by Jon Skovron
Rather than looking ahead, as she had so often in the past, Brigga Lin found herself watching the place they’d come from as it shrank slowly into the horizon. They had left so much behind on Dawn’s Light.
“Where do you think she’s going, master?” Jilly asked quietly.
“You said that you saw a ship heading south, didn’t you?” Brigga Lin asked.
Jilly nodded. “Just a little boat with only one mast. I saw it while me and Captain Vaderton and the rest of his crew were waiting for you to pick us up at the Breaks.”
Brigga Lin considered correcting her grammar, but couldn’t quite muster up the necessary conviction. Instead, she turned to Finn.
“What’s her likely destination?”
“The only thing south of here is the Isles,” he said. “Most folks crossing that much water in such a small vessel, I’d say it’s unlikely they’d make it. But you know how she is, our Bleak Hope. Somehow, she’ll find a way.”
Brigga Lin nodded, but said nothing. It made a certain amount of sense that such a crisis of conviction would send her back to where she came from.
“What about us?” asked Alash. “Where will we go?”
“Captain Gray has kindly invited us to join his crew,” said Brigga Lin. “I’m not sure any of us are particularly suited for smuggling or true piracy, but I can’t think of anywhere else where we would be welcomed. It’s difficult to say how much information Progul Bon was able to convey to the council before his death. It’s possible we have become the most wanted criminals in the empire. So perhaps this is best. For now, at least.”
Finn sighed. “That sounds a lot less fun than it should.”
They all stood there silently for a moment.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” asked Jilly.
Brigga Lin raised one thin black eyebrow. “Of course she will. But how long it will take, or what she will be like when she returns, I have no idea.”
Bleak Hope was an experienced enough sailor to know that when her tiny boat ran aground on the black, rocky shores of Galemoor, it was as much luck as skill that got her there. Or perhaps fate, if she was inclined to believe in such things, which, at the moment, she wasn’t. One bad storm is all it would have taken to drown her, or send her too far out on the Dawn Sea to ever return. One storm, which had been just as likely to strike as not. Not fate, then, but chance.
She had not eaten in over a week. She hadn’t had a drop of fresh water in days. Her body shivered from the cold, but her skin was red and peeling from sunburn. Her lips were cracked and dry, and she couldn’t quite focus her eyes. She tried to climb out of the boat, and fell face-first in the black, gritty sand, the lower half of her body still caught up on the edge of the boat. The coldness of the sand felt good on her burning cheek, so she lay there in that awkward position for a moment. Then she reached out with her hand and clawed at the sand, while kicking her legs free of the boat. Finally, she lay stretched out on her stomach, facedown in the sand. She paused for a moment to catch her breath. Then she slowly rolled over onto her back.
She looked up into the sky, which was bright blue and hard as steel. Tattered wisps of clouds skittered across with surprising speed.
Why was she here? Of all the places in the world, why had she come back to Galemoor? She couldn’t quite remember, but it felt right. She began here; she would end here. The Vinchen would discover her down on this beach. Eventually. If she was still alive by then, they would kill her. Perhaps they would even do it mercifully, since she’d come back of her own volition to face judgment. Either way, it didn’t much matter. She would die in the place where Grandteacher Hurlo died. The man who had given her so many gifts that she had squandered unforgivably.
“I am Bleak Hope,” she muttered aloud, her voice little more than a wheeze. “You gave me a name when I had none, and I rejected it. You gave me a purpose, and I abandoned it. You gave me honor, and I sullied it. And why? For a pretty boy? For selfish glory? For fun?”
Even now she remembered those feelings. And she could not pretend she had not enjoyed them, or that she would not enjoy them again.
“I am beyond redemption,” she said. “Nothing remains for me but death.”
“Not so, child.”
Bleak Hope squinted up at the face that now gazed down at her. It was old Brother Wentu in his long black hooded robes. He looked ancient, and sad, but he smiled at her.
“There is still one more thing you must do for your teacher.”
“Hurlo…,” she said. “Is he alive?”
Wentu shook his head. “No. But he left something for you in my care, should you ever return to this island. Come, let us get you indoors. Then I will give you your inheritance.”
“My… inheritance?”
“Come, Bleak Hope. You must stand up if you want to claim it.”
The world wobbled, and strange spots trailed across her vision as she forced herself slowly to stand. Then, with old Brother Wentu supporting her, she walked up the beach to the monastery. The familiar black walls loomed before her. As a child they had always seemed so foreboding. Now they seemed as safe as a mother’s arms. But of course, she knew they weren’t really.
“The other brothers,” she said weakly. “They’ll kill me.”
“Not here, they won’t,” said Wentu. “They left some time ago.”
“Left?” She remembered Broom telling her the brewery had shut down, but she hadn’t believed him. “How could they do such a thing?”
“It was Hurlo that kept us here, away from politics and corruption. When Racklock became grandteacher, he abandoned all of that.”
Hope looked around as they entered the open gates of the monastery. On closer inspection, she saw the walls had been scored with fire and damaged with blunt instruments. The buildings within the walls were now only charred husks. Only the temple itself remained whole.
