by C. J. Aaron
He walked quietly toward the open door at the end of the hallway. As he approached, the narrow view of the room without became clear. The minimal vision was enough to confirm his location. He knew where he was in an instant.
The Hall of the Phrenic.
Without a thought to the ramifications, he closed his eyes, searching with the mindsight for traces of the other phrenics. He was relieved to note a large group, tightly packed together, in what appeared to be a row, though their signatures remained still. A single glowing orb was separated from the others. He let go of the mindsight, bracing himself against the wall in preparation for his recovering body to protest the action. Surprisingly, though a wave of weakness rolled through his body, it was mild.
With his location inside the city confirmed, Ryl’s mind was desperate for answers. How many had returned home from the expedition to the Prophet's Tree?
Ryl hastened down the narrow corridor, exiting into the great entry room of the Hall of the Phrenic. The space was empty, the fire in the hearth to his left had long since burned out, yet the room was still warm. From outside, the sounds of commotion drew his attention, alluding to a large gathering of people.
Cautiously, Ryl moved from the vacant hall, exiting into the avenue that circled the city. The sheer volume of people in the street stopped him in his tracks. Surrounding the colosseum and the Westfate, the avenues were clogged with citizens. The noise of thousands of simultaneous conversations merged into a dull roar. The overall attention of the masses was focused on the entrance to the great hall.
Ryl eased his way into the crowd, moving toward the Great Hall and Council Seat. It was only a matter of moments before his presence was distinguished from that of the crowd. Those around him stepped back, their faces strained into a confusing look.
Was it awe?
Was it fear?
He paused, spinning slowly in a circle, struggling to read the emotions of the surrounding citizens. The meanings of the chaotic stares left him speechless. Ryl lowered his head, rapidly pulling the hood of his cloak up, throwing his face into shadow. Word of his arrival spread like wildfire through the crowd. A pathway opened through the sea of humanity leading straight to the great doors of the Council Seat.
Ryl wasted no time, moving as quickly as his legs would take him down the pathway. He could feel the eyes of thousands as they traced his every step. He felt the warm trickle of blood from his thigh as his movement undoubtedly tore the sutures that held the wound together. From several locations, the crimson stain spread outward as it dyed the white bandage on his left leg.
He winced in pain as he began ascending the steps to the Council Seat. Ahead of him, the doorway was closed. A pair of armed Vigil stood like statues before each door. They noted his presence immediately, and the guard on the right hurried to open the door, letting him pass without a word. The door closed behind him with a silent puff of air.
The scene inside was vastly different from that which filled the avenues without. The large entryway was empty, the doors at the end thrown wide open. Ryl moved undisturbed through the area to the Great Hall beyond. Rows of people, in most places, several individuals deep, lined the upper ring of the inset auditorium.
The attention of all in the room was trained on the proceedings within the large chamber where the Council no doubt presided over the occasion. With the focus of the crowd elsewhere, Ryl reached the auditorium with his presence still thankfully unnoticed. He peered over the shoulders of the two standing before him, eager for a view of the happenings within.
Every seat in the large amphitheater was occupied, the remaining in attendance were forced to stand at the rear. Seated at the long table in the center of the depression was the Council. Ryl’s heart raced as he scanned the crowd, eager for any sign of his friends. Paasek sat at his place among the council members, his face locked in an uncomfortable scowl.
He located the remainder of the phrenics in the room with ease. They sat together in the front row of the crowd to the left side of the auditorium. To a member, all wore their hoods up, shadowing their faces. Ryl let out an involuntary sigh of relief as he noted Andr sitting just to the side of the line of stoic warriors.
Ryl turned his attention on the dialogue occurring within the arena. The tension in the air was palpable. The temperature in the room was a touch over comfortable as the agitation and overcrowded bodies made for a sweltering mix. The conversation was no less heated.
“What of their numbers?” a voice shouted from the crowd.
“That we do not yet know,” the nasally voice of Counsellor Oswill carried over the crowd. “They could number in the thousands or they could number in the millions. They've not been seen gathering in groups this size in over a thousand cycles. It’s now been three days. They’ve strayed closer to the edge of the woods each day.”
Three days? Had it been that long since the battle? Ryl hadn't taken the time to truly assess his physical state before he left his new room. Aside from the lingering discomfort from the obvious wounds, his body felt strong. He felt complete.
Multiple voices rang out in unison as several shouted to make themselves heard.
“What if they turn on the city?”
Councilwoman Lenu erupted to her feet, addressing the speaker directly.
“There is no cause for fear to the city,” Lenu projected. “The exterior walls are unshakeable. We have archers on watch around the clock should they attempt the feat. All tunnels remain guarded, the numbers bolstered. Keep in mind, both can be collapsed at a moment's notice if the need is dire. There should be no cause to fear.”
The statement elicited a gasp of panic from some, shouting from others.
“There have been no further sightings anywhere within the forest,” Lenu’s voice crescendoed, silencing the din of discussion. “Our walls are impenetrable. We have self-sustaining sources of food and water that will last us indefinitely. We could seal the entrances today and survive unmolested for an eternity.”
