“I want to ask why you need to go to that place, but do I really want to know?”
Thamias honestly had no idea what the Hollow Earth was. He had heard that term perhaps a handful of times in his life. Maybe he had even been there once. He could not care to make an effort to remember right now. It was probably one of his sister’s weird and magical things.
“Bravoure’s undead problem is bigger than anyone knows,” Ahna said. “But there might be a way to stop it, in the Hollow Earth.”
“Might?”
She could tell him about the void dragon buried beneath the earth that the cultists were trying to awaken. She could tell him it was the same dragon Thamias had faced two hundred years ago at the Battle of Orgna. She could tell him it was Cedric who had lost his soul, and she could get it back. But what would that add to this Dwellunder plan that was already mad enough?
“There is a way to stop it,” she declared.
“The Chasm is a day away if we take the coast and avoid the forest,” Thamias began. He had a calculating look on his face. “Then we descend into Den Grotto and hope we don’t get instantly killed at the gates of Mal.”
Ahna opened her mouth in slight surprise. Thamias seemed hesitant, but the look in his eyes showed the same certainty of a man about to head into battle. Hope sparked in her chest, and her heart suddenly felt warmer, like torches in a long and dark room had been lit again.
Thamias took a few steps toward her. “I’ll go with you, Meriel.” He was now just in reach. He had aged, but he did not look as old as she would have expected. Thamias had always been a head taller than her, but with his new and older allure, he really did look much grander. “You say you have a way to stop whatever you think is coming. I’m willing to bet on you.”
Ahna’s urge to take her little brother in her arms pulsed through her blood. She took one step and left him no choice. She embraced him with all she had, hiding her face in the crook of his chest. She inhaled deeply to catch every bit of his familiar scent that smelled like home.
Both of them fell to their knees, their arms entwined. Ahna cried on Thamias’s shoulder for a long time. He let her empty her eyes, caressing her silver hair and back gently, coming to calm at his own rhythm. The next realization hit him harder than he would have let it. His sister was back. Her touch did not feel cold anymore.
Thamias had waited years for her return. He had waited even longer at the footsteps of the Academy. He had hoped she would come back once Bravoure lost her mind and attacked their kin. He had waited and waited. Thamias had made peace with the idea that Ahna would never return. Actually, it was not peace he had made. The pain had never dimmed. He had just learned to deal with it. To master it and make it his own. To use it to fuel his anger, in battle and in life.
But he had done something that had left him with so much resentment. He had used his pain as a reference to blame her. Oh, how he felt guilty now to have vilified his sister’s memory, though it was the only way he could deal with her loss.
Here she was, back after all these years. Thamias only felt shame for the things he had done. For the things he had let happen. But now, maybe there was a way to get out of this. To finally accept the freedom that had been given to Bravoure two hundred years ago. To finally honor the title he bore. To finally be able to call himself Dragonborn without feeling shame.
Thamias felt all muscles in his body relax little by little, as though they had not deflated in a long, long time. He finally closed his eyes, burying his face against the side of her neck. Eventually, Thamias’s wall disappeared, and he let his tears flow freely with hers.
10
Legacy
The Spires of Arcane Amplification stood in the high gardens of the Fallvale Academy. They drew energy from the stars and infused whoever stood right at its center with maximized arcane power. It was not a tool to be used by the weak of heart. Only archmagi of specific schools could make use of it, Elementalism being one of them.
Luthan stepped between the claws of emerald glass and let his flame be fanned. All this new energy bloomed through his veins in a wave of intense rapture. Luthan had not felt this arcane surge in a long time. He could not let it hurt more than it already did. Teleportation was not easy—only the most skilled archmagi could withstand the pressure. Luthan had to keep his thoughts centered on the one idea of remaining still. It felt like his blood would boil and his bones would be crushed if he let go of his focus. Once he tamed it well enough, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the pyrofade. Instead of blazing red, the flames that enveloped and swallowed him were of pure blue.