“It was a statement,” said Wentu sadly. “That they were finished with this place forever and would never return.”
“Where did he lead them?” asked Hope.
“Stonepeak. To rejoin the biomancers as servants of the empire. But come, we can talk about that more another time. First we must get you well.”
He brought her inside the temple, since it was the only building that still had a roof. The inside was even more of a comfort than the outside. Somehow it still smelled as it did when she was a child, of wood and dust and jasmine-scented prayer candles. The large altar was still in the center, with the prayer mat where she had knelt more hours than she could possibly calculate. The only differences were a small bedroll off in the corner, and a small iron stove that had been brought over from the kitchens. One of the windows had been broken to accommodate the metal pipe of the stove’s chimney. An orange light flickered inside the stove, and a small pot simmered merrily on top. The smell of fish stew reached her, bringing with it memories of watching the brothers cook at that stove, and a sudden hunger she hadn’t felt in days.
Wentu helped her over to the bedroll. “We’ll get you a place to sleep of your own, but for now, you can use mine. You rest while I get you some food.”
He hurried over to the stove and ladled out stew into a wooden bowl. He brought it back to her, and she accepted it with a shaking hand. She tried to show some restraint in front of Brother Wentu. But after the first sip, she just guzzled it down.
She gave him an embarrassed look, but he laughed delightedly. “No one has enjoyed my cooking in a very long time. Let me get you another.”
After several bowls of stew, Hope was feeling much more like a person. Even if she didn’t know who that person was.
“There now,” said Wentu, as he sat down next to her on a cushion. “Feeling better?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He smiled at her for a moment, then the sadness returned. He looked up at the higher windows of the temple. “Damn my old bones, I wasn’t able to replace the glass you broke when you escaped all those years ago. Racklock couldn’t be bo
thered.”
“As soon as I’m recovered, I promise I will fix it, Brother Wentu.”
He nodded, but didn’t turn back to her. “Several days before that night, Hurlo came to me. He’d heard rumblings. The other brothers were starting to figure out that he was secretly training you. He hadn’t deigned to train a Vinchen in nearly two decades, and here he was wasting years of his time and energy on a girl. I think the sting of their pride was more what drove them to action than a loyalty to the code.”
“Did you know?” asked Hope.
“I figured it out after a few years. He and I had known each other for a very long time, and I could tell something had given him renewed purpose. Something had given him…” He smiled wryly. “Hope.”
“And you didn’t object to what he was doing?”
“I didn’t understand it at first,” he admitted. “I thought it might even be impossible. But he was my oldest friend. How could I object to something that clearly gave him such joy?”
“Joy?” asked Hope.
“You were his joy, child. Like no other. And when he came to me just before the end, he entrusted something to me. He said if you ever returned to this island, I was to give it to you.”
“I am unworthy of anything he intended for me,” said Hope. “He entrusted the Song of Sorrows in my care, and I abandoned it.”
“I never much cared for that sword,” admitted Wentu. “A brooding and resentful thing, if you ask me.”
Hope stared at him. She had never heard anyone speak so disrespectfully and dismissively of one of the greatest Vinchen artifacts ever made.
He grinned impudently at her. “It’s true. I can tell by your face you agree with me. Anyway, what I have is much better. At least, I think so.”
Hope wanted to protest again, but she couldn’t resist finding out at least what it was. “Okay. What is this thing that is even better than one of the greatest swords ever forged?”
His eyes twinkled gleefully. “A book.”
He handed her a thick, unmarked book. She felt its weight in her hand for a moment. Then she placed it on her lap and opened it. Inside was page after page of diary entries written in Hurlo’s spare, elegant handwriting. A single loose sheet of paper lay on top of the first page.
To my dear Bleak Hope,
If you are reading this, then you have returned to Galemoor in spite of the unfriendly welcome you might receive. Perhaps you seek answers to questions that you have not found elsewhere. Perhaps you are angry with me for turning you into something the world is not yet ready or willing to accept. Perhaps you are desperate and alone and despairing. Regardless of your circumstances, first let me say how happy I am that you are still alive. That alone will bring me comfort beyond the veil of death. What’s more, you are still seeking. And that is a joy to contemplate. That you have stayed true to your namesake and not given up.
If you came seeking instruction, however, I have none to give you. A dead man cannot be a teacher. What follows is a record of my thoughts and feelings over the many years I trained you. I beg you to read it not as a pupil reads the words of a teacher, but as one reads the work of a kindred spirit. As equals, each of us seeking some truth of the world in our own way.
For the last twenty years, I have become steadily more concerned with the state of the empire and the direction of the Vinchen order. I believe there must be a better way. A more noble path. One that doesn’t involve inflexible prejudice or wanton death. I thought, perhaps, that through training you, I could redeem myself, and thereby come to understand what that more noble path might be. But at the end of eight years, I feel I am only beginning to grasp it. Perhaps if we had more time… However, I am almost certain we do not.
So I must leave this unfinished task to you. Read this journal so that you can better understand where I have come from. Take these humble ruminations and use them as a starting point down a new path for the Vinchen order. One that we can both be proud of.
