden dragon.”
“What?” Ahna compulsively exclaimed. She frowned some more. All her features had sharpened. She was in a state of such shock that she could not say anything else.
Cayne, heeding Ahna’s silence, continued her story. “My grandfather told me stories of you people showing up. Scattered through time. It started with Iedrias Dallor, who became Dean of the rebuilt Magi Academy of Bravoure. They say he took the role in your name, Ahna. The magi refer to you as the Restorer in textbooks.”
Despite this news that should have consoled Ahna, she remained withdrawn. She had to force herself to focus back on Cayne’s words. The pain in her hand had lessened, but she definitely ached to know what in Hell her little brother was doing in the Arena of Sud. One hundred and eighty-nine years had passed for him. How had he gone through all these years, alone? What could he possibly have become? Thamias, the little brother she loved and protected with all her heart, had gone through decades, alone.
Ahna made the following decision: she would be heading to Sud, no matter if her kin was banned. No matter if they would kill her on the streets should she be discovered. She needed to find Thamias.
But first, there was something else she needed to know. Someone else’s fate. “What about Clarice, and Farooq?” she asked Cayne, avoiding his name. She wanted to know about the two young souls from her lunar journey. The one she really cared about was too difficult to mention.
“I’m not sure,” Cayne replied. “I know Iedrias’s daughter returned some time later, but I don’t know of any Farooq, I’m sorry.”
Ahna pursed her lips. She closed her eyes, remembering the young man’s joyous face. She planted her right elbow on the table in front of her and rested her forehead into her palm. She was exhausted.
“And what of the Academy?” Ahna questioned. “Shouldn’t the magi have done something to prevent all this?”
Cayne sighed. That was something she could not respond to. “The Academy always made it clear it never wished to mingle with politics.” Her words returned empty-handed, like she had nothing to give.
How typical. It did not even surprise Ahna one bit, after the whole escaping to Luna fiasco. Self-preserving idiots, they were. All of them. Ahna’s anger took the best of her. The Academy was supposed to be her pride. Why did it feel like her bane? They say they strive for the preservation of balance and knowledge, but most use that excuse to justify the fact that when there is a question of fight or flight, the Academy will choose the latter, or it will simply freeze.
“You seem to know a lot about history,” the elf distantly murmured to distract her growing rage.
Cayne smiled. “I come from a family of warriors and great magi. It is my duty to remember.” She then opened up a little more, in a softer voice. “When I became of age, I chose to stick to one name, Falco, to remind myself of my family’s honor and the honor of leading the Grand Resistance to victory.”
Ahna’s tears had returned. A drop of her sorrow swirled along her cheek. Jules noticed. He wanted to come closer to her, but she halted him with a motion of the hand. Cayne did not know what to say.
“You have her eyes,” Ahna told the woman with a copper gaze. “Kairen’s eyes...” She fell silent, then took a deep breath before addressing the tw
o again. “So, what is this place?” She raised her other hand in the air to point at the entire room.
Cayne had fallen silent from Ahna’s mention of Kairen Aquil, her foremother. She could feel through the elf’s words how dear she held the red-haired woman of legends.
She blinked a few times, then continued the speech. “The Academy was never really for me, being born without magic and all. I despised Bravoure. My grandfather told me the stories his grandfather had told him. The Resistance of legends, fighting for Bravoure’s glory. I couldn’t understand how we had gotten this far. Killing kin for revenge. Invading a land just to build better weapons and armor. I despised it all.”
Iskala, the land of nomads, annexed for blackiron. That was the land Cayne had referred to. Ahna kept on nodding as the woman spoke.
“Twelve Sols ago, I met with a band of lone rebels staged deep below Bravoure City. Together, we joined the nationwide guild of insurgents. The Wolf Pack. This place”—she pointed at the room—“is what we call the Wolf’s Den. This is where some of us meet.”
Ahna smiled. She looked to Cayne dearly, her purple eyes gleaming with recovered pride. Cayne, a rebel, just like her forefather and mother.
