“I thought they'd all be gone, but some remain here,” Omell breathed. “Hiding, trying to live in peace... I can...feel their presence, like a balm, and... an... ease to the soul. What happened, Varen?”
“Despite the cloaking mists, there have been those who found ways onto the island,” he said briefly.
“To do what? They didn’t come in peace, did they? What happened, Varen, do you know?”
“Some other time, girl. Stop your chattering and save your breath to walk,” Varen ordered, very reluctant to consider the betrayals and tragedies that had happened here. So like the one he had in mind. But he was forced to watch Omell almost constantly. She wanted to explore every building they passed, even the ones which had been reduced to rubble by time and battle. She found charred books, shards of fine pottery, fused lumps of what had once been delicate metalwork, tattered remnants of fragile fabric. She would have kept everything as macabre souvenirs, had Varen not lost his temper and hit her. After that, she walked in silence at his side. Nearing the ring of rugged hills encircling the middle of the isle there wasn’t even a tough path to guide them and make their trek easier. It was almost as if the place itself was making the journey all the more difficult, or all effort had been made to eradicate signs to what had been the cultural and economic hub.
As the sun was setting on the fourth day, they reached their goal, looked down into a small valley between two peaks and saw the hub of the Akashiians world. Once, the buildings must have been breathtaking in their majesty and perfection. Now the white and gold walls were overgrown with vines and climbing plants, the outer-laying paved streets with weeds grown up between the geometric slabs. Dry fountains and crumbling statues marked lonely vigils, aging sentinels in slow decay. Gentle greens and colorful flowers softened and smoothed the slow ruin and desolation left to the remaining Akashii still able to reside here.
“This was their temple,” Omell said quietly, staring enrapt at one particular building.
Varen glared narrowly at her, then set off down the hillside. Spring grass abruptly gave way to broken paving and cracked rock. He could feel the despair and bewilderment still clinging to the tumbled towers, caught in the tilted slabs of marble, stretched between lines of fallen columns. No birds sang, no animals moved among the shadows, no insects buzzed or hummed in the dense, heavy air, frightened off by their intrusion. He had a brief vision of the whole of Anraun, deserted like this secluded valley, then dismissed it abruptly from his mind, gesturing curtly at Omell to keep up with him. Yet beneath that, there was the odd sense of peace, tranquillity – and latent power.
“What of the people?” she asked. “The ones who once worshiped and still live here, and the... others...who left...”
Varen shrugged, intent on making his way through the ankle-twisting ground and tangled vegetation into the temple itself. The sun dropped below the horizon before they were halfway there and Varen was forced to conjure up were-lights to guide their way. By the time they had reached the inner sanctum, it was full night. He directed the glowing spheres to the altar, once a pristine slab of gold edged marble, now dull and tarnished, coated in dust and the droppings of birds that had made the temple their sanctuary.
Putting his pack down, Varen leaned his weight against the slab, and gestured at Omell to add her small strength. Together they heaved, and reluctantly, gratingly, the ancient alter top moved a few inches. Carefully, he reached inside the altar, delving down between the edges of the slab. His fingers brushed against a solid object, hesitated, then grasped the sides that seemed to shift and flow beneath the firm touch. With care, he lifted it out, a box of black metal. It was heavy and ugly, covered in bas-relief figures that appeared far too mobile for his liking. This was the casket, the only container, which could hold the completed Starstone safely, without harm to anything – or any one – in its proximity. He set it on the altar and reached inside his cloak for the tiny ebony chest that held the Shard.
***
Miles away in Thesa, a man, realizing he waited in vain for a certain young woman, stepped out of a tavern, paused, and stared into the night. His name moved on a faint, fragrant breeze, a seductive whisper calling him away from the bright lights and noise of the Hanging Dog, luring him into the gardened walks, into the soft shadows; a siren song beckoning, urging, promising.
He listened, smiled faintly, then shaped the shadows around him and walked within the night.
