by Jason Parker
Rays of sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling of Laurela’s lab in the Arcanta agricultural science center. Lingering raindrops on the roof caused small rainbow effects to shimmer throughout the lab.
Laurela bit her lip and looked at the vivarium on her lab bench. She nervously knitted her fingers together. Cultivachek’s humorous story about the accident that ultimately lead to the development of the icer knocked the edge off her anxiety, but the results of her experiment were not produced by accident. Her situation was entirely different.
She sighed and reached out a hand to help Cultivachek from his chair. “Don’t worry so, my dear,” he said and patted her on the shoulder.
She led him to her lab bench. “I’ve been working on a fertilizer to improve wheat growth and grain yield. This morning I planted some wheat seeds,” she said pointing to the vivarium on the bench.
“Now,” she continued, “let me apply some of the fertilizer I’ve developed and give the seeds a good watering.”
Cultivachek nodded as she sprinkled translucent yellow fertilizer crystals into the vivarium and thoroughly moistened the soil with a watering can.
“Okay…just watch for a few minutes,” she said with apprehension. She drummed her fingers on the lab bench. Her thoughts spun. If she was able to replicate the results she had previously observed then he might think it was some sort of trick. She did not want him to think she was playing him for a fool. Of course, if nothing happened, she would look like the fool. She began to gnaw at her fingernail, worried she might have made a big mistake, but Cultivachek had offered encouragement and reassurance. She thought she could trust him. She hoped she could trust him. Just as she was contemplating cutting her losses and throwing a cover over the vivarium, green shoots began to erupt from the soil.
“What is this?” Cultivachek asked in amazement as he moved closer to watch the sprouts continue to grow. “Why, these shoots are already tillering! That shouldn’t happen for weeks. How can this be?”
“Sir, I mean, Cee…I assure you this is not some sort of prank,” Laurela stammered. “This started happening a few days ago. I…I don’t know what’s causing it. I was hoping you could maybe somehow explain it.”
“I…I don’t believe it,” he said, also stammering. “This is most incredible. I never believed I would actually see this. I always assumed he was just a delirious old man.”
Laurela had imagined this moment numerous times, trying to anticipate Cultivachek’s reaction. This particular response, though, was entirely unexpected. She had no idea what he was talking about and was at a complete loss for words. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, run, or hide. Frozen, she just stared at him in confusion.
Noticing her look, he smiled. “I’m sorry, my dear, it seems ‘delirious old man’ would be an apt description for me as well. If you will allow me, I believe I do have an explanation for what we have observed. However, it is an explanation for which I never expected to find a suitable situation. I’m sure you are utterly confounded by my ramblings. To help you make sense of all this, I must relate another story. Might we sit again, dear? And could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Of course,” she replied. She was relieved by the distraction of having something to do… even a simple task.
Laurela went to the icerator at the end of the lab bench and poured him a cup of cold water. She handed it to him after he settled back into the chair.
“Thank you, my dear.” He took a sip. “I suppose the best way to go about this is to start at the beginning. You will have to bear with me while I set the context, but trust me, my tale will have profound meaning for you.”
Laurela resumed her perch on the stool and nodded vigorously. “Certainly, Cee. I’m anxious to hear it.”
Cultivachek tapped his cup on the armrest of the chair. “If I remember correctly it was about ten years ago in Corava during my tenure as the Chief Science Advisor to the Triumvirate. My dear friend Lord Armont Markov was still alive. He, of course, represented Tarkania in the Triumvirate. The whole sequence of events leading to what’s relevant for you, dear, started because Armont was a firm advocate of religious choice. His son, and sole heir, Dumare was becoming increasingly influential with the Church and was poised to assume a leadership positon.”
Laurela stopped him with furrowed brow. “I never realized Lord Dumare was a member of the clergy.”