“Corax, the Great General, has gone mad. He wants to declare war on Galies,” Cayne delivered her final revelation. “And if he does, this means the end of Bravoure. Either Galies will run us to the ground, or our own people will out of anger and spite. The capital will blow from within. We have to put a stop to this. We’ve been plotting to take the Castle of Gold for years now, but we need the Wolf Pack to unite.” She paused for a crucial second. “Sadly, we’re not as unified as I’d hope.”
“And that’s why Cayne sent Luthan on a desperate mission...” Jules noted, clearly not in agreement with the woman.
But Ahna's breath had halted at the mention of Luthan. Now she could no longer avoid him.
“Luthan?” she checked, just to be sure.
Jules realized he should have mentioned this earlier. “Luthan’s been here for over ten years, Ahna.”
Shit.
Ahna leaned back in her chair. She needed to process that information. Ten. Years. How in Hell did he get through all of this? Her heart felt bloated and heavy. Had he tried to return? What had his part been in all of this? Had he tried to find her? After a brief moment of stillness and a thousand questions, Ahna turned to Cayne.
“What mission?” the elf asked.
Cayne passed a nervous hand through her wavy mane. “I didn’t exactly send him. There’s a tale some people have been telling for a couple of years now. Some kind of prophecy people have made up to cope. That Bravoure will be worthy once again when the True Ruler returns to the golden throne.” She seemed unconvinced herself, but Cayne still had this fiery determination in her eyes. “When Luthan learned of this, he was convinced he’d redeem himself that way.”
Ahna held her mouth open in surprise. Skip the redeem himself part, “Where did he go?”
Jules sighed. “He got this crazy idea in his head that he could find the Bravan King’s descendants.”
“But the Bravan King had no children,” Ahna said as she shook her head.
“Not that we know of, no," Jules retorted. "But Luthan wanted to try nonetheless.”
He then shrugged, absolutely clueless of what the tall elf was doing or where he even was right now.
“That’s why I told him to execute whatever his plan was,” Cayne conceded. “He said there was something in Fallvale that could help. I trust him. He's an archmage, after all. If he gets an idea, it's probably not a stupid one.”
Fallvale, Luthan’s home. The one that had banished him for his union with a dark elf. What was he thinking? He was an Archmage of Bravoure, yes, but going back there would not be easy for him. Ahna wished she could speak to him. Ten years he had been here. She had lost him for fifty, had found him again, and now, he was out of reach once more.
“And there is one additional problem,” Jules declared.
By the gods, now what?
He raised a warning finger into the air and breathed out, disinclined to say more. He and Cayne were looking at each other again. Ahna attempted to discern what they could possibly be thinking. Before he could say more, the shrike was interrupted by a short, auburn catling who had snuck up on him. Jules seized him by the waist and made him sit on his lap.
“Oh, Ahna,” he said with a big smile. “Meet Luky, our best sindur warrior!”
Luky mewed with contentment. That auburn fur...Ahna definitely recognized it.
“Is that...” She hesitated to ask.
“Yes,” Jules nodded. “Meet young Councilor Luk Ma!”
Ahna let out a loud chuckle. Her tears slowly faded for this brief moment of glee. Luk Ma, the great Resistance councilor, was sitting right at her table as a boy-lynx who held an iron dagger. How many lives had he lived since then? What crazy events had he gone through in all these years? He did not seem troubled by her presence at all, considering everything else.
“Luk Ma formed the Wolf Pack,” Cayne disclosed. “His eighth rebirth is right before you.”
An eighth rebirth. Ahna was so happy to see him, but a hint of sadness settled in her heart. An eighth rebirth meant this would be his last one. Still, she felt lucky—pun intended—to see him again.
“Cayne tells me I’ve always been a great warrior!” Luky exclaimed, fiercely brandishing his dagger at Jules, who laughed with the catling.
Ahna was charmed by this display of affection between the shrike and the little sindur. But Jules’s last mention of another problem retrieved her attention again.
“You were saying something about a problem?” she checked with the blond shrike.