When he stopped and released the darkness that cloaked him, Rajan stood inside the Akashii temple, behind an old slant-topped altar, and stared coldly at the green-eyed man opposite.
“Where is the one who called me?” he asked, voice as soft and dark as velvet.
“The sorceress is not here,” Varen stated. “But what I have is her daughter and her gift, night seer.”
Rajan's star-colored eyes rested briefly on the two small boxes and then on Omell. “Another half-bred Akashii,” he murmured. “And what gift did this sorceress give you?” he asked Varen.
“Power,” the older man smiled.
“Power for what?” the beautiful Nightlord countered.
“For destruction.”
Rajan gestured around him. “I could destroy this without much effort.”
“To join with another dimension.”
“I travelled another plane to get here.”
“To command warriors which the worlds have only seen the like of once before. And to use them to rule.”
“To rule what?” Rajan asked.
“To rule Anraun. To rule the world the warriors come from, and to rule that one from which the Akashii also came,” Varen said softly, seeing the flicker of interest in the seer's pale eyes.
“If you have all this power, why was I called?”
Omell stepped forward and answered him. “We have heard of you, night-shaper,” she said, her voice that of the sorceress. “We know you are drawn to the darker aspects of your Goddess, that facet of Her which I once worshiped. You can achieve nothing at Thesa, not even to become head of your order; the seers cannot be led by one of your temperament, by a Nightlord. But with Varen, as his ally, you would be second only to him in his rule of three worlds...”
Rajan held up a slender hand, silencing the girl. “I repeat, why was I called?”
“To aid Varen, to bind your energies with his and mine in this summoning. We need you...and...”
“And my rewards will be those you described. But what if I don't wish to help?”
“Then you may return to a life of boredom and lost opportunity in Thesa as lackey to the High Priestess,” the girl sneered.
“Who is the master here,” he asked of Varen, “you, or this child?”
“She speaks with my consent,” Varen growled. “Now make your choice, seer!”
Rajan slowly studied the place in which they stood, feeling, as Varen had done, the desolation locked forever within it – and the conflicting serenity. “You would do this to the whole of Anraun? To Iantii?” he murmured. “Shall I look into your futures, would-be ruler of these worlds, and see how successful your attacks are against the Temple warriors, and those of the High Lord? Shall I tell you of your fate when you are unable to control the devastating destruction you desire to wield? Shall I tell what Iantii’s Domini...?”
“Enough!” Varen roared.
Rajan's head lifted a little and the coldness of the night's stars settled in his eyes. “Do not think to order me – Varen!” he spat, as the shadows crept closer to him like fawning pets. “I am no girl or simple priest to be awed by your promises. The only destruction you bring will be on yourself. Perhaps your sorceress could have convinced me, but neither you nor her half-bred whelp stand a chance in hell against the combined might of Thesa and Delgannan. And never when the forces of Iantii are added! These 'warriors' you plan to summon did not fight against them, and those Danaach that were once Stealers will never follow anyone with as little Saybelese blood in them as you! You are a fool, Varen.”
With
that, the seer stepped back into the shadows and shaped them into the night that lay over Thesa.
Varen cursed the spot where Rajan had stood, cursed the seer and cursed Relleshom. Then without thought, he snatched the gold chain and shard from the ebony box, flung the lid back on the metal one and laid the gem inside, coiling the gold chain around it. Anger and hate fueled the power he possessed, building up inside him. He turned to Omell, grabbed her hand and drew energy from her like water from a deep well. The air around them began to pulse as if a giant heart enclosed them. The gem throbbed in rhythm, glowing softly. Within it a matrix slowly appeared, fine lines drawn in gold as the marbling flowed, changing shape and direction. Varen's lips moved as he soundlessly repeated words Relleshom had taught him, their meaning clear now. The glow expanded, sending sickly light into every dark corner of the inner sanctum, coloring all it touched with the stain of blight.