“Still nothing changes the fact we have been deceived,” came the animated shout from the right side of the room, opposite where the phrenics sat. Ryl recognized that voice. He scanned the crowd, easily finding the speaker standing up above the seated crowd.
Nielix.
The Vigil had survived, though he wore the wounds to prove it. His head was wrapped in a bandage that hung diagonally down from the right side of his scalp nearly covering his right eye. His left arm was braced carefully in a sling, yet he was alive.
“The skills the phrenics have led us to believe were long since lost to time were painfully put on display,” Nielix shouted.
“Long before any of our time it was decided that this city must learn to survive without the promise of phrenic assistance,” Paasek boomed. “The Barren taught us that.”
“And yet none of our troubles, not the increased sightings of the Horde, not the massacre at the Prophet's Tree happened before that boy arrived,” Nielix challenged.
Ryl's blood heated at the comment. There were murmurs of consent from the crowd, emboldening the fuming Vigil further.
“If not for that boy, sixteen of our Vigil, Vim's protectors, would have returned home,” Nielix screamed. “Sixteen families would not grieve the loss of their loved ones.”
Ryl was furious at the insinuation he was the cause of their deaths. Every word stoked the fire that now burned in his veins.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andr jump to his feet, his mouth open to retort. Councilor Paasek was quicker; his booming voice echoed throughout the hall. The muscles of his tattooed arm flexed, its rock-like appearance seemed to change to an ashy grey while details became more crystalline and jagged.
“Everyone grieves their loss,” Paasek roared. “Yet if not for that young man, everyone in that party would have perished.”
Nielix spat back.
“And what now?” he cursed. “The prophet is gone. By your own admission the tree no longer lives. The prophecy has been vague all al
ong. The catalyst may be the winds of change, the savior of the phrenics, but he will spell doom for the rest of us.”
There was a gasp from the assembly—the councilors looked to be at a loss for words.
“There have been none of your precious seers in ages. The prophet is lost to us,” Nielix fumed. “Your savior’s lifeless, bloodied body had to be dragged back to the city, to where it still lies unmoving today. What miracles will his corpse create? He is not Taben. He has no phrenic army at his disposal.”
Nielix thrust his pointed finger in the air, aiming at the massive statue that rose over the hall.
Ryl had heard enough. His blood boiled with anger, yet his decision was remarkably clear. He had no concept of what he’d done to offend the hateful Vigil, yet at this moment, it was beyond his concern. Secretly he thanked Nielix. The venomous words had opened the door to what Ryl had sought all along. He gently pushed his way through the rows of spectators in front of him, coming to a stop on the top step of the main, central staircase.
He slowly pulled the hood back, revealing his face. An inferno burned in his determined stare.
“And what if I had an army?” Ryl’s steady voice echoed through the hall.
The collective attention of the gathering turned on him as one. The eyes of the colossal statue of Taben the Defender bored into him.
“Miracles, I cannot promise. An army, I can.”
Chapter 36
After Ryl’s sudden appearance, order was never truly restored in the Great Hall. The sight of a bloodied phrenic, who most thought to be on the verge of death, seemingly materializing out of thin air was enough to upset any due process. The mysticism surrounding the reports of his actions on the slopes of the Prophet’s Tree did little to help the calls for order.
The mention of a phrenic army was too much for the hope starved audience to bear.
The Council had adjourned the public meeting, thankfully retiring to the relative solitude of a private chamber room to continue deliberations. Along with the Council, several representatives of Vim's varied institutions were ordered into attendance. Ryl hobbled into the room, one arm draped over Andr, the other over Mender Brasley. In an attempt to appease the growing dissension within the city, Nielix, the mouthpiece of the disenfranchised, was also invited to attend the closed-door session.
The mender was beside himself that Ryl was out of bed and adamant he should return without delay. Ryl, with the blessing of the Council, politely refused, forcing the irate mender to field dress his leaking wound in the chamber.
The meeting commenced while the mender was still wrapping Ryl’s leg.
“We need answers as to the nature of this army,” Councilwoman Irie chided, her normally even keeled voice unusually aggravated. “Promises like that will be taken seriously. I would hate to find we’ve been misled.”
“The boy is nothing more than an abnormally talented fraud,” Nielix cursed from his seat on the opposite side of the room.
“That’s enough,” boomed Irie. “We need to hear the answer from him before any judgement be passed.”
Nielix shrunk back at the force of the admonition. He slumped back into his chair, dejected, yet still seething with anger.
Ryl winced as Brasley finished tying off the bandage on his leg. The mender afforded him an unsympathetic smile.
“Please, carry on, Ryl,” the councilwoman ordered.
“There was no deceit in my words,” Ryl spoke. Though directed at Nielix, he refused to look his direction. “An army of hundreds awaits. That they will follow me is not a question. All that’s needed is to grant them their freedom.”
All the councilors, with the exception of one, regarded him with varied looks of confusion as he paused for a breath. Paasek grinned as he grasped the significance behind Ryl’s cryptic statement.
“Freedom from where?” Councilor Heild questioned. "From whom?"
