by Tammy Salyer
Balavad’s black eyes lit with some inner flame as he gazed at Ulfric. “Stallari Aldinhuus is the only one among any of you worthy of my attention.”
The Arch Keeper, oh so young and hapless, was about to act as anyone as youthful as she might, and Ulfric moved to intervene before she could command her Dragør Marines to attack the Verity, and thus commit suicide. “Arch Keeper—”
Her words froze him before he could finish. “Guards, restrain the turncoat Aldinhuus. Seize this usurper and his entourage. No enemy of Ivoryss will be allowed to walk free another moment.”
As a unit, the ten Dragør Marines raised and pointed their swords. Each paced a step forward, and Brun moved in from Ulfric’s right. He could almost taste the blood that was about to be spilled. “Stop this madness, Beatte!” he pressed, but his next words—I would never betray Ivoryss!—died on his tongue before he could say them. He would betray Ivoryss. He would, if it meant doing his duty. Or saving his family.
Evernal’s back pushed against his, ready to defend him. As the Marines moved in, the Verity’s forces closed around their leader, forming a circle of defense. Ulfric hesitated to encourage Mylla to withdraw her klinkí stones, or to do so himself. They already had too few secrets or surprises. They needed to wait until the right opportunity struck before revealing them.
The Marines’ wariness caused them to crowd in slowly, affording Ulfric time to measure the situation. Yet even a warrior of his long history knew limits. Balavad remained stolid, unconcerned inside his circle of protectors. Ulfric’s mind raced with ideas on what to do, what to say to end this certain fate. Why would the Verity want Vaka Aster’s vessel? If he destroyed it, he would destroy this world, their entire reality. Why would he have gained the obeisance of Yor, and possibly Dyrakkium, if he simply planned to wipe them from existence?
What am I missing?
“Just relax, Aldinhuus, and we can end this peacefully,” Brun said, standing at a sword-length’s distance and beckoning toward him with her free hand. “You too, Evernal.”
“You and the Arch Keeper are wrong, Brun,” Mylla said. “We are not your enemies. That being is.”
Ulfric kept his eyes fixed on the squad of Marines, mind whirling. He wants our Scrylle and Fenestrii. He came from Yor. What could I be missing? He is here and needs my aid to find Vaka Aster’s vessel. Why? Yor and the Scrylle, the vessel . . . what is his intention?
“I have no time for games,” the Verity warned.
Then, as if all connected by a common spark, the light reflecting from the chamber’s many illuminate orbs suddenly exploded, cutting Ulfric’s thoughts short and blinding him. He clutched the Mentalios pendant around his neck with one hand and raised the arm concealing his klinkí stones in front of his face, prepared for battle and death. Mylla pushed harder at his back, using his weight to keep them both upright. As he drew a breath to give her the order to attack, the dazzling light diminished almost as quickly as it had erupted, and Ulfric could see once more.
Balavad still stood between Ulfric and the Arch Keeper, his form a dark shadow in the afterglow. His arms were extended, and between his palms floated a ring of shadow no bigger than a man’s head. After blinking rapidly several times, Ulfric realized that every light orb, glass, crystal, and mirror in the chamber had shattered.
The resulting explosion of lethal shards, in the thousands, now hung in midair, motionlessly surrounding the people in the chamber. Glinting sparks flared within the shards, holding the explosion of light the way a mother carries a late-term child, taut and ready to let go. The pieces seemed aimed toward the sphere of blackness between the Verity’s palms, being pulled into it, sure to tear through anything and any person that stood between them and the vacuum.
Arch Keeper Beatte sat unmoving and mostly unharmed on her throne, terror and shock frozen on her face. The courtiers and acolytes, however, had not been spared. All lay dead or dying, mutilated by fragments of shards. It had happened soundlessly when the chamber was filled with light, so swiftly that none had even screamed. Only one or two of the Marines still stood, the others having fallen, but they were only stunned and stupefied, not yet suffering the fate of the rest. Commander Brun had stumbled back against the foot of a column and now swiped frantically at her eyes, trying to rid herself of her daze. Behind Ulfric, Mylla remained upright, unflagging in her readiness for battle. As if fighting were a real option against this being.
