Fulcrum of Light (Catalyst Book 2)

by C. J. Aaron

  The narrow vertical slits that ran along either side of the door gave no indication of watchful eyes from within. Ryl hesitated before sneaking a momentary glance with his mindsight. If not for the steady arm of Andr, he'd have toppled to the ground. His mind, however, was focused; keenly aware of the mass of glowing signatures that had appeared in his vision.

  Kaep, being only a pace in front of him had glowed the brightest. The building to his left held a score of others. His focus broke as he again stumbled over his feet; the effort of the momentary view with his mindsight sapped far too much of his flagging strength at the cost of his coordination.

  “I’m ok, Andr,” Ryl offered preemptively. He saw the eyes of his friend squint with a look of slight suspicion. “I’m getting tired. I’m eager to sit.”

  Andr nodded knowingly.

  “How much further is it, Mender?” Andr asked abruptly.

  “It’s there,” Brasley pointed. “Just ahead.”

  The next facade carved into the face of the cliff was the most elaborately adorned and the largest they’d come across during their circuit of the city. A massive fluted pillar reached out from the face of the rock on either side of the entranceway. The columns stretched upward nearly twenty meters, capped on top with a flat ledge that extended out from the rock. The face of the cliff above the entranceway had been sculpted into an intricate arboreal scene that felt uniquely familiar. Ryl looked upon the tall trees, creeping vines and thorny brambles as if he was viewing the Erlyn herself.

  A dozen stone steps spanned the roughly thirty meters between the pillars, leading to a pair of large, wooden doors. As they ascended the stairs, the right section of the door swung inward as if waiting on cue for their arrival. The thick wooden panel moved noiselessly on its hinges, stopping as it reached the rock wall. A single guard stepped forward holding the door ajar as the party entered the chamber. He wore a long sword comfortably at his hip, and carried a decorative, yet deadly looking spear in his hand.

  The doorway led into a narrow entryway. The decorative pillars lining each wall were the most spectacularly sculpted displays he’d seen to this point. The walls and floor were made of the same flawlessly carved and polished stone, easily reflecting the light from the chandelier burning overhead. At the opposite end of the entryway, a second set of wooden doors stood closed, and a guard stood in front of each panel—their crossed spears blocking access to the chamber beyond.

  To their left, a large desk stood out from the wall, a closed door behind it. An elderly man sat at the desk's only chair, his head down, a pen in his hand scrawling in a ledger on the table in front of him. The party paused as Mender Brasley approached the desk. After waiting a prolonged moment, Brasley cleared his throat, alerting the aged man to their presence.

  His head inclined slowly; his gaze lingered behind. He purposefully placed his pen down alongside his ledger before greeting the Mender with a nod. He craned his neck to the side, viewing Ryl and Andr with curiosity. Ryl felt his examining eyes as they travelled the length of his body.

  “Ah, so these must be our new guests? Welcome to the great hall of Vim,” his voice was quiet and airy, exposing the age behind it. “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Greshal. I'm the chamberlain for the Council. May I have the pleasure of your names please?”

  Ryl and Andr answered in turn. Greshal repeated each name with a smile, carefully scratching the names into the ledger in front of him before lifting his head once more.

  “Now that we've seen to the formalities, in you go,” he gestured toward the guarded doors at the opposite end of the room with an absent wave of his hand.

  “The Council awaits within.”

  Chapter 28

  Brasley and Kaep led the way across the entryway toward the guarded double doors. The thuds of their footfalls echoed throughout the stone chamber. Chamberlain Greshal had returned to scribbling notes in his ledger before the party had turned to leave. If not for the subtle movements of his hand and quiet scratching of pen on paper, Ryl would have thought he was asleep.

  They were halfway across the room before the chamberlain raised his voice.

  “They wait for you in the chamber room,” he mumbled. “You know the way, I suppose.”

  Beasley grumbled an acknowledgement as they continued on toward the door.

