by Alec Hutson
At the doorway to the temple a young mendicant met him, the awe in his face evident. “Holy brother,” he breathed, sketching the eternal sun in the air between them. “Welcome to the house of Ama.”
Senacus returned the gesture. “Brother. I need to write and send an urgent missive to the High Seneschal.”
The mendicant ushered him inside, bobbing his head. “Of course. Come in, come in. The abbot’s chambers have ink and parchment, and I’ll bring you the temple’s seal. We can dispatch a courier… ”
The mendicant’s eyes suddenly widened as he caught sight of something. He pointed, his face pale. Curious, Senacus followed his gaze to his own belt, from which hung a slightly wilted blue rose.
“Wait here,” said the hook-nosed scholar, frowning in obvious disapproval as he studied Keilan and Nel from behind his desk. He gestured for the young boy hovering beside him to lean in closer, and then whispered something into the child’s ear. The boy listened, gave a quick nod, and then dashed across the vast hall towards a massive archway that hinted at an even greater space beyond, his sandals slapping on the marble floor.
Nel seemed oblivious to the scholar’s disdain. She rocked back on her heels and started whistling, hooking her thumbs into her belt. Suddenly, she sneezed violently, the sound echoing in the Reliquary’s antechamber and making the scholar jump—coincidentally just as he bent again over the ancient book he was reading.
“Sorry,” Nel said, sniffling as she wiped her nose. “It’s chilly outside. I seem to have caught something.”
The scholar closed the grimoire loudly and returned his attention to the intruders. When they’d first entered this antechamber to the Reliquary proper he’d kept them waiting for nearly a full watch, and when he’d finally deigned to notice them he’d been dismissive, telling them in no uncertain terms that they should leave and not disturb the seekers. Whatever they wanted paled in comparison to the importance of the work being done within. When Nel had shown him Vhelan’s seal and claimed to be a representative from the magisters of the Scholia his eyes had widened slightly, but it wasn’t until Keilan asked after Seeker Garmond by name that he had grudgingly agreed to send a message to the scholar.
Nel gestured at the huge statue looming over the scholar’s desk. It dominated the great room, an older man in flowing robes with his cowl pushed back to reveal a face with an expression of intense concentration, his stone brow furrowed and his lips pursed. “Is that one of the Aspects of Ama?” asked Nel. “Kind of looks like it.”
“No,” the seeker said, his tone suggesting he felt like he was speaking to a particularly stupid child. “That is Valichen II, a king of Ver Anath, who founded the Reliquary thousands of years ago. His earnest wish was to protect the knowledge of the world from ignorant barbarians.” Keilan noticed the scholar put great stress on these last few words.
“A little under dressed for a king, isn’t he? And where’s his crown?”
“King Valichen cared little for the empty trappings of wealth and power. This statue is said to be a perfect likeness of the king, as he often dressed like a seeker himself to demonstrate his dedication to the search for truth.”
“A perfect likeness?” Nel continued blandly, staring up at the statue. “So he was a giant, is what you’re saying.”
The scholar blinked in surprise, as if having trouble understanding what she’d just said, and then his face colored. Keilan wiped his mouth to hide the smile he couldn’t hold back. The seeker muttered something under his breath and opened his book once more, pointedly ignoring them. Nel turned slightly towards Keilan and winked.
Keilan’s heart lightened to see the improvement in Nel’s mood. Ever since they’d parted ways with Senacus near the gates of Ver Anath it had been as if the old Nel had returned. It seemed the black clouds that had been following her since Xin’s death had cleared a little.
The sound of sandals on stone approaching again pulled Keilan from his thoughts. Through the great archway an old man was hurrying towards them, his smile broad and his eyes bright, the boy who had been sent to fetch him struggling to keep up.
“Garmond!” Keilan cried, joy at seeing the scholar again swelling in his chest.
“My boy!” the seeker exclaimed, rushing to Keilan and gathering him into an embrace. “My Kalyuni scholar! So good to see you.”
