The Eighth Born: Book 1 of the Pankaran Chronicles

by C. Night

  “I hope it is an easy choice. But it is your choice, Rhyen. Either way, you are destined to remake the Stone. And you are destined to face him. But how you are destined to do it is entirely up to you—which course will you take?”

  Rhyen was silent. He picked up his bag and walked away from his master. Cazing let him go, but watched him with regret. Rhyen wandered along the cliff for a short way, then he threw his things with a fierce force to the sandy earth. How had it come to this? Rhyen desperately paced back and forth along the cliff. He felt the need to wield—his Opposite was threatening to overtake him. His Opposite, jealous and power hungry and angry, and so different from his true nature, his natural compassion and love. How could he be descended from Taida—he was nothing like him! Taida was cruel, the absolute contrast to compassion! But then he remembered that Taida had not always been that way. He had not always been cruel. His Opposite had taken and twisted him into the evil he was today.

  Rhyen had almost let his Opposite consume him in Corna. His Opposite had felt good, had made him strong. He would have to be strong if he was to face the Faceless One. But he only had one year to master his Opposite. And if he gave in to it and couldn’t control it, he would become just like Taida… just like Taida. For that is what he was, was it not? The exact match to the dark sorcerer. Rhyen clenched his hands into fists and rammed them against his forehead, trying to sort the thousands of thoughts tumbling confusedly in his mind.

  The black of night was broken by the clear moonlight and winking stars. He could hear the sea crashing against the sand, the sound loud on the salty breeze, mixing cacophonously with echoes of the voices far behind him. He heard the wind blow though his things, and he turned. A thick rectangle had tumbled out of his pack and onto the sandy grass. The pages of his opened book ruffled slightly in the wind. Grateful for the distraction, Rhyen bent down and reached for it, his hands shaking from the effort of suppressing his magic. He didn’t want to wield right now. He didn’t want to remind himself of his power.

  He smiled humorlessly when he smoothed the worn pages and saw the spidery script of the old tale splayed before him: “The Legend of the Faceless One and the Breaking of the Stone.” Was it chance, then, that the book had fallen open to this section? Or was it destiny? He weighed it in his hands, hesitating. Would it read any different this time, knowing what he now knew? He silently smoothed the creased pages and held the tome up to the moonlight.

  It was a still, black night. Clouds hung in the sky so that the stars were hidden from view. The leaves rattled in the trees with a sigh like specters. Thronder’s army ranged around the city of Pero, on an ever-watchful guard against the evil might of Taida….

  Rhyen read the story as though for the first time—instead of Taida, he imagined himself at the Stone. It was as though he were visualizing his worst nightmare.

  …His spell broken, he was mutilated beyond recovery, for no body was found, and the explosion so complete that only a gaping hole in the earth even suggested that the Pankara Stone had once stood proudly in the courtyard. For if Taida had survived, he would not have disappeared into the night without a trace, and humankind would surely have heard from him since.

  He lowered the book and stared out over the sea. Though filled with bitterness, he laughed hollowly as he flung the book away from him. It had been different this time, after all.

  The anger he had been working to keep in check washed over him in stormy waves. The injustice of it all fueled his rage. Could he choose nothing? Was his destiny written in stone? Was his fate as certain as the history he had just read? “I wish only to chose my own path,” he muttered to the darkness. Rhyen squeezed shut his eyes. “I wish I had more time.”

  His thoughts whirled crazily in his mind. “Stop!” He commanded himself, raising his hands to shield his mind from it’s own thoughts, but it was too late—Rhyen had succumbed to the magic.

  For a moment, everything stood still. He had wielded, and now not only his thoughts, but also everything around him, had stopped. The waves stood mid-crash, poised over the silver sand far below. The voices, which had been echoing indistinctly behind the cliff, were suddenly silent. Rhyen watched, fascinated, as a bird was frozen in mid-flight.

  But then Rhyen released the spell, and he staggered backward, his heart hammering in his chest as the bird flew by, it’s pattern as unaffected as though nothing had deterred it. Voices could be heard again, taking up conversation as if without interruption. The waves washed upon the beach, the rhythmic sound unbroken.