“From The Stocks,” Councilor Paasek stated bluntly before leaning back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
Questions spilled from the mouths of virtually all in attendance. The voice of Nielix rose above the rest.
“You can’t be serious?” he snapped. “There is no escaping The Stocks. The walls are as thick as the mountain. There is only one gated entrance, and that is guarded by a force whose numbers are a complete unknown.”
“I am very serious,” Ryl retorted. “You can’t tell me there is no escape when I sit before you today. It is true, the palisades are thick and the Pining Gate represents the only entrance. The numbers of the guard though, is no mystery. Isn’t that right, Andr?”
The mercenary smiled as he nodded his head.
“Aye, that’s right, Ryl,” he said, sitting forward in his chair. “At any point in time, there are just shy of ten thousand stationed throughout the city and the fortifications that surround it and the port. Combined, nearly one thousand patrol the walkways atop the palisades. Less than one hundred remain inside the walls.”
Nielix shot forward in his chair, mouth opened to fire back at the statement, yet it was the voice of Counselor Lenu who spoke first.
“You don't think they will just open the gates for you, do you?” she posed.
“No,” Ryl admitted. "Not without convincing."
“And how do you think you'll convince them,” Nielix hissed. “They will not reason with you. To them you are nothing more than a crop to be harvested, used up and then cast aside.”
His barbed words were meant as an insult, meant to sting, yet Ryl hardly noted the slight.
“I feel you've underestimated the possibility of change,” Ryl explained. "The day before my Harvest, The Stocks was forced into appointing a new master, a man whom I've come to know personally. This man also holds the position of the Captain of the Guard and the garrisons at Cadsae Proper.”
“Just because you know the man, it doesn't mean he won't have you cut down on sight,” Lenu commented.
“That is a fair point,” Ryl admitted. “Yet if not for the compassionate attention of this captain and his appointed officers, I would have perished in captivity.”
“Even if this captain holds sway over some, there are likely many more who will oppose,” Irie intoned. “The King in particular. Are you willing to draw blood for this? Once it has been shed, there's no turning back. Not for you. Not for us.”
“Blood has already been spilled. Time and time again,” Ryl argued. “Countless families have been slaughtered mercilessly for the unwanted and unplanned alexen in their child’s blood.”
Anger had been building inside of him at the thought, and Ryl’s responses were flavored with more force than he'd intended. Taking a deep breath, he regained control over his surging emotions, sending a wave of reassurance over those assembled in the room. If Paasek noted, his face never betrayed his acknowledgement.
“There is no turning back for me. My hands were bloodied before I left,” Ryl spoke softly. “The old master sent assassins to murder me in Tabenville, the northernmost settlement. It was by my hands they died.”
Andr's eyes went wide at the statement. Ryl had never mentioned the assassination attempt to anyone. He stopped short of recounting the master’s demise.
“There will undoubtedly be some with which a show of force will be necessary,” Ryl growled. “I believe this can be accomplished with little to no loss of life.”
Paasek nodded his head slowly in understanding, the devious smile growing on his face.
“You forget that to virtually all outside of the walls of this city, the phrenic don't exist,” Ryl reiterated. “All record of their society, their deeds, their powers, even the name itself have been erased from the annals history.”
Silence descended upon the room. Ryl again scanned the faces of those assembled, finding hope added to their list of emotions that played out across them.
“Nielix, you are aware of what the phrenics of old could do, were you not?” Ryl asked the Vigil. The man shook his head slightly as his face wrink
led into a look of scorn. “What was your reaction seeing what powers Paasek and Kaep still held?”
“Disgust. Betrayal,” Nielix hissed.
“Set aside your petty hatred for a moment and answer the question,” Ryl commanded. “Were you surprised by what the phrenics could do?”
“Yes,” Nielix screamed. “I don’t see what the point of this is, boy.”
“The point of this, Nielix, is simple,” Ryl barked back at the condescending Vigil. “You’re a trained soldier. You’ve been raised in a society where powers like you witnessed were once a fact of life, and yet still you were surprised. What reaction do you think would be garnered from a public who has never heard of these powers in anything other than myth or wild fantasy?”
Nielix remained in his chair. Ryl thought he caught a brief glimpse of understanding flash across his face. Whatever the fading emotion was, it was quickly replaced by an air of annoyance.
His point had been taken.
“It may not take more than a simple demonstration of these powers to command the entirety of the guard to lay down their weapons,” Ryl spoke to the crowd. He needed to add no additional persuasiveness to his voice; his words commanded attention.
“And what if they don’t run? What if they don’t cower before the almighty phrenic?” Nielix asked quietly.
“Though they’ve caused more pain through inaction or deed than I can likely forgive, I do not seek their deaths,” Ryl admitted. His voice was quiet, yet it echoed through the crowded chamber. “If it’s a fight they desire, it will come for them at a catastrophic cost.”
For a moment the room stood in silence. Not so much as a hushed exhale was audible through the chamber.
“Assuming you can gain entry into The Stocks, how will you go about rounding up the tributes? And how do you escape?” Irie pondered. “Though the guard may be pacified, resistance from the King will not be so lenient. They will assuredly not let you parade through the city to freedom.”