I am sorry to lay this burden on you, my child. But I fear that if you do not find this new path for us, Racklock will drag the order to a level of disgrace it has never known, and countless innocents will die along the way. You must be bold enough to dream of a better future, and strong enough to defy the present. Remember that every storm begins with only a breath.
Hope looked up at Wentu, tears in her eyes.
“I am not worthy of this task.”
He smiled down benevolently on her. “Worthy or not, you are the only one left to do it. So perhaps the first step is making yourself worthy.”
THE STORY CONCLUDES IN BOOK THREE OF THE EMPIRE OF STORMS
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An Unbiased Overview of the Reign of the Dark Mage
By Progul Bon, Chief Strategist for the Council of Biomancery
There have been many so-called historians who have written about the Dark Mage. Few have known the full story, and none have told it without being clouded by the prejudice of their time. While it is true that a great many lives were lost during the reign of the Dark Mage, the supposition that it was mere wanton slaughter is patently absurd. Every life that was lost, on either side of the conflict, was known by the Dark Mage, and felt deeply. That is the true measure of his greatness. For anyone can kill without thought, but someone who kills knowing the price, and does so anyway because it is for the greatest good, shows a strength of will few of us could match.
Little is known about the man who became the Dark Mage. None of our primary sources, including his own private writings, suggest he spoke or even thought much about his life before he became the Dark Mage. Physical descriptions are scarce, but there is a general consensus that he was not a physically imposing man. Several accounts even describe him as “bookish” and “reserved.” Certainly he was a biomancer of great skill and boundless intellect. But there was no record of indoctrination into the order of biomancery in those days, as there is now, so we cannot even ruminate over a list of potential names.
What we do know is that he reached the shores of Morack Tor roughly 350 years ago. The island of Morack Tor was of course named after one of the great biomancers of ancient times, a man who lived long before Burness Vee and Selk the Brave aided Cremalton in uniting the islands into the great Empire of Storms. It was said that much of Tor’s knowledge was buried with him in his tomb beneath the temple—aspects of biomancery unknown to us even today. Those aspects were lost forever when Burness Vee destroyed the temple at the urging of Selk the Brave. Several historians have suggested Selk had some ulterior motive, but I doubt that. Unlike today, biomancers and Vinchen in that era were comrades, with strong ties of loyalty and common purpose. In particular, Burness Vee and Selk the Brave were known to not only be companions, but close friends. No, I think it far more likely that both Burness Vee and Selk the Brave saw the tremendous amount of power that could be gained from these more dangerous aspects of biomancery, and decided the potential threat posed too great a risk to the newly formed empire.
Not all of Morack Tor’s knowledge was lost, however. When the Dark Mage arrived on the island several hundred years later, he discovered a scroll that had somehow escaped the fires set by Burness Vee. What he read that day changed not only his own life, but the very shape of the empire. No one since has ever laid eyes on that scroll, because the Dark Mage destroyed it immediately after he finished reading it. He had come to the remote island seeking knowledge and power, but what he found was apparently so horrifying, he wished to renounce it immediately. It is widely known that any aspect of biomancery takes years to perfect. By destroying the scroll so quickly, he should have ended any chance of learning what it had to teach. But this particular scroll is said to have burned itself into his brain the moment he read it. No matter how much he tried, he could not forget it.
And he did try. He once confided in his chief lieutenant that before he finally accepted his fate, he spent years drinking, whoring, and taking drugs in a desperate effort to rid his mind of
the words that whispered endlessly in his head. He spent all of his family’s considerable fortune in the attempt, but it did him no good. In the end, even the famous hedonism of Vance Post’s Shade District could not wipe away the words that had been seared into his mind. Eventually, he ran out of money, and was left with nothing but those words and their dark power.
In his private writings, the Dark Mage speaks of entering an altered state, similar to a fever dream, from which he could not awaken. He finally regained consciousness weeks later and found he had been abandoned to a sick house—a place where the poor bring their dying loved ones to live out the short remainder of their lives in relative comfort. What was worse, even though he was again aware of his surroundings, the edges of that fever dream state still clung to him, as they would for the remainder of his life. Years later, he wrote that from that day forth, nothing ever felt quite real to him. Instead, it felt like he was trapped in a paper world, surrounded by paper people. Most historians suggest that this was the root of his madness. But I cannot help wondering if perhaps it was instead a sign of a previously untapped and nearly untenable level of sanity.
Gift or curse, this was the birth of the man we call the Dark Mage—a man who was able to bend all but the strongest to his will. It was said that hearing him speak was like hearing your own thoughts, so that it was impossible to tell if the opinion was yours, or his. Knowing what I do of cognitive biomancery, my hypothesis is that his commands bypassed the conscious mind entirely and embedded themselves in the dark and primal aspect that lives deep within our minds.
With such power, commandeering a ship in Vance Post was child’s play for him, as was recruiting a crew to his cause. Peasant and noble alike fell under his sway. He moved from one island to the next, taking every able-bodied man and surprisingly, even some women. In a year, his single ship had become a fleet, and his small crew, an army.