She wondered for a moment if he would think her raving mad. Gesturing to a picture drawn in one of the leather-bound books in front of her, she said, "This picture, I've…" She let her fingers play across the image, remembering how she'd felt upon first seeing it. "I've seen this before."
Bronach dropped the bundle he'd carried into the reading room with him, sending parchment maps and loose papers scattering to the floor.
"My, my, these old bones of mine. Forgive me," he said as he scooped the majority of them into his arms and sat down beside her. He almost missed his chair, his eyes were so locked onto her. "Continue, please. My clumsiness does little good for those with the unfortunate task of being around me. What were you saying?"
"Just before I came into Adoria, I — you'll think me delusional — it's nothing."
Bronach placed a hand over hers, giving it a tender squeeze. "Child, speak, there is no harm in telling a brittle-minded old man."
"I found a city just before I came here, though it couldn't have been real. I went into a temple and saw this image, among others, painted on the ceiling."
"Why do you believe your sight false?"
"Because the stones fell to ruin before my eyes. I saw a child there, beside a pool of dark water. She showed me images of my parents, and spoke nonsensical things. 'Say the words.'"
"You found the sword outside of the city walls, if my guess is correct."
"Yes, did…"
"Michael has left the sword in my care for now to research its origin. Tell me, what have you read of the immortals?"
"Very little, they're scarcely mentioned in the books I've been privy to. This book makes a couple references, but they're vague at best."
Bronach turned the book so the picture of the lovers was visible to both of them. When he spoke, his mouth trembled with age. "The two you see before you are Irial and Eanna. Remember their names well, for before the world was as it is now, a great love was lost. It is because of their sacrifice that we stand not in the depths of Hothrendaire.
"Darkness has many names and has worn many faces. None has brought him pleasure, only pain and suffering, which he has gladly shared with the mortals of the created realms. He wants for nothing, every indulgence may be granted to him upon a whim, save the one thing his heart truly longs for — Eanna, the daughter of light. Knowing this, her father, the creator, kept his only daughter safe behind the infinite gates to the realm of light and for a time she lived contentedly.
"It came to pass though, as he had feared, that she caught a glimpse of the created worlds and those who reigned in sovereignty — the immortals. She watched them, curious of their ways, and remained at a distance until she saw Irial. After such a thing has stirred the heart of one so innocent, it is irreversible. She could not cross over to touch his brow, or hold his hand, or even whisper his name so that he thought it more than the intimate whisper of the trees. She begged her father for his consent to enter the created worlds, but he refused her, and threatened to take away her ability to view them if she spoke of it again."
"The immortals were all given gifts, some to use for good, and some to protect from the Dark Lord's hand. One had the gift of nature, and created all that you see around you. She could imagine lakes, and mountains, and forests; some that mortal eyes have never beheld. Another had the gift of music. Every melody sung by bird or mortal came from his thoughts. Yet another had the gift of language, and all things spoken, or written came from her hand. Bronach was granted the gift of sorrow, and was the only immortal who could freely enter the realm of light and commune with the father, for he was the eldest — his gift borne from the creation of Hothrendaire itself.
"Bound in duty by the creator, the immortals ruled among the creatures and balanced the power of the darkness, for the seeds of darkness had long been sown in the realm of man, though at that time few understood how firm evil's foothold was. They fought for the perseverance of goodness and virtue against the nightmares of the dark realm. None could imagine a world where light did not prevail in the end."
"Bronach felt Eanna's sorrow and petitioned her father, begging him to see for himself the depths of her love for the immortal. When he did, he saw he had no choice, and despite his will, he granted her a mortal form."
"Eanna said nothing of her true form, but Irial knew the moment he laid eyes on her. They fell in love. It was a love deeper than that felt by any other, and stronger than the power of both light and darkness. It was felt from the foundations of the world, and beyond that even to the dredges of the dark realm itself — awakening in the Dark Lord an even greater hunger for her, an obsession that drove his every breath."
"Two things of great importance had been entrusted to the immortals, the Sword of Death and the Book of Life. The Sword of Death was too dark a creation to rest within the realm of light, and too dangerous for it to be within the Dark Lord's grasp. The Book of Life had in it the prophecies said to have been spoken by the Oracle, the great one who lived before all mortal creatures were in existence."
"Dairinn, the immortal with the gift of strife, was guardian of the sword and the book. It was his betrayal that plunged all who lived and breathed into shadow. Ciara, the immortal with the gift of language, wove her tales as the Dark Lord had tempted her, and she opened the forbidden pages of the Book of Life, and touched them with the blade of the sword, tearing out the Prophecy of the Oni, and stealing the sword just as Dairinn was caught in his treason."
"Condemned to Hothrendaire with Dairinn and two others who willfully betrayed the creator, Ciara began to cultivate the darkness that had long lay in the realm of man. She promised power and immortality in exchange for service to her, and her free entrance into their world. They opened the gateway between Hothrendaire and Middengard, sealing the fates of all mortal and immortal beings. In the Dark Lord's hands now rested the power to take lives for eternity, leaving no soul to either Hothrendaire or the realm of light."