Cultivachek shook his head. “Oh, he never was—not officially. Knowing Dumare would one day succeed him, Armont forbade from joining the clergy. However, Armont suspected his son was unofficially acting in the stead of High Priest Lundy, the ordained leader of the Church, who at the time was quite advanced in years, feeble, and absent-minded—much as I am today.”
Cultivachek paused and smiled. Laurela’s mind was racing in the attempt to piece together how the tale related to her and it took a moment for her to realize he had stopped talking. When the silence finally registered, she returned the smile, somewhat embarrassed.
“You are certainly not absent-minded and you seem to get around quite well,” she assured him.
“Ah, but you do think I’m old,” he said with a heavy sigh.
Laurela almost fell off her stool. “No, not at all, sir, Cee, I didn’t mean to imply…”
“Relax, my dear,” he chuckled, raising his hands in a halt gesture. “I was merely teasing you. You are such a serious young lady. I know what you have been experiencing is quite astonishing, but there is no need to worry so.”
She nodded and shifted to stabilize her position on the stool. Cultivachek cleared his throat and massaged the back of his neck.
“Now, where was I?” he asked himself. “Ah, yes. High Priest Lundy was by no means capable of running the Church. Unfortunately, the senior members of the High Council were ill- suited to take on the mantle of leadership and while some junior members had potential, none were yet ready. Our current High Priestess, Lancia, had just been raised to the Council. The Church hierarchy was in a state of flux and Armont believed Dumare had covertly stepped in to fill the void.”
“So Dumare was running the Church, but wasn’t affiliated with the Church in any official capacity?” Laurela asked.
Cultivachek sipped his water. “That is what Armont believed and he was not happy about it. Armont knew I was acquainted with a level-headed junior member of the Church High Council named Dennan. Dennan was originally from Dirka and his mother was once a technician at the Dirka science center. I came to know her family quite well. Armont asked me to use my relationship with Dennan to ascertain the true extent of Dumare’s involvement with the Church.”
Laurela frowned. “Spying isn’t exactly in the job description of Chief Science Advisor, is it?”
Cultivachek chuckled. “No, not at all, but I dearly loved Armont and was happy to help however I could. I met with Dennan in his Cathedral office and he confirmed Armont’s suspicions. Dumare was indeed playing a prominent role in directing the affairs of the Church. The political repercussions of my discussion with Dennan make for an interesting story, but it’s one we will save for another day. What’s important, as far as you’re concerned, my dear, is that I had reason to be in a part of the Cathedral not open to the general public. The High Council’s inner sanctum, if you will.”
Laurela gripped the sides of her stool. “So ten years ago you were in a private part of the Cathedral and something happened that involved me? But, I was just a young girl at the time.”
Cultivachek smiled. “I understand your confusion, but let me continue. As Dennan was escorting me out of his office, we were greeted by an elderly gentleman in the white robes of the clergy whom Dennan addressed as ‘Father’. The man curtly told Dennan he needed to speak with me and, surprisingly, Dennan was extremely deferential. He bid me a hasty farewell and left me in the man’s care within the inner sanctum. This seemed highly unusual as I knew the man was not a member of the High Council nor did he appear to be a steward of the High Council. No one else was allowed to roam about
this part of the Cathedral unescorted.”
Cultivachek’s voice started to break and he paused to clear his throat. He took a sip of water. “Then the man led me to a nearby office, closed the door and addressed me by name. I began to say I did not believe we had been acquainted, but he rudely interrupted, told me we had never met, and instructed me to be quiet and listen.”
“Did you find out who he was?” Laurela asked.
Cultivachek nodded. “He told me he was the great wizard Calvor, the very same who had fought Vladrik some two hundred odd years ago.”
“Wait,” Laurela interrupted, scratching her cheek. “He claimed to be a two hundred year old wizard? That’s impossible, isn’t it?”
“I thought so as well,” he agreed. “My previous comment about a delusional old man was a reference to him. After seeing the outcome of your experiment, however, I believe he may well have been speaking the truth. At the time, I was skeptical and attempted to raise objections, but he would glare at me and the words would die on my tongue. So as he instructed, I kept quiet and listened.”