Reason with him, Ulfric thought. He said aloud, “Verity, there is no need to harm these soldiers or anyone else. They are following orders to protect their ruler. I’m the only one who can take you to Vaka Aster.”
“Or her.” His Holiness indicated Mylla with a glance over Ulfric’s shoulder.
Still just a novice, at least to Ulfric, she wouldn’t be a match of either wits or strength against Balavad for long. It was better to keep the Verity focused on him. “If we do take you to the vessel, you could end Vinnr. Is that your aim? You know we will die protecting Vaka Aster.”
The usurper’s voice burned like oil as it seeped into Ulfric’s ears. “But you must understand, Stallari Aldinhuus, I am not ending your world. I have come to save it.”
Could Verities cultivate a sense of humor? He thought not. The only thing dangerous enough to threaten their world now stood before him. “Saving Vinnr from yourself, then?” He smirked. “Your trickery is as transparent as water.”
“I am not the trickster, Stallari. I’m the savior. See for yourself.”
The usurper waved to the Flesh Caster—the title an abomination to Ulfric’s ears—carrying the leather satchel. As the warrior-priest withdrew something, his robe shifted open slightly. Ulfric glimpsed a stout chrome chain hanging around his neck bearing a fist-sized crystal sphere: a Fenestros orb, one of Balavad’s own five. And in his hand was a Scrylle.
To a commoner, a Scrylle appeared to be a hollow scepter that contained a parchment covered in Elder Veros runes, slightly flared at the ends, and made of a handsome gleaming metal. Only the Knights and a few of the members of the Resplendolent Conservatum could identify the type of metal as having been forged from the stars themselves. The flared ends served two purposes: as a base upon which the Scrylle could be stood upright and as a mount to hold a Fenestros, a celestial orb resembling a smooth gemstone that was in actuality much, much more. The Fenestros orbs served as lenses by which the celestial sparks of Verities traveled and could be harnessed by Knights and others trained in their uses in as many ways as ingenuity and experience could devise. When a Scrylle and Fenestros were joined, a Knight could peer into the barrel of the Scrylle scepter through the celestial orb like a kaleidoscope. But instead of revealing only the Scrylle mount, a gateway between the viewer and the Great Cosmos opened and allowed the viewer access to timeless ideas. Like a library composed of formless but apprehensible thoughts, history, lore, and teachings, the Scrylles contained the accumulated knowledge of millennia, which could only be gleaned by Knights trained in how to read it.
And this Flesh Caster freely brandished the Scrylle and lore of a foreign realm, Battgjald. The realization struck him like a slap. Looking inside that would be looking inside another reality, another dimension so far removed that, until now, it may as well have not been real. Being exposed to the usurper’s Flesh Casters, taller, thinner, paler than any Vinnric, even the Yorish folk, hadn’t brought this fact home to him the way seeing the Scrylle did. His thirst for knowledge suddenly awoke in him, almost edging out his fear.
“Caster Rhafn,” the Verity said and gestured for the Flesh Caster to hand the Scrylle to Ulfric. He took it, and was surprised when the Flesh Caster removed his Fenestrii and passed it to him as well. “Look inside,” Balavad commanded.
Though now a warrior, Ulfric had been a craftsman and scholar before being called to serve Vaka Aster, and he was not a man who could resist the promise of knowledge, no matter its source. This Verity, it seemed, was intent on hiding nothing if he meant for Ulfric to look into the Scrylle. His curi
osity had to be sated.
Holding the artifact close to his chest, he attached the celestial orb, and it stuck in place as if held by a magnetic force. The weight of the joined objects was deceptively light, and with his hands locked around the cylinder, Ulfric focused on moving his mind through the Fenestros until he could “see” what was recorded within the Scrylle.
In a rush no untrained Knight could endure, the annals poured into his mind. All Battgjald’s lore buffeted him, drowning his own thoughts to oblivion: a deluge of events and inventions, an influx of knowledge of a world foreign to him, a reality that fit only within vague outlines of his own, peoples and races he could barely comprehend but were similar enough to the Vinnrics to be recognizable. The edges of his mind strained, filled lightning quick to capacity, and he felt it creaking under the force of the tidal wave. So much to know. So much . . . Clenching his jaw, he brought all the strength and discipline of his thousand and more turns into controlling the Scrylle’s influx, and with strained yet unbent determination, he began to get a grip, to swim against the flood, slowing the mental invasion and concentrating on what appeared.