  The guards raised their spears to a vertical position as the party approached. Their faces remained impassive, greeting Brasley who still led the group with a silent nod. The guard on the right hammered the butt of his staff into the base of the door in a rapid succession before pausing as if awaiting a response.

  If a response was received, Ryl hadn't heard it. The guard to the right pulled open his panel of the door. The great, iron hinges again issued no complaint as the door silently opened, granting their first view of the great hall beyond.

  He felt the apprehensive eyes of the guards follow them as they passed. For how long would they remain suspicious?

  Through the doorway, the room opened into a spacious auditorium; Ryl guessed that the area could comfortably seat over several thousand. Directly in front of them a stairway descended downward to the heart of the chamber below. Rows of tiered benches were carved into the earth, arranged in a large semi-circle forming the amphitheater. The focal point of the seats was in the center of the hall at the large wooden table that dominated the space. Along the rear of the table facing the general seating were five ornately carved, high-backed chairs, which currently stood empty.

  Beyond the table, carved directly into the wall was a stature that Ryl needed no introduction to identify. He'd seen the statue of Taben the Defender hundreds of times; there was no mistaking the likeness.

  The statue in the great hall depicted Taben standing defiantly with his arms folded across his chest. He wore the traditional cloak of the phrenic, and his muscular right arm was covered in tattoos; the detailed designs immaculate. At his side hung a long, straight blade. The most haunting features, however, were his eyes. Though focused straight ahead, they appeared to follow the party as they moved through the room.

  Instead of descending the stairs, Brasley turned left, following the curve of the seats along the rear wall. Narrow, evenly spaced fluted pillars connected the floor to the ceiling around the upper level. A wooden railing ran in between the posts, broken in two other locations allowing access to the lesser staircases that led downward to the amphitheater seats.

  Another set of wooden doors blocked their curving path just beyond the end of the benches. Brasley approached without pause, rapping out three rapid knocks, similar to those of the guard. This time, Ryl heard the muffled voice beckoning them inside. The mender opened the door, holding it ajar for the rest of the group to pass. Kaep moved inside without hesitation, Ryl and Andr followed close behind.

  The room they entered was a far cry from the massive, formal great hall they’d passed through. Like the other rooms he'd seen, the chamber was carved into the rock itself, smoothed and polished to perfection. Nowhere could he see evidence of cracks or blemishes in the surface.

  The interior of the room itself, however, was simple; lit by a large silver chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling above. Below it was a large round wooden table, made from the smoothed cross section of a massive tree. The circumference was easily large enough to sit a dozen people. On the opposite side of the table from where they had entered a group of five were seated. A small fire in the hearth behind the table crackled away, flavoring the air with a hint of smoke.

  The five gathered at the table before them rose in unison as they entered the room.

  “Councilors,” Kaep nodded in greeting as she pulled out a chair along the side of the table, the wooden legs emitted an audible scrape as they moved across the floor.

  The door behind them closed with a click as Mender Brasley padded up behind Ryl and Andr.

  “Welcome, friends. Please have a seat,” the women standing in the middle on the five announced, gesturing with her hand
to the seats alongside Kaep.

  “Although you’ve been guests of our great city for some time, let me be the first to officially welcome you,” her voice was kind, yet firm, dripping with formal etiquette. “You are now in the last refuge of civilization in the wilds of the Outlands. Welcome to Vim.”

  “Thank you,” Ryl responded confidently as he pulled out his chair to sit. The ornately carved chair was heavy, made of solid wood. The padding on the high back and the seat was soft and comforting as he eased his way into its grasp.

  To either side of the speaker, the councilors seated themselves as well; leaving the women in the center standing alone.

  “We'll keep our introductions brief as we have much to discuss. The Mender informed us you still have a great deal of recovering to do from your ordeal,” she announced, flashing a placating smile toward Brasley. “My name is Irie, I'm the voice for this cycle’s Council.”