  He swallowed hard and looked down at his hands. Was it really his destiny? Rhyen had not asked for this. Would he not have chosen another path, had the choice been his? With surprise, Rhyen realized he was not sure he knew the answer. He was not sure he knew anything anymore. He stayed there a long while, considering.

  He heard his master approach him, feet quiet except for the swishing of the sand. Rhyen gritted his teeth but did not turn. Though he understood Cazing’s reasons for his betraying secrecy, Rhyen was not yet ready to forgive the the old sorcerer for deceiving him.

  “I’m so sorry, Rhyen,” Cazing said in a low voice. “I truly am.”

  Rhyen kept his back to the old man. He found he no longer had the energy to hate him, to keep up his rage at the sorcerer. He acknowledged his master’s reasons for concealing the truth from him. Gone was his anger, now that he had vented it. But he felt aloof, and he feared that the comradeship that had existed between him and his master was forever changed.

  Now his emotions were being siphoned entirely into the cold realization that he would have to do this, would have to put together the Stone. Balance required it and, one way or the other, he would fulfill his destiny. Why not choose to do it instead of succumbing to only by force? It would happen either way, and Rhyen realized that he would rather square his shoulders and decide to bring it about in his own choosing rather than being Persuaded to do so by Taida.

  “Let it be so,” he finally whispered quietly into the darkness, fear clutching at him.

  How had it come to this? He turned to Cazing. “We stick with the plan. We go for the shards. I’ll remake the Stone, and I will use its power to defeat Taida.”

  Cazing clapped Rhyen on the shoulder. He smiled with grim satisfaction, but his eyes were sad. “I’m proud of you.”

  Rhyen exhaled shakily. “I’ll need those tools for mastering my Opposite.” He only had one year to learn, and he had an overwhelming sense that he should start right away. “Will you teach me?”

  Cazing reached into his pocket for his pipe. He grinned at his apprentice as he filled and lit it. “Shall we start now?”

  Rhyen smiled determinedly back. “Where do we begin?”

  Here ends Book 1 of

  the Pankaran Chronicles

  Epilogue

  The moonlight shown down through the leaves in the few trees that sheltered the group for the night. Rhyen slept fitfully, as though his rest was interrupted by a steady slew of nightmares. The fire was nothing more than a few red embers. Around it were grouped the sleeping forms of Rhyen’s companions. It was very early, in the blackest part of the night, hours before the dawn. In the shadow of the trees, a dark silent figure stood, as still as the earth, watching the sorcerer as he slept.

  Taida’s right hand widened tortured eyes, and the sight of the sleeping group and faded fire disappeared. Colors whirled around in blended confusion until there was suddenly revealed the green of a wide, sweeping plain. The grasses were still and unchanging, for there was neither wind nor weather. The endless blue sky hung clearly overhead, as bottomless as time. There was nothing else, save a tall, handsome man who stood easily, hands in his pockets, an excited expression on his clever face. He seemed unsurprised to see his right hand materialize in front of him, as though he had been waiting for his Warlord to appear.

  “Taida.” The right hand nodded to the sorcerer.

&nbs
p; “How did it go?” Taida asked. His voice was amused and charismatic, and though it was low, he spoke clearly. He radiated magic and confidence, and his intelligence was obvious, hanging over his shoulders like a mantle and in his eyes like a fire. But behind the fire was something else—a terrifying darkness that gleamed blacker than the deepest night.

  The Dark Rider looked up at him. “According to plan. The Eighth Born is on the move. He is headed south.”

  “South?” repeated Taida thoughtfully.

  “To Wyda.” The right hand flashed a smile. “He’s figured out about the piece in the mine.”

  Taida grinned, a charming, attractive smirk that spread triumphantly over his face until his lips were stretched with it. “Perfect.” He began to laugh.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my extremely supportive spouse and parents for everything they are and everything they’ve done for me. Without you all, I have no idea where I would be. So, in a way, this is your fault! Hope you’re happy with yourselves, you inspiring group of weirdoes, you.

  I also need to thank my lovely group of friends and family who acted as my guinea pigs and patiently read version after version of this story. Your feedback helped prepare me and Rhyen for the real world. Get ready—next one is coming for you soon!

  Finally, I know that nothing is possible without God. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me the opportunity to follow my dreams and tell this story, and for the chance to frolic in a fantasy world where I can wield magic and talk to imaginary people all day.