Balavad’s disembodied voice whispered inside his thoughts: See the Syzyckí Elementum.
As if commanded, there it was. A myth that Ulfric could not deny, now solidified into fact. A conflux was coming, a gathering of all the Verities into a reunification of their sundered selves into their original singular form. From the five back to the one. But this was not the surprise that turned his marvel to horror.
Ulfric ripped his focus free and staggered against Mylla, the Scrylle falling from his hands. It landed on the alabaster floor, undamaged. Its Flesh Caster keeper hissed as if burned and scrabbled to retrieve it and his Fenestros, throwing a look of hate toward Ulfric that he barely noticed.
“The Verities are . . .” He couldn’t continue, unable to fully believe what he’d read.
“Now do you see, Stallari?” Balavad examined Ulfric’s pallor with interest. “Yes, you do. Your kind is coming to an end. We Verities agreed long before we created what you conceive as time, long before we created these realities, that all of these things, and your kind in particular, is merely a . . . trial. A distraction, an amusement. When we once again unify, no longer suffering this fractured and diminished duality of physical and celestial forms, your worlds will end. Your purpose, if you want to call it that, will become fulfilled. Moot, if you will.”
The soldiers had begun to stir, though upon spying the suspended shards of shattered glass still filling the air all around them, they chose to remain where they were on the floor, their fear of being skewered winning over duty. Ulfric stared at the Verity, his horror strangled into compliance by the fists of his inner resolve.
“Stallari?” Mylla put a hand on his shoulder, having turned to support him when he’d faltered. “What does he mean?”
Still maintaining the sphere of empty blackness between his open palms, Balavad ignored her interruption and continued. “But I will not let this be, Stallari.” He drew the word “I” out like a velvet carpet, an invitation to trust. “I can stop this foolishness, this absurd waste. I have already begun. We are your creators. Weak and frail though you are, so imperfect yet still viable—what is the use in destroying all we Verities have made? I can, and will, ensure your continuation and help you flourish.”
The words had the cracked melody of a broken and abandoned child’s songbox. Beautiful in intent, haunting in sound. What does he mean by “viable”? Ulfric feared the answer.
The Verity waved a hand, and the dark sphere rose toward the chamber’s ceiling, growing to the size of a ballroom floor until it loomed over the room like a gateway to oblivion. The legion of suspended shards tilted upward toward the inky corona, like iron filings to a magnet. Balavad stepped forward and reached a white hand toward Ulfric’s chest, or, more aptly, toward his Mentalios. Ulfric crushed the instinct to slap it away like he would a cockroach.
He tensed as the Verity swept up the lens, still on its chain, and leaned close. “Your craftsmanship is as commendable as your leadership.” He stared into Ulfric’s face, and that same oblivion filling Balavad’s dark sphere lay in his gleaming eyes. “You have the power to save your world, Stallari.” The lens dropped, clanking heavily against Ulfric’s breastplate. “Accept my rule, bring me to Vaka Aster, and I will make you the Stallari of not only my Order, but of all the Verity’s orders. You will become the most powerful of our creations to have ever lived. And you, not me, will be the savior of your people.”
So that was his design. Power. The Verity wanted power over the realms beyond his own. How simple. How . . . human. Ulfric’s mind had skipped and skidded into many, many things during his brief exposure to the Scrylle, and he knew exactly what the Verity planned to do. He meant to build a cage that would trap Vaka Aster inside her vessel for eternities, leaving Vinnr unprotected and free for the taking by Balavad and his forces. This celestial being wasn’t content with his own realm. He wanted those of all the Verities under his sway. Balavad was telling Ulfric that he would be the builder of this cage—if he accepted the role.
But Ulfric wasn’t a fool. Once he led Balavad to Vaka Aster, he would most likely be dispatched, and this Flesh Caster Rhafn would be tasked with building the cage. Balavad’s pretty words and promises were as empty as the air between them.
“Don’t listen, Stallari,” Mylla whispered from behind him.