  She dipped her head in a slight bow, before sitting slowly in her chair. Irie was a tall, slender woman, with light brown hair that was pulled back into a bun atop her head. Her skin was bronzed from the sun, yet her deep brown eyes still stood out against her tanned skin. Like the rest of those seated beside her, her clothes were the same utilitarian wear he'd seen from the others within the city. Around her neck hung a gold chain and pendant, with the stem and spike of a wheat plant beautifully carved into its center.

  “As you may have heard, Vim is represented by a Council of five members,” Irie continued. Her voice was cordial. There was no hint of condescension as she relayed information that was undoubtedly common knowledge. “Each member serves for a term of one cycle before another is elected by the will of the citizens of Vim. We represent the elected officials for each of the main disciplines within the city. I am proud to represent our agricultural endeavors.”

  Ryl nodded his head as she continued. His fascination with the knowledge he was gaining overpowered any residual effects from the poisoning and his recovery.

  “To my left are the representatives for the academic and artisan classes,” Irie continued with a gracious sweep of her hand in their direction. “Councilor Oswill is the voice of our academic order, while Councilor Heild represents our artisans.”

  Ryl had held no preconceived notions of what the councilors would look like. With few exceptions, all he’d met or seen in his brief stay here in Vim had appeared to be in remarkably well-maintained physical shape. Their condition was likely a testament to a life spent working with little time for either the glut of excess or the sloth of laziness. The academic and artisan representatives seated before him were no exception to this observation. Both councilors looked to be physically fit and in excellent shape. As their names were called both nodded their heads in turn.

  Oswill appeared to be the elder of the pair, seemingly nearing his fiftieth cycle. The hair had departed from the top of narrow oval-shaped head, yet his mustache and beard were still brown, flecked with scattered patches of gray. One hand subconsciously rubbed the beard on his chin as he smiled in greeting cocking his head slightly to the side. Ryl felt his inquisitive eyes studying him, dissecting him as if he was the next mystery waiting to be solved. Around his neck hung a similar golden chain with pendant as the one Councilwoman Irie wore. Etched into the center of Oswill’s was a meticulous carving of a book and pen.

  To his left, sat Councilor Heild. The councilor had an altogether disheveled look. His wavy, blond hair was in a state of disarray, appearing as if he’d only recently been roused from slumber. His large, round eyes shifted wildly, never seeming to focus in one place for long before darting off to the next. Heild’s hands were in a constant state of minor motion. He fidgeted with a small wooden handled tool moving it idly as he nodded his greeting. The pendant around his neck contained images of an overlapping paint brush and a small chisel.

  “Seated to my right is the representative for the military order,” Councilwoman Irie continued. “Councilwoman Lenu represents the Vigil, the proud defenders of Vim.”

  Councilor Lenu rose from her seat, bowing slightly at the waist before returning to her chair. She was a short woman, standing only a head higher than the seated Councilwoman Irie to her right. Her face was marked by a long vertical scar that ran from her temple to her cheek. Her thin lips were locked into an impassive pose. Her muscular features shown through the thin fabric of her tunic, and she wore a sword at her hip. The medallion around her neck featured two crossed blades, set atop a circular shield.

  “Lastly, Councilor Paasek,” Irie continued.

  “Represents the phrenics,” Ryl interrupted, his eyes locking on to the astute gaze of the councilor. A small smile cracked across the man’s lips as he nodded his head in greeting.

  “Aye. That’s correct, my friend,” Councilor Paasek intoned, his voice gruff, yet kind.

  Paasek, the last of the councilors introduced was the most muscular of the group. His right arm bulged from under his loose-fitting shirt, and his left arm was tattooed from wrist to shoulder. The pattern of his tattoos was unlike anything Ryl had seen before. The intricate designs made the entirety of his arm appear as if it was made of stone. Ryl pondered to what sect the councilor belonged. Judging by his physique, his guess would lean toward the physical sect over that of the intellectual or elemental.