"Knowing how greatly the Dark Lord coveted her, Eanna made a trade — her life in exchange for the lives of all others."
Ariana kept her eyes on the image, understanding now the expressions they wore. "What a dark tale. Is that the end of it?" she asked.
"For now," Bronach whispered.
She laughed, shutting the pages of the book. "Your parents must have had a sense of humor. Who would name their child after what might as well be the God of sorrow?"
"It was not always this way. The name used to mean something very different, but we will save that story for another time. I believe you have an engagement this evening."
"Don't remind me. I couldn't feel farther from home than when I'm near the women in this place. They make me feel downright savage."
He smiled, patting her hand again, "Don't let these little things weigh on you. You are of far greater worth than you know, child. Much more."
"Your kindness I think may be misplaced, but it's certainly appreciated." She rose, turning to face him as she reached the door. "What do you think it meant — the temple, and the little girl?"
Bronach remained silent for a moment, "It is said that Ciara sometimes sends strange dreams to toy with mortals. I cannot imagine she would favor the child who has so effortlessly swayed her highest commander."
"Perhaps… who told you about Garren?"
"He spared your life didn't he? In Palingard?"
Ariana leaned against the door frame. "Did Michael tell you? Jenner?"
"And he touched you, which was not necessary, when he tried to take your soul?"
She came back and reclaimed her seat at the table. "I never told them that he touched me."
"You have seen him since, in visions, dreams. You have heard of his deeds and, while your mind may understand the gravity of them, your heart sees someone else entirely." Bronach took her hand in both of his, clasped it with clear emotion, but didn't look at her directly. Several moments passed before he spoke again. "Jenner told me."
She stared at him, his gentle, unassuming f
eatures; his quiet, respectful nature evident in the lines of his eyes, and noticed that the pages in the book had turned, likely from the draft she'd felt from the moment she'd entered the room. It had landed on a portrayal of the immortal Bronach.
He let go of her hand and as she rose from her seat, he did as well. "I merely mean to point out there may be far more significance in it than you think. That's all."
Again, she made it to the door and turned around. "You aren't going to tell me what that significance is, are you?"
"If only I could, child."
"Jenner told you?"
Bronach listened until he heard Ariana's footsteps fade, before he turned around to address the question. "What was I supposed to say?"
The figure emerged from the shadows, "You saw her reaction to Garren first-hand, why did you need to see it confirmed?"
Bronach nodded, his features shifting in the flicker of the candlelight from the wizened visage of an old man to the ageless features of his true form. "So did you. Yet I know you were watching her response just as carefully as I was. And who went to Garren as a child? Spoke to him in the guise of his guardian, of choices he'd be making in the future? You speak of taking risks, but perhaps you should consider your own indiscretions first." When he didn't receive a response, Bronach added, "Why didn't you tell me that Azrian had found her?"
"Would it have made a difference?" The figure came around the table and sat in the chair where Ariana had been moments before. "The Dark Lord cannot reach her here. Have faith, friend. You've said this to me on more occasions than I can begin to recall. Why do you have doubts now, of all times?"
"The winds have changed. If Azrian knows where Ariana is, he knows where Garren is. This may have always been a possibility, but if we had — "
"There is no way we could have foreseen the effect of their meeting in this mortal plane and that's the only way the Dark Lord could have found her. But, you are forgetting something — that same unpredictable power means their love is far greater than even you or I could ever have imagined."
This didn't lessen Bronach's fears at all. "Or that Garren's darkness as a son of Ereubus is so great, the very foundations of the immortal world shook when he touched her. His mother's Adorian blood combined with that of the lineage may have made things worse."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHY IS THERE NO BLOOD?
Garren had just fallen into a deep sleep when Tadraem burst through his door. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Tadraem stopped just a foot from Garren. "They are all dead, my Lord. One, a mere boy, was left alive."
"You're going to have to be more specific." Garren rose from the bed, and pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. He was so cold, his fingers felt numb.
"Jules and all of his men. They were returning from Ruiari when they were slaughtered. Michael spared only one of them."
Garren's eyes grew wide. No Adorian had ever behaved in such a fashion. They usually avoided bloodshed as much as possible — it was their greatest weakness. He knew Michael would be angry over the loss of his men, but he hadn't foreseen this.
"Are you certain it was Michael?"
Tadraem nodded. "The boy has said little else, but he was certain Michael was in command."
Garren started toward the door. "Take me to the child."
Tadraem led Garren to a smaller room at the end of a long corridor and down several flights of stairs. Pushing open a heavy wooden door, they passed the humans who were tending to the boy. One was putting away his armor; the other was preparing fresh clothing for him.
Garren looked at them, pointing to the door. "Leave us!" he barked.
The boy's clothes were covered in blood, though it did not appear be his own. Still, he shook violently in his chair.
"What's your name?" Garren placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, leaning over him as he spoke.