Laurela rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “This is quite an unusual story.”
Cultivachek tapped his fingers on his knee. “Indeed it is. Calvor, as I’ll refer to him, began by telling me about the Age of Magic. How magic was comprised of four elemental components which he referred to as the mystical energies: earth, air, fire, and water. A wizard could tap into all four of the energies and combine them to create powerful magic. Calvor and the other great wizards stood above the rest. They, unlike other wizards, could harness unfathomable quantities of the mystical energies and combine them with indescribable intricacy. They could perform remarkable feats and create wonders never seen before or since. They infused themselves with mystical energy to dramatically slow their aging. They transformed common objects into potent magical devices. Virtually anything their minds could conceive was possible.”
“This is incredible!” Laurela’s eyes widened at what she was hearing.
“Calvor said the great wizards had no reason to believe there was any limit to the supply of mystical energy, but they learned otherwise in the aftermath of the final battle with Vladrik. During the battle they drew upon the mystical energies to such a great extent that afterward magic was gone. The common belief was that the entire supply of the mystical energies was depleted. The five surviving great wizards did nothing to dispel this notion, but it was not entirely true. The air energies were completely exhausted, however,” he paused and put up his index finger, “the others still existed, but in dramatically reduced quantities.”
Laurela raised her eyebrows. “So the water, earth, and fire mystical energies still exist?”
Cultivachek took another sip of water. “Calvor said the great wizards could sense the limited presence of earth, water, and fire energies, but their connection to them was severed. The heroes and saviors of the world were suddenly powerless, but they persevered. They began adapting and molding the concepts and principles of magic to the resources that were available. Soon the foundations of science were born and the Science Institutes were established to help usher the world into a new age.”
“What you’re saying is the remaining mystical energies are unusable?” Laurela asked.
Cultivachek held up his hand. “Ironically, Calvor told me, while the surviving great wizards could no longer command the remaining mystical energies, the magical objects they had created seemingly could. After considerable study, though, they realized the objects were not utilizing any external mystical energy, only what was inside of them already. They found this was also true of the mystical energies they infused within themselves to slow aging. The magic was intrinsic to the object.”
“Yes,” Laurela interjected. “I have seen some of these objects in Head Master Rainstel’s office at the Delon Institute. They are interesting in the ways they defy the laws of science, but honestly, none of them seem overly useful.”
“I have seen these objects as well,” Cultivachek replied. “The Tuvir Institute also houses a handful of them and I would agree with your assessment. They are fascinating curiosities but little more. However, according to Calvor, many other objects they created truly were powerful weapons. After witnessing the mass destruction they caused during the Vladrik war, the great wizards agreed humanity would be best served by destroying or safely caching the most dangerous objects. Of those more innocuous, they retained a few they deemed useful and left a handful of the most simplistic to serve as artifacts of a by-gone age.”
Laurela stood and walked behind her stool. “Did he tell you where any of the useful objects were?”
Cultivachek shook his head. “No, nothing as precise as that. The final thing Calvor told me about was a group of rare individuals who could manipulate a single type of mystical energy. Those with this ability are known as elementals. Elementals cannot perform complex magic, but they can do some extraordinary things within the purview of the mystical energy they control. After the Vladrik war, the great wizards were surprised to discover the elementals were still able to tap into the remaining mystical energies. As time passed, elementals continued to surface. Unaware of what they were, they did not realize they possessed special abilities. Some did, however, speak of experiencing strange phenomena —”
Laurela glanced at the wheat shoots growing in the vivarium. “Like what?” she asked.
“Like random fires, water emerging from unexpected places, or localized earth shifts. Calvor told me I would one day meet an earth elemental. An earth elemental who would uncover a hidden magical object—one who would be instrumental in determining the fate of the world.”