Varen chanted aloud now, accompanied by the girl. The throbbing pulse grew louder, building up in time to the strange, guttural cadence of the chant. Omell gasped, sinking to her knees as Varen continued to leech away her energy. Her eyes closed against the painful glow of the shard, yet it continued to burn behind her eyelids, darkening and thickening as Varen neared the end of the summoning. The pitch of his voice raised into a scream that echoed and grew, whirling round them in an undulating twin to the throbbing pulse. Black light burst through cracks in the roof, reached out to the stars, dragging all sound in its wake, until the silence was deafening. Varen collapsed over the altar, drained, blood trickling from his ears, gushing from his nose, covering the gem-stone, pooling in the black metal box. The golden matrix hung in the air – the fine lines flickering from one dimension to another, until it vanished briefly, then reverted to its prior marbling within the small, dagger-like shard.
In another part of time, a darkness approached.
On another world, treachery had begun.
Chapter 5 – Mesar’s Friends
Thanking the driver, Mesar eased his aged frame from the wagon seat and lowered himself gingerly to the ground. The boy hopped down beside him then trotted to the back of the heavily laden cart and pulled their small pack out.
“Are you sure you don't want a ride right into the city?” the driver asked, leaning against the long brake handle to watch them. “You've made yourselves very useful these past three days.”
“That's most kind of you, but no. This will suit us fine.” Mesar took a step backwards from the wagon. “Good day to you, Vance, and good trading.”
Vance shrugged, raised a leathery hand in farewell, then released the brake and shook the reins. His team threw their weight forward and slowly pulled the heavy wagon on into the city.
‘Why are we stopping here, Master?’ Resh asked, settling the pack on his thin shoulders. ‘You said the man we wanted would be in the market place.’
“And so he will,” Mesar assured the youth, brushing dust from the folds of his loose brown robe. “But there is another I wish to see first. And I think we'll find him there.”
He pointed with one gnarled, tendon-ridged forefinger across the street to a ramshackle building in the middle of a row of other equally ramshackle buildings, all of which seemed to be on the point of collapse. In fact, the whole area appeared to be on the verge of dereliction. Crumbling walls, sagging roofs and broken windows spoke of a place long past its prime.
A few ill-dressed folk, thin grubby children and a pair of scavenging dogs went about their business, watching the two strangers furtively out of eye corners. Children emulating adults with such perfection, it seemed unnatural. Resh scowled at the shifty-eyed observers, then followed his hobbling mentor across greasy, uneven cobblestones towards the paint-patched 'Sinking Ship'.
Someone had scrawled a 't' between the 'S' and 'i' on the hanging sign, changing it to the Stinking Ship. The boy sniffed the air and was obliged to agree.
Mesar pushed the badly warped door further ajar and shuffled into the long low room. A couple of lamps, burning fitfully and greasily in the corners, made a half-hearted attempt to dispel the gloom. A few rickety tables and mis-matched stools were scattered around the room, and patches of damp, dirty sawdust vied for floor space with shallow, scummed puddles of spilt ale and other, less easily defined debris.
Although it was only just noon, the inn boasted a fair amount of customers. Ranging from a pair of young girls barely into their teens, to a toothless person of indeterminable sex and age, who sat on a low stool by the ash-filled hearth, gumming a short clay pipe, the majority of customers stopped talking and glared hostilely at the old man and his young companion.
After a quick glance around, Mesar carried on to the scuffed and scratched wooden bar, his staff making muffled sounds on the floor. Resh trailed slowly behind, eyeing the people with as much friendliness as they did him. A scrawny mange-marked dog snarled at them from beneath a table as they passed. Its owner, a thin scab-faced individual, gave it a careless kick and the snarling ceased.
Only one person in the entire tavern seemed to have given even a little care to his appearance. This was a slender long-haired man slumped stiff-legged on a high stool at the bar, idly plucking notes from a battered string instrument. His loose fitting clothes were at least clean, although worn and patched; a thin strip of leather held back wavy, light-brown hair at the nape of his neck.
Mesar leaned on the bar next to him while Resh stood a little way apart, gold-dusted blue eyes wide as he took in the varied sights and sounds of the Stinking Ship.