The tall elf opened his eyes and found himself standing in the middle of a grainfield, under a heavy mist. He checked himself to see if everything was normal. He peeked inside his satchel to make sure the Wayfinder was still in his possession. Distant voices reached his ears. There were farmers up ahead working the fields. Behind them, past a well and granary, was the western watchtower right outside Dalgon.
Luthan took the Wayfinder and placed it in his palm. The facets showed something different. The golden threads were rearranged in what appeared to be a map with roads, paths, and crossings, as though the Wayfinder had scaled down to match Luthan’s proximity to where he needed to be.
It only took him a moment of examining the town and the roads to recognize what the Wayfinder showed him. Dalgon was not a big town. It was most certainly not as large as Bravoure City. It was even smaller than Sud. Most people who lived here were either farmers or nobles. It was a town for those who wanted to be close to Gurdal and to the northern sea at the same time. Dalgon’s tallest building was its Varkadian church. Luthan walked past it without really looking at it, too focused on the glimmer that showed him his target.
It was on the outskirts, at the other side of the city, that Luthan found a particular building, secluded between the trees. It had a bland facade, no signs or indication of what it may be, only the holy symbol of Varko painted on its oakwood door. Luthan checked the Wayfinder once more just to make sure he was in the right place.
He found himself in a garden of roses. A trail of pebbles drew a path to the door. Luthan stood in place for a while, hesitant, unsure of what he would find here until a young woman’s voice caught his attention.
“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was sweet and kind.
The woman wore a simple cloak over a long gown and a wimple that covered her brown hair. She looked very young. Her ashen skin matched the clouds above the plains. She held a small pair of shears in one hand and several rosebush clippings in the other. She was obviously a nun of some sort. Luthan looked at the building again, frowning, a little confused as to why he was here.
“I...” He paused and looked at her. “What is this place?”
The nun chuckled. “We haven’t had visitors in a long time. Especially none like...you.” Her innocent gaze bounced between his silver archmage robe and his large pointy ears. “This is the Convent of Dalgon.”
A convent? Why would he need to be in a convent? Luthan slipped the Wayfinder into his satchel and turned back to the woman. “Is there someone in charge here?” If there was, maybe they would know something.
The nun hesitated. “The...Mother Superior is inside. You can come in if you like.”
Luthan raised an eyebrow but followed the nun inside. Perplexed, he nervously adjusted his robe upon entering these holy grounds. Luthan was not one for religious buildings. He entered a long low hall stretching east and west, with windowpanes that bordered an inner garden. He noticed the building formed a square around that garden.
“I’ll get Mother Superior,” the nun said with a shy smile.
Luthan nodded and pursed his lips, frowning. While he waited, he gazed outside at the inner garden. He spotted a few more nuns sauntering here and there. There was a large oak with branches that formed a roof above their heads.
Footsteps approached him, and Luthan turned around to face an old woman with eyes greener than his. She wore a b
lack cornette in the shape of a marquise diamond. Her black clerical gown brushed against the floor.
The woman smiled upon seeing him. “It’s been years since someone from the Academy has set foot here.” Her voice was frail but warm nonetheless. “I am the Mother Superior, but you can call me Agatha.”
Luthan could either make efforts and roll with all pleasantries he could think of, or he could get straight to the point. He did not really enjoy being on sacred grounds, so the least time he would spend here, the better for him. Religion was never Luthan’s favorite subject. Not in Fallvale, not in Bravoure, not ever.
“What do you know of the Bravan King?” Luthan asked.
Agatha’s eyes rounded. She seemed perturbed by this question. She thought for a few seconds, then cleared her throat. “Godfrey Brave died fighting the Dwellunder forces. That was over two hundred years ago. I’m not that old that I can remember.” Her fair face wrinkled in a smile.
“What do you know about his descendants?”