Garmond’s gray robes smelled of dreamsmoke, and the heady scent brought back memories of the many evenings Keilan had spent with the scholar in his wagon along the Wending Way.
Garmond drew back a pace and looked him up and down. “You’re getting bigger, I think, and it’s only been a few months since last I saw you. Eating well in the Scholia, it looks like.” His brow crinkled. “But what brings you here? Has the queen finally swallowed her pride and come to ask for our help in unraveling the mysteries of those old books you brought out of the Barrow?”
“No… much has happened. There was an attack –”
Nel cleared her throat loudly. “Seeker, is there somewhere we can talk that’s more private?”
Garmond glanced at the scholar behind his desk and then the small boy, both of whom were watching this exchange with wide-eyed interest. “Yes, of course. We’ll go up to my study. I have some interesting things to share with you, as well, investigations about that creature we encountered along the Way. Follow me.”
“Wait,” said the scholar, finding his voice again. “Seeker, I must insist that the girl stays here…” He trailed off as Garmond turned to him, bushy gray eyebrows raised.
“She is my personal guest, novice.”
“Yes, but decorum insists…”
Garmond’s face darkened, and he took a step closer to the scholar, who shrank back into his chair as the old man loomed over him. “Are you suggesting,” the seeker said, his voice low and menacing, “that I am… indecorous?”
The younger scholar blanched. “No, no. Of course not, seeker. What a ridiculous thought.”
Garmond’s expression brightened again. “Good. I would hate for my old friend the Light of the Lore to hear any such whisperings.”
“Yes, seeker.” The scholar’s face had paled, and he swallowed.
Garmond crooked a finger, inviting Keilan and Nel to follow. They fell in behind the scholar as he passed beneath the archway. “Come, boy. I know you must be excited—allow me to welcome you to the Reliquary of Ver Anath, the greatest repository of knowledge in the known world. And allow me to welcome you as well,” he added quickly, briefly turning to bow to Nel. “Please excuse the rather rude welcome. For some reason, it was decided long ago that the most disagreeable seekers would be placed as doormen. Keeps us from being bothered by every fellow who wants his lineage traced or family heirloom appraised.”
They passed through a labyrinth of twisting stone corridors, up and then down spiraling staircases, and through more vast, echoing halls populated by stern-looking stone men brandishing books and scrolls like they were weapons. Garmond continued talking the entire way, recounting in exhaustive detail the history of everything they encountered.
“That chamber was where Seeker Juniath researched and wrote his seminal treatise on the ethicists of ancient Menekar… This cheerful fellow was known as Malakan the Dour, and they say the only time he smiled was when he saw the expression the masons had carved into this statue… That great chunk of stone is a shard of the Winding Stair, dragged all the way from Nes Vaneth many centuries ago, well before that city was claimed by the Skein… ”
Suddenly he paused, as if just remembering something, and turned back to Keilan. “I knew I was being forgetful. Tell me, where is Xin? Did he stay behind in Herath? I miss his agreeable stoicism more than I thought I would.”
Keilan felt a sharp pang in his chest.
Garmond’s smile vanished when he saw Keilan’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Xin… ” Keilan began, and then had to tak
e a moment to gather himself. “He died.”
Surprise shivered the old man’s face, and he reached out to steady himself on Keilan’s arm. “By the Lore. He was a good man. Did he… did he choose in the end to follow his brothers into the darkness?”
“No,” Keilan said softly. “No. He died saving us.”
“He saved me,” said Nel, stepping forward. “He fought a shadowblade… a shadowblade who was also a sorcerer. The assassin escaped, but grievously wounded. He might have died, we don’t know. He killed Xin with some black sorcery.”
Garmond was silent for a long moment, his lips pursed, all traces of his good humor gone. “I sense much has happened since I left Herath. And I do not think you came here on a social visit. Something terrible is afoot. Quickly, no more dawdling.”