“Cinbar,” Mesar said quietly.
The long haired man looked up. “Yes?” he queried, frowning at the old one.
“I need your help, Cinbar.”
Cinbar studied him. “Mesar? Is that you?” he asked as his peculiar yellow-green eyes tried to penetrate the illusion.
“Yes, it's me.”
Cinbar laid his instrument down on the bar and leaned towards the old man, a rare smile on his thin lips. “Well, well, well,” he murmured. “What brings you out of your beloved desert and into civilization, such as that is?”
“You, for one thing,” Mesar replied, his voice taking on a deeper timbre. “And two others...”
“Are you here to drink?” a harsh voice interrupted. “Or just to pass the time of day?”
Both men looked across the bar top; the inn-keeper had positioned himself opposite them and was standing, ham-sized hands in the general area of his hips, waiting for an answer.
“Two small ales, then,” Mesar ordered, reverting to the high thin enunciation of an old man.
The huge-bellied keeper grunted, and reached under the bar top for two murky mugs, at the same time scratching the tangled greasy curls which fringed the sides of his otherwise bald head. He gave the glasses a perfunctory swipe with his stained and grimed apron, then slopped dark cloudy liquid from a large jug into each badly-blown glass mug. Off-white foam made a brave attempt to clear the rims of the mugs, only to give up the struggle and sink down, floating dispiritedly on the surface of the ale.
Mesar picked up his mug and studied the contents. He sniffed the strong yeasty odor, took a wary sip and set it back down on the wet bar top.
“The quality of your brew, dear sir,” he said to the inn-keeper. “Is only surpassed by the warmth and friendliness of your establishment.”
The fat man stared blankly at him, scratched a stubbled jowl, then thrust out a meaty hand. “A quarter crown,” he stated flatly.
Cinbar's eyebrows disappeared under his thick fringe of hair, and he opened his mouth to complain about the suddenly exorbitant price of two small ales.
“That includes payment for your last night's drinking,” the innkeeper added in a no-nonsense voice.
Cinbar looked helplessly at the illusionist, who in turn stared back at the innkeeper. “How much more does my friend owe?” Mesar sighed, having found the light-haired musician in similar circumstances before; and, in all honesty, he had been quite prepared to find him so on this occasi
on.
A broad smile spread over the inn man’s porcine face, revealing chipped and yellow teeth. He brought out a slate from a shelf beneath the bar and read off the list of expenses Cinbar had run up.
“...and that comes to three crowns in all,” he concluded.
Tutting, Mesar reached for the thin leather pouch that hung lightly at his belt. He fumbled the drawstrings apart and emptied out the merged contents on to a dry part of the bar top. The fat man leaned forward a little, assessed the wealth, and leaned back again, idly picking his teeth with a dirty fingernail. He watched while five of the small coins were prodded towards him and the remaining one returned to the pouch. He smiled with a little more warmth and gathered up the coins, then turned to Cinbar, who had watched the transaction without comment.
“It's damned lucky you are to have a friend like this old one here,” he rasped. “If you hadn't been able to pay me, something very unfortunate might have happened to you.”
Cinbar shrugged carelessly and swung round away from the bar. “Thanks, Mesar,” he said quietly.
“Don't worry,” the thin old face creased even more as Mesar smiled, “you'll soon get a chance to pay me back.” He picked up his glass and used it to point out an empty table near the partly opened door. “Let's sit down and talk,” he suggested, hobbling away from the bar and the over-active ears of its owner.
Cinbar nodded in agreement, picked up mug and instrument, and limped after the old man and boy. His left leg was stiff and badly scarred beneath loose fitting black pants and high, worn boots, memento of an old battle hard won. They seated themselves tentatively on the rickety stools at the table; Cinbar eased his stiff leg out of the way, and Resh slipped off the pack. Setting it protectively between his knees, he glared a warning to those overtly watching him. Mesar rested his grey weathered staff across his lap and put the ale mug down, a faint look of thin-lipped distaste on his face.
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