Agatha’s smile faded. She paused, thinking. She must have been wondering why Luthan had asked this question. “The Bravan King had no children.”
The tall elf sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly. He pondered for a bit on what to say next without sounding rude. “I know there’s something here that relates to the Bravan King. And I need to find it. For Bravoure’s sake.”
“I’m sorry, Archmage, but I cannot help you. Whatever you’re looking for isn’t here.”
“Then please explain something.” Luthan took the Wayfinder out of his satchel and showed it to the Mother Superior. “Why has this led me here?”
She squinted and leaned over to look at the item. She could not make much out of it, only that it displayed some sort of a map, and the convent’s area was glowing.
“This is the Wayfinder,” Luthan explained, his tone most impatient. “It is an Item of Power that leads the beholder to chances that can change the world. I went all the way through Fallvale’s Valley of Tears to get it, and it has brought me here. Tell me why.” He forgot to say the magic word. “Please.”
“What is it supposed to show you?”
Luthan fell silent. The muscles of his shoulders were already tense. Now, they hardened to stone. He tried to recall how he had phrased his intentions upon touching the Wayfinder. What had he exactly hoped to find?
“The Bravan King’s legacy,” he finally answered.
Mother Superior straightened her body. Her smile returned. She took a deep breath and motioned for Luthan to follow her. “I’m sorry to tell you that the name Brave ended with the king. But the king’s legacy still lives.”
“What do you mean?”
She led him through the corridor, past the corner, and into the adjacent hallway. There was a staircase leading to the floor below. After a few sets of corners and doors, Agatha showed Luthan to a torchlit room made of Gurdal stones.
“The Convent of Dalgon used to bear another name,” Agatha explained. “We were the Royal Conclave once. We watched over the Bravan King and his family.”
“What is this?” Luthan asked, pointing at the altar in the middle of the room.
It was not an altar. It was a grave.
Agatha pursued her story. “When the Dark Lord took over the capital for good, the Opposition was able to retrieve the king’s body and bring him here.”
She slid the slab open, revealing the embalmed face of a man Luthan had not seen in decades.
“This is where he rests.”
“I thought all members of the royal family were buried in Bravoure’s cathedral. Why didn’t you bring his body back after the war?”
“Because when the Congregation’s reformed happened, the Conclave thought it best to keep him here.”
Luthan stared at the king’s corpse inside the marble sarcophagus. His eyes observed, but his mind was distant. Why had the Wayfinder brought him here, to the king’s grave? Luthan checked the Item, only to find empty facets of emerald glass. No more threads of gold. No more glimmer to guide him.
“You seem troubled, Archmage,” Mother Superior noted.
Luthan finally noticed it, the object that lay beside the king’s corpse. It was wrapped in a linen sheet, but he could see part of the handle. The white leather-strapped hilt of the Royal Claymore.
Luthan could never forget that weapon. He had last seen it on Bravoure’s battlefield, right before he had run to Antaris. From his perspective, this was sixty years ago.
The tall elf brushed the weapon with hesitant fingers. What if...
What if this was the whole reason why the Wayfinder had led him here?
“How did this get here?” Luthan asked.
“The Royal Claymore was believed to be lost. It was found years ago in the snow at the feet of Gurdal. It was brought to us for safekeeping until it was its time to be wielded again.”
“Its time?” Luthan frowned.
“Don’t you know the story of the Royal Claymore?” Agatha held a playful smile.
Not many knew of the weapon’s history, only that it was supposed to be wielded by the Great General, chosen by the king. They did not know why nor how the weapon had come to be. Perhaps it was now time to tell its story. Luthan shook his head, expectant to hear it.
Agatha relaxed her shoulders. “The Royal Claymore is a weapon crafted during the Age of Rise, by the dwarven dynasty of Bravoure, in the fires of the Forge Idol. It was destined to be held by Bravoure’s protector, her guardian, and offer its powers to them.