Cultivachek reached out to Laurela and grasped her hand in his own. He looked directly in her eyes. She was shocked and frightened by the intensity of his gaze and began to tremble.
“Laurela, I believe you are that elemental.”
CHAPTER 22
In the scant illumination of her small incandium lantern, tears streamed down Daria Darkmoon’s face as she descended the ancient spiral staircase. While her body displayed no physical signs of trauma, she felt as if she had endured a beating unlike anything she had ever experienced. Every jarring step of her descent brought forth a fresh pulse of pain causing her to gingerly rub at non-existent bruises and welts.
Even under ideal circumstances, the uneven old stairs were difficult to traverse. Now, with every step, agony and tears blurred the poor view afforded by the dim light of her lantern. With her free hand, she repeatedly reached out for the wall to steady herself from a near slip or stumble. A part of her longed for a fatal tumble to put a merciful end to her misery. She could endure the physical pain—it was the ache she felt deep within her core from disappointing her lord that caused her to consider the sweet release a fall would bring.
Daria paused for a moment, set the lantern down, and wiped her eyes with her palms. She was weak for allowing such thoughts to enter her mind. The objective of Moros’s discipline was to strengthen her and harden her resolve not to turn her into a sniveling coward. She screamed and pounded the wall of the stairwell with her fists, adding real bruises along the sides of her hands.
Taking a deep breath, she retrieved the lantern and resumed her descent. Moros’s anger and punishment was justified. It was true. She had lost control of Vladrik. Vladrik should have killed Calvor. He should have torn apart the Delon Science Institute to extract the whereabouts of Touchstone. He had done none of this. All he had done was swell the ranks of his army of infected creatures and bide his time.
After she resurrected him, Daria was initially able to force him to follow her commands. Now, he had managed to slip from her control. He no longer did her bidding or even pretended to. She thought back to their last meeting.
“Daria,” he said in a velvety slick voice reminiscent of Lord Moros, “stand by my side and rule as my queen.”
She felt the tug of compulsion in the back of her mind. “How dare you!” she roared. She slapped him wi
th all her might. His black hood slipped off his head and he staggered. His exposed skin sizzled and blistered in the light of the afternoon sun.
He howled and raised a gloved fist to return her blow, but was unable to follow through. It was as if an unseen force held him back. His crimson eyes glared at her as he righted his hood. The stench of his smoldering skin dissipated and the oozing red boils on his face dried and faded.
He laughed. “It seems I’m not able to harm you, ‘mistress’.” He spread his hands toward the infected hoard surrounding him. “Perhaps my loyal soldiers will not be similarly inhibited.”
“Try that and this will be the last day of your new life,” she warned. She stalked away to the sound of his laughter.
Daria shook her head and cringed as she took another step down the staircase. The meeting with Vladrik had been a disaster. Her report to Moros had been worse. Moros berated her for being a fool, a disappointment, and unworthy of his favor. With every harsh word he spoke—foolish cow, sniveling whore, useless rag—the words lashed out of his unseen mouth like a whip and tore into her body striking her over and over. She was certain her voluptuous body was a porous pulp of torn skin, bruises, and blood.
As she lay writhing naked on the ground, he spoke softly to her. “So long as you possess the indigo gemmed amulet—nothing created with its power can harm you. This includes Vladrik and his legion of infected. You have one final opportunity to regain control.”
“Thank you, my lord, for your mercy,” she uttered weakly. “I will never disappoint you again.” She felt his presence leave. She remained on the ground and closed her eyes, too weak to stand and too afraid to look at herself. She drifted into unconsciousness. When she awoke, her entire being was on fire with pain. She was relieved to find her body unscathed, but could not stem the tears of distress and self-pity that streamed down her face.
The recollection of Moros’s disappointed caused fresh tears to well in her eyes as she traversed the final stair and stood in a small vault measuring approximately six square feet. Aside from the staircase, the sparse mud-colored room revealed no visible exits. The room appeared to serve no purpose.