Soon after, he stopped outside a nondescript wooden door, similar to the countless others they’d seen as they passed down the winding corridors. “And here we are. My study,” the seeker said, fumbling with a key that was attached to his belt with a frayed bit of string.
“Come in, come in,” he said, ushering them inside. “Find some seats.”
“There are seats in here?” Nel asked incredulously, stepping carefully over a contraption of metal and glass tubes that had been inconveniently placed just at the entrance to the chamber. Keilan found himself wondering the same thing. Garmond’s study looked to have been buried under an avalanche of books: grimoires with cracked leather bindings were stacked into unstable-looking towers, shelves were bursting with more volumes, and in the center of the room, which looked like it had once been a clear space, the stone floor was covered with open folios showing intricate drawings and sketches of strange-looking machines.
Garmond moved with practiced grace through the clutter and slipped behind a mound that could have been a desk hiding beneath the detritus. Keilan noticed several artifacts he had first glimpsed in the seeker’s wagon those many months ago: the jeweled skull of some large rodent, a crystal sphere wedged atop an ebony stand, and an unstoppered bottle of scholar’s milk, the deadly libation which had nearly blinded Vhelan when the wizard had tried to match Garmond drink for drink one night along the Wending.
The seeker gestured at several stools that were currently serving as perches for a number of long, coiled snakes that looked to have been preserved sometime in the previous century. “You can move my collection of Keshian asps. Be careful. I had their poison glands removed quite a while ago, but there’s still some residual venom that leaks up through the scales. It might make your fingers numb.”
Nel shuddered, staring at the colorful serpents in obvious revulsion. “I hate snakes,” she muttered, and dutifully Keilan stepped forward to push the snakes off the stools. They slid to the floor with a hollow thump. A tingling spread up his fingers where he had touched the scales, and he dispatched a silent prayer to the Deep Ones that Garmond hadn’t accidentally skipped one of the snakes while arranging their de-venoming.
The seeker found a chair beneath the clutter and sat, steepling his hands in front of his face. “Now, tell me what has happened.”
“Assassins attacked Saltstone,” Nel said after a quick glance at Keilan. “Dozens of shadowblades swarmed the fortress, hunting for magisters. At least a score of sorcerers were killed, including several of the queen’s senior advisors.”
“By the Lore,” Garmond whispered, pulling at his beard.
“And the kith’ketan were not alone. There was a paladin as well, one of the Pure. He tried to steal Keilan away with the help of a strange shadowblade, different than the others. One who used magic.”
“A paladin and a sorcerer, working together?” Garmond murmured. “How could that be?”
“Yes, it seems impossible,” Nel said pointedly, and Keilan knew she was directing this at him.
“The man wasn’t just a shadowblade or a sorcerer,” Keilan said, refusing to look at her. “He was a thousand years old, an immortal from before the great cataclysms. I saw him in a vision.”
The seeker blinked his watery blue eyes and shook his head, as if trying to make sense of this. “What are you speaking about, boy? You’ll have to start from the beginning.”
And so he did. Keilan explained about the arrival of the Min-Ceruthan sorcerer Jan in the court, his revelations that there were other powerful immortals interested in the rise of Cein d’Kara and her Scholia, and the queen’s efforts to exhume his buried memories. He spoke of what he and the queen had witnessed inside Jan’s mind, the terrible sorcery that had used the devastation of the cataclysms to fuel the spell that rendered a cabal of powerful sorcerers immortal. When Keilan had finished, ending with him stumbling down from Ravenroost and collapsing in Saltstone, Nel picked up the tale, describing Keilan’s kidnapping and the fight between the mysterious shadowblade-sorcerer and Xin.
“Some version of this tale will arrive in this city shortly,” Nel finished. “I’d say within a day or two there will be rumors swirling in the streets. Likely the Light of the Lore has already received a bird about what happened.”
The surprise was plain in the seeker’s face. “I’m so sorry to have left you both and Xin. I thought… I thought I should return to the Reliquary and find out something about the creature that ambushed us along the Way. I never thought you’d still be in danger.”