“No one really remembers these stories,” Agatha continued. “Just like no one really remembers the dwarves. It became a tradition of the king’s general to bear the Royal Claymore. Just that, a tradition. We remember because we are the keeper of the Brave legacy. These stories are part of who we are meant to be.”
What if the Royal Claymore was the way to rally the people against the general’s rule? A sword of legends as such would undoubtedly cause tremors within the city. All of those who had thought the weapon to be lost would see this as an omen. Maybe even attach some prophetic nonsense to it.
Nevertheless, devotion or not, Luthan had something he could bring back to Bravoure City. Something that may unite Cayne’s Wolf Pack so they could take the city for good.
Mother Superior let Luthan take the weapon out of the sarcophagus. He unwrapped it carefully, handling it like a thousand-year-old parchment. The blade still looked as sharp as he remembered. As splendid as he remembered. The golden inscriptions in the old Bravan language gleamed in the torchlight. It was not magic that he felt coming from it, nor the ancient energy of an Item of Power. This was different, and he could not explain it, but seeing this blade from up close awoke a sense of duty in him.
“How do I find this guardian?” Luthan asked.
Agatha smiled. “I’m not sure this is what you came for, Archmage, but that weapon has the power of influence. Its powers were believed to have died with the king. It was dormant for a very long time, but we, as clerics of the old Royal Conclave, can feel its calling again. Make sure to use it well.”
“So, you’re letting me take it?” Whether the Royal Claymore’s powers were truth or myth, it did not matter, because its meaning, the symbol attached to it, was exactly what may save Bravoure.
“I trust your wisdom,” Agatha said. It made Luthan cringe a little, but he did not let it show. Even he did not trust his own wisdom lately.
“Thank you, Mother Superior. This might help us bring back the Bravoure we knew.”
Agatha gave him a solemn nod. Luthan wrapped the weapon in its sheet again and marched out of the room. Agatha, hopeful of the days to come, closed the slab and trailed behind the mysterious tall elf who needed that hope more than she did.
A bow hooked to his quiver, a satchel looped over his shoulder, Berius entered the gates of Bravoure City, looking at the grey sky and seagulls that flew in a happy swarm. The guards only checked the contents of his satchel, not the two daggers and five knives he had
hidden somewhere on his body.
Berius cursed that dark elf he had met in the woods. She was the reason he was here, really. Her words, mostly. Why did she have to bring up the Antlers and the Resistance and all that? She had used the exact same tactic as Cayne.
Grr, Cayne. Why did she have to bet on his ljosalfar guilt to spark the righteous urge that had brought him here?
How long ago had he last set foot in the capital? Five years? The furthest he went from the forest was Sud. Berius liked Sud. The colors, the food, the women...the men.
When Berius entered the Gold Monk, Joan the innkeeper did not even recognize him. She barely even looked at him. Berius knew her, though. Well, he had known her daughter once. Was Joan ignoring him on purpose? Berius clicked his tongue to get her attention.
“Is Cayne here?” he asked.
Joan emitted a low grunt while she ground some herbs in a mortar and pestle.
Berius pointed at the red oiled door and raised his brows inquisitively. Joan ignored him and focused on her pestle.
“Hello, Joan, it’s me—”
Joan dropped the pestle, making a loud thump on the counter. She then pointed it at Berius like a weapon. “How dare you show your face here? After all these years...after what you’ve done!”
Startled, Berius raised his hand in the air to prove he meant no arm. “What do you mean dare show my face?”
“You broke my daughter’s heart!” Joan fumed with a cloud of five-year anger.
“Come on, Joan, it’s not like I did anything wrong!” He had, but bluffing was entertaining.
“You slept with her fiancé!”
“Who was already cheating on her! That man was not good for Jenny. In fact, you should be thankful I did and let her catch us.” Berius pointed evidently like he had done her the best of favors.
There was a tiny smile cornering Joan’s lips. Berius noticed it. Maybe she was happy to see him.
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