  The features of Paasek’s face mirrored the stony facade of his arm. His cheeks and jawline were rigid, his nose wide and short. The angular features gave his head a square look. The councilor’s hair was cut close to the scalp along the sides, while the top was left longer and spiked. Even the dull gray iris of his narrow, squinted eyes followed suit with his rocky appearance. There was no medallion hung around his squat neck. He wore no phrenic cloak.

  Ryl felt a wave of calm and welcome wash over his body. He gazed at Paasek with a knowing look before focusing his energy in an attempt to send a sliver of the feeling back to the councilor. He slumped forward as the exhaustion threatened to topple him, catching himself with his forearm on the table. Paasek nodded his head subtly in recognition, though a touch of concern registered across his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Kaep shaking her head.

  “You two will have time to get better acquainted soon, Ryl,” Irie added. “Owing to the limited numbers, our phrenic councilor is the only one that defies that single term length. Once elected, they serve until another chooses to run in opposition or they step down. Councilor Paasek has served Vim faithfully for over twenty cycles.”

  Irie paused at the conclusion of her introductions, watching Ryl with her studious eyes.

  “We would like to ask the two of you some questions,” she intoned. “All heard the reports given from Kaep and the scout detail that found you. We are keenly interested in hearing the telling in your own words.”

  She sat forward in her chair, resting her arms on the table. Her fingers interlocked as she eagerly awaited the story. Ryl leaned back in his chair. His breathing had slowed, returning to a normal rate after the abnormally taxing use of his skills. He looked at Andr; the mercenary was relaxing in his chair, right leg crossed over the other.

  “You start,” he said. “I’ll pick up where you leave off.”

  Together, Ryl and Andr retold their story starting from their disastrous arrival on the coast. The council remained silent, attentively listening to the tale that was being relayed. From the point at which his own awareness left him, Ryl too listened on with rapt attention as Andr finished the tale. The depiction of his annihilation of the Horde scouting party was met with wide eyes and open mouths.

  “Have you no recollection of the attack, Ryl?” Councilor Paasek inquired.

  “To be honest, until it was described, I’ve had a difficult time understanding what was real and what resulted from the poison,” Ryl admitted. “Far too much over those days was confusing. My mind was lost in a sea of hallucinations and pain.”

  Ryl thought for a moment before carrying on. The memory of his unexpected defense was clear, yet so too were the
hallucinations. Until Andr’s description of the events, he was still unsure of what was real and what was fiction.

  He could recall his defiant attack in brutal clarity. He felt the desperation and the anger that had coursed through him as if it had just occurred. He felt the Leaves slide through the dark flesh of the Horde with no resistance. The warm spray of the putrid blood on his skin carrying the foul odor of death and decay. Yet there were still elements that tugged at his memory, so real at the moment, yet cloudy now.

  The rejuvenating breath of air from the forest. It carried a vivid reminder of the Erlyn.

  The voice that whispered on the wind. In his mind it had sounded like the words of Da’agryn.

  The scream.

  Ryl shifted positions uncomfortably in his chair.

  “There is something that still bothers me,” Ryl admitted. Paasek leaned forward in his chair, his curiosity evident. “I felt something akin to a breath of wind from the forest. It surged over me like a wave, washing away the false visions and pain that clouded my mind. I felt the Erlyn in its call. I heard a whisper urging me to stand, to fight. It was a voice I could never forget. It was Da’agryn.”

  Ryl’s eyes wandered the room, focusing on nothing in particular as he rambled on.

  “Then there was the scream,” he continued. “I can still hear the ring of it sounding in my ears.”

  Paasek exchanged a curious glance with the other members of the council.

  “All phrenics here heard that too. Moreover, all phrenics here felt it, we still feel the tremors of it now,” Paasek admitted. “That voice has a name, and an ancient one at that, yet little else is known about it. It has been referred to as the Cries of the Fallen. Rumored to be issued only in times of dire peril when all hope has been lost. It’s a desperate plea for help. I’ll go back through the records, but I fear there isn’t much else to be learned.”