Nel waved away Garmond’s words. “You couldn’t have done anything, seeker. You’re not a warrior or a wizard.”
“Did you discover anything?” Keilan asked, leaning forward.
“I did,” Garmond said, his hand drifting to a haphazard stack of ancient books. “Not much, and most of it is written in High Kalyuni. But enough for the rough history of these creatures to emerge. Fascinating reading, actually.” The shadow was lifting from the seeker’s face as he spoke, the edge of excitement Keilan remembered from whenever something had piqued his curiosity returning.
Garmond rummaged among the mess and finally pulled out a crisp sheet of vellum that didn’t look nearly as old as the other yellowing fragments of paper and ragged tomes covering his desk. “The translation from High Kalyuni is taxing, as I know you are aware, Keilan. And I have had to beg and cajole my colleagues just to do this much. But there are some fascinating insights about that monster we encountered. This is from the personal diary of one of the blue wizards of Kalyuni, written perhaps a decade before the cataclysms.” Seeker Garmond cleared his throat and began to read aloud:
“We found another one this morning. Cherise has some special talent for ferreting out the creatures; she says they smell different, almost stale, like a wash of air escaping from a tomb that has been sealed up for ages. I do not notice anything. Their mannerisms, the way they move… the illusion is so perfect because they appear so mundane. The one today was a butcher, a plump little man with a cheerful smile. We came across it during a routine sweep of the Shards. It was out in front of its shop, hacking away at a slab of goat, carrying on trivial conversations with the people in its neighborhood. Cherise stiffened beside me, and then without hesitating she unleashed Javinka’s Holocaust.
“The people of the Shards are not accustomed to wizard duels in their markets. Everyone screamed and fled, terrified beyond reason. Which was good, because only we hunters saw the transformation. Within that pillar of silver fire the genthyaki’s shadowy outline unfolded, swelling twice as large as it had been before. It screeched like a wounded animal, covered in rippling flames. We joined our power to Cherise, creating a swirling maelstrom that utterly obliterated everything.
“The creature was destroyed. I know the Greater Gendern wants one of these monsters brought before him to study, but I’ve heard of what they are capable of doing when they are not taken unawares. Zinoch said they tried to bind the genthyaki they found outside of Kashkana, but it slipped out of their restraining spells like a man shrugging out of a shirt and killed four green adepts before escaping.
“No, bette
r to destroy these things. There is nothing complex about what they are. They are predators, and we are prey.
“After the creature had finally been consumed, we sifted through the rubble of its shop and found a wooden hatch buried in the ground, sealed with powerful spells. Belop has some skill in untangling such wards, and he managed to open the door. In retrospect, I wish he hadn’t.
“Beyond it we found a great underground chamber—though perhaps ‘chamber’ is the wrong word, since that implies a space hollowed out by a man. No, this was some kind of burrow, as an insect might make. And the smell that came billowing up… the butchery above must have hidden the odor from the rest of the neighborhood, because it was unspeakably foul. Within, there were dozens of bodies encased in some gray, threadlike substance, hanging from the low ceiling like monstrous fruit. They were gaunt, desiccated, drained, though there was still blood inside them, as Cherise found out when she tried to cut one down. No, they had been emptied of some other vital essence… I know not what. The genthyaki had sucked them dry, like slurping marrow from a bone, leaving only a hollowed shell.”
A tingling had crept up Keilan’s spine as Garmond read. “The way he describes the monster ‘unfolding’—that’s exactly what we witnessed during the ambush along the Wending Way.”
The seeker nodded. “Yes. These monsters—whatever they are—have been feeding on mankind for a thousand years, at least. The ancients knew of their existence and were hunting them down.”
Keilan shuddered. “The book I was translating after the attack, the one given to me by the spirit of the Barrow… it implied that the knowledge of these creatures had been forgotten or repressed. Which would suggest that –”