"Micah, my Lord." he stammered. He was so small. It surprised him that Jules had chosen him for any venture outside of Eidolon. As the boy looked at him, he began to recognize some of his features. He guessed the boy to be in his early teens. He had the same gray eyes that his father had, and same mousy brown hair that fell in curly ringlets about his face.
"Jules was your father?" The boy nodded weakly. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but was hesitant to open his mouth. "What happened to the other men, Micah?" Garren questioned him with as much gentleness as he could muster, but he didn't have time to coddle the youth. If the winds in Adoria were changing again, he needed to know.
"We surprised them after we found their horses tied behind a large set of stones. There were only three of them at first; a really tall one with huge wings and another with light brown hair. Michael, who spared me, was the third."
Garren assumed the other men to be Caedmon and Jareth.
"We had them surrounded, when out of nowhere there were hundreds of them, a thousand maybe. They came from the forest and fell from the trees." Micah drew in a deep breath, and then said in nearly a whisper, "He asked that I speak only with you."
Garren nodded and looked back at Tadraem, motioning for him to leave.
"You cannot be serious, my Lord. There's nothing that cannot be said in the presence of the High Priest."
Garren narrowed his eyes. "Do you need another reminder of how to bite your tongue?"
"No, High Lord," Tadraem bowed with clear reluctance and left the room.
Garren lowered himself to meet Micah eye-to-eye. "What happened?"
"He asked my father to choose one of us in exchange for his freedom."
Garren was surprised to hear this. "And he chose you?"
The boy's eyes welled with tears. "Yes, my Lord. When Michael pulled me back from the rest of the group, he told my father that he was freeing him not from death, but life. Then he asked me to deliver a message to you."
The boy pulled a small scrap of worn leather from his pocket. It appeared to be some shred of clothing. It had writing from coal upon it. "I wrote it down so I wouldn't forget.
"'I know not your reasons for sparing my sister, but continue to torment her and it will seal your fate. This is nothing in comparison to the judgment that will be dealt in the event any further harm is afforded to her at your hands.'"
Micah lowered his head and stared at the floor.
Garren was too shocked to respond.
No. She can't be.
He could feel pressure building in his head, his heart pounding in his chest. He placed a hand over his mouth, leaning into it while resting his elbow on his knee. He realized his knees had buckled and he was now sitting flat on the floor by the boy's chair.
"I'm sorry about your father."
Micah remained silent, fearful. It was a look Garren had come to expect from those who delivered bad news to him. This time, however, it grieved him to see it.
Garren lay back on the ground, placed his hands over his eyes and sighed. What had Michael meant by further torment? His emotions flitted wildly from fury over the death of his soldiers to an unwanted feeling of fear for her — the same fear he'd felt upon seeing her in the dream. He'd naively assumed that she was the source of the visions. She was obviously experiencing the same strange connection.
Michael's sister. The very thought of it sickened him. Their loathing for one another ran so deep, it was ironic that Michael's blood was leading Garren astray. He again wrestled with his anger. He'd never felt so lost. Everything that was once so simple had, in such a short period of time, grown so complicated. Though he wouldn't have dared to consciously acknowledge it, he'd developed a desire to somehow bring her to Eidolon to be with him. This desire now became a stark impossibility. The one thing he was certain of about Michael was his fierceness to protect those who were under his command; the ferocity with which he protected his own blood was even stronger.
Garren lay still. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he tried in vain to push her face out of his mind. He remembered leaning over her, holding
the blade to her throat — and yet she'd remained strong. He could still feel the touch of her skin as he'd lifted her from the ground, the look in her eyes as he retrieved his sword. She did not fear him. There'd been no hint of it in her expression if she had. He should have seen the resemblance. Now, knowing, he could place her cheekbones and the tenacity in her voice as almost identical to Michael's. It made no sense that she had been in Palingard alone, unless she'd been there without his knowledge. Even that didn't explain her reaction. She didn't appear to know that she was Adorian.
Then he considered Micah. Garren had thought a lot about his own father since discovering his brutal end. It pained him to imagine being sent by his own flesh to be slaughtered. He looked up at the boy.
"How old are you, child?"
The sadness in Micah's face was excruciating. "Thirteen this year, my Lord."
Garren nodded, he'd suspected as much. Micah's shoulders were narrow, his build not fully developed. He wouldn't reach his full height for several more years. The boy was far too young to have been on any battlefield. Most Ereubinians didn't make their first kill or take their first soul until they were sixteen years old.
"I have failed you, my Lord." Micah said. "I didn't fight them."
Perhaps the boy was braver than Garren was giving him credit for. "No. You've done no such thing. It would have been imprudent to make any other decision than to do as they asked."
The boy brightened as Garren spoke, but he could still see the beginnings of a deep scar forming. Micah would now be well acquainted with the burden of betrayal.
Then, from where he sat, Garren noticed a pile of cloth hidden behind the boy's chair. He reached out and pulled it close. It was a deep royal blue cloak, with two very distinct slits along the back for wings. "Did you take this from one of their fallen?"
Micah nodded. "Yes."
Garren could tell he was lying. "Then why is there no blood?" he quickly rose to his feet.
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