Before Jules could speak, Luky joined in on the conversation.
“Yes! Jules means the problem in the west,” the catling said. “Where it’s always night, and the Restless walk.”
Ahna rounded her eyes. She instantly got a bad presentiment where this conversation was headed. Please, let it not be...
Jules noticed how all color had left Ahna’s face. “Yeah, a lot to take in, isn't it? Welcome to the future!” He smiled, but his smile was lifeless.
“For many years now,” Cayne proceeded to explain. “People have been disappearing from the towns and villages surrounding the Antaris Woods.” She paused for a few seconds. “And when they vanish, they return...changed. Dead, but not exactly dead.”
Jules pulled back the corner of his mouth. “Undead.”
“I’m sure the cultists have something to do with this,” Cayne assured.
Ahna did not flinch at the mention of cultists. She could not care less about yet another revelation from Cayne’s lips. Whoever those cultists were, whatever plot was happening in Bravoure, it could wait a moment. Jules even sighed at their mention, perhaps in disbelief. Ahna’s thoughts were already somewhere else.
Let it not be Cedric, she begged in her mind. That was the only thing she could think about. Let it not be the captain of the shrikes who had given his life for a rebellion. Let it not be the man she had lost. Let it not be the man she could not save.
3
Duty
A loud hum and the large limestone gate opened. Luthan inhaled deeply before stepping through. He was unsure if it was anxiety or apprehension that gave him this tingling sensation at the back of his neck. He had walked the long bridge with that feeling, the bridge that stood tall above the cliffs of Norsika, the capital city of Fallvale. He was headed towards the large, circular tower with a dome that could touch the clouds. Built with the white rock of Fallvale, the Tower of Ljos consisted of vaulted buildings of different sizes, connected by a series of high bridges. Luthan had taken a moment to look to his left, to the edge of the cliff, where a waterfall flurried into the vast lake beneath the city. His eyes had almost gotten lost in the sight of the home he had left over two hundred and fifty years ago.
Home, if he could even call this place that. The place that had shunned him.
He could not explain how he felt, right now, setting his eyes on the beauty of the waterfall. One thing was sure, he knew what he felt. Solace. And he could not justify it. As twisted as it sounded, it felt good to be back home.
The two guards at the entrance greeted him. Their hair, pure blond like his, was gathered and twisted at the nape of their necks in the style of the Norsika Guard. They wore the refined plate armor made of a metal native to the land. The Metal of Titans, as they called it. It shone like purified silver. Their helmets, curved and arched in decorative finishes, opened in the shape of a heart so Luthan could see their faces. Behind him followed a younger man who wore the green tunic of an attendant. He trotted after Luthan. He was the one who had brought the tall elf to the circular tower.
Luthan marched into the hall. There were guards posted at each pillar that supported the dome. The floor was made of white marble, and there were silver shards encrusted in the stone. These lonely pieces, together, formed a map of the stars in the Fallvale night sky. Luthan cast a brief glance at the scattered mosaic that appeared beneath his feet as he strolled to the center platform. The attendant motioned for him to come to a standstill once on the platform, then he disappeared into a hallway Luthan had just noticed at the back of the chamber. He did not remember a hallway ever being there at all.
The tall elf waited. And waited. He paced around, impatient, anxious. The guards did not look at him. They stayed frozen, holding bronze spears with steel spearheads. Luthan was here on a mission, but the person he was about to meet was like a ghost from his past. When he heard her voice, he immediately turned around and faced the Elvenqueen.
“Now, that’s a face I haven’t seen in a long, long time,” she said, her melodious voice echoing against the walls of the dome.
There she walked, her long royal blue gown grazing the white marble. Her dark wavy hair fell behind her shoulders and reached the arch of her back. There were thin, white filaments that adorned her mane. This gave her the wise allure of an elven elder. The tiara around her head extended into delicate silver wings. Crystalline flowers intertwined in her hair, which sparkled in the light that rained into the room through the dome’s open roof.
Tempest of Bravoure Page 3