He did not intend to. He stood at the precipice of battle, knowing full well that trying to stop this being would be nothing like stopping a human.
And the first rule of battle was to triage and choose priorities.
Ulfric made a decision. You claim you’re no trickster, Verity, but maybe you’ve underestimated how cunning I can be. A deeper voice in his mind warned, It is insane to think you can match wits with a celestial being. He ignored this. Straightening to his full height, he stared, unflinching, into the Verity’s face. “I’m at your service, Your Holiness. But I require that they,” he passed an arm slowly around the room, indicating the Ivoryssians, “be unharmed.”
Brun grunted derisively, still pressed cautiously against the column behind her, and Beatte’s eyes closed in either acceptance or disgust.
The usurper peered at Ulfric for a moment longer, then smiled. “Very good, Stallari Aldinhuus. Casters, escort these mortals out.
Chancellor Cympher, Commander Brun, and the Marines rallied, showing the hallmarks of protest. Before they got far enough to ensure their own deaths, the Verity waggled the fingers of both hands, and the hovering glass moved inward, like a hive of enraged bees, close enough to press cruelly into any exposed skin. Ulfric watched Brun’s eyes widen as one of the longest, wickedest shards floated toward her, and she flattened herself against the column.
“Stop,” Ulfric ordered. To his relief, the shards did, and he spoke to the Arch Keeper. “Tell them to leave their weapons where they lay and go. For their lives, Arch Keeper, and your own, command the Marines to disperse.”
Beatte’s look told Ulfric she had already tried and sentenced him to death as a tyrant in her mind, but she knew better than to sentence the others in the chamber to the same. “Retreat,” she ordered.
Mylla stayed put as the reluctant Ivoryssians backed out, and Ulfric turned to her. Accusation and disbelief fought for control of her expression as she stared at him.
“You too, Knight,” he said.
With a visible effort to steady her voice, she insisted, “Tell me you’re not serious, Stallari.”
Using the Mentalios, he sent: Mylla, do as I say: shield yourself from this being. Warn Symvalline and the other Knights of his intent to ensnare Vaka Aster and rule Vinnr. And on your Knight’s honor, swear to me you will help Symvalline protect Isemay.
She sent: Ensnare Vaka Aster? How? What are you going to do, Stallari?
There wasn’t time to explain, and he couldn’t know if this Verity could sense their Mentalios link and know their thoughts. He could s
ee Mylla struggling between the instinct to trust him and follow his orders and incredulity over his cryptic actions. “Listen to me, Mylla.” The command in his voice could wither anyone’s will. “Go.”
She took a step backward, then another, her eyes pleading for an explanation. Before she finally spun and trudged to the exit, he risked sending once more: Swear it, Mylla. Protect my daughter, no matter what happens.
She didn’t look back. On my honor, Stallari.
When she’d pushed the wooden doors closed behind her, Ulfric stepped to them and threw the thick iron bolts to ensure the Dragør Marine reinforcements, for he knew they’d be coming, would be slowed down.
He doubted he could save all the people of Ivoryss, but if his plan succeeded, he could perhaps save some. “Come with me, Holiness.”
Chapter 6
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Mylla pressed her back against the door, feeling the heavy thump of the inner bolts slide closed even through the metal of her backplate. What in Vaka Aster’s name is he about to do?
Brun rattled off orders to her troops, the sound distant beyond Mylla’s whirring thoughts. With downcast eyes, she concentrated on reaching the Stallari using the Mentalios, but either he was deliberately blocking her or he was moving out of range.
“The well,” she whispered to herself. The plan had been for us to fight our way to it if need be. What’s changed? Why? My duty is to Vaka Aster, not protecting his daughter. But that had to be it. He was more concerned now with the safety of his family. Which told her just how great the stakes were. He had said Vinnr, not just Ivoryss, was in danger, and they had an invader’s army at their borders to prove it.
The tip of a sword beneath her chin changed the direction of her thoughts. Decisively and abruptly.
Commander Brun spoke from the comfortable end of the weapon. “What did he tell you, Knight? I know you use wystic magic to speak through your pendants. Tell me his plans now, or death by beheading for your treasonous conspiring will be the kindest of your punishments.”