by Kal Spriggs
“You're saying that you are a Herald of the High Kings?” Aerion blinked in surprise.
“Yes. I come from a line of them and some of the best alive trained me,” Aramer said. He said it with a tone of utter seriousness.
Aerion frowned, the entire idea seemed preposterous. “So you travel the roads, and you do what Heralds did back then, you carry messages, you spy, and...”
“I'm no assassin, boy,” Aramer said. “I could be, but I would prefer to avoid resorting to that sort of thing. But, I will kill, both to defend myself and my secrets.”
“Would you kill me?” Aerion asked.
Aramer said nothing for a long moment, “I would really prefer not to.”
“Because you knew my mother?” Aerion asked.
“No, because you're a well intentioned lad and I see a lot of promise in you,” Aramer said. “And I have enough blood on my hands already.” He gestured at the chest next to him, “I'm glad you didn't try to open it, by the way. It's trapped and I'm fairly certain the poison I used would have settled the issue, whatever my preference.”
Aerion looked down at the chest, “Isn't that dangerous, what if someone...”
“Someone snuck around in the bushes and found my hidden spot and then decided to help themselves to the equipment here?” Aramer shrugged, “I would say they were probably up to no good and got what they deserved.”
“But...” Aerion tried to find the words.
“A man in my line of work must be paranoid. And if the occasional innocent man dies due to that, then it is one more death for my spirit to bear,” Aramer said.
“Wait, how would you dispose of the body? Especially if it were me, I mean, you'd be sure to be spotted trying to drag me around the woods,” Aerion said.
Aramer opened his mouth and then closed it, “You know, I hadn't thought of that.”
“Not such a good idea now, huh?” Aerion said.
Aramer shrugged, “We do the best we can.”
“You sidestepped my question,” Aerion said. “You said you knew my mother, did she know... all about this?”
Aramer stroked his jaw again. “You are terribly persistent.”
“Yes.”
Aramer waited a moment, then spoke slowly, as if measuring each word carefully. “Your mother and I met when I was your age. You no doubt heard that she left the village when she was younger?”
Aerion nodded.
“Well, for a time, she traveled with my mentor and I, as well as some companions of ours. She was not a Herald, though she did come to believe in some of our goals, and learn many of our secrets.” Aramer shrugged, “She was a good friend, though I think she didn't trust me, for some reason.”
“Like the fact that you are a liar and manipulate people?” Aerion said.
“Perhaps,” Aramer hid a smile. “You mother is... was just as straightforward as you. And my mentor... well he made me look downright honest.” Aramer said the word like a curse. “But I considered her a friend, which is why when she gave up the traveling life, I visited her from time to time, as often as not in search of help.”
“So what is this goal, this mission, you serve?”
“That, my boy, is something I can't tell you. Nor, as I'm certain you'll ask next, can I tell you why your mother gave up her adventuring days to return to Watkowa,” Aramer scowled, “In part, because she refused to explain her exact reasoning. But I will tell you that she never disagreed with my goals, only with her part in them.”
Aerion shook his head, “That's not enough. How can I trust you when I know that you've deceived me so far? For all I know, this is one more lie, one more deception.”
Aramer smiled, “It took you some time, but you have started to develop a proper level of paranoia. Be certain not to take it too far, though, or you will drive yourself mad. Trust me, it is a greater danger than you might think.”
Aerion stood from the stool, “I am serious, Aramer. I have no reason to trust anything you have told me.”
Aramer pursed his lips. “Very well. I will tell you this. My father, my mentor, seven other Heralds and their entire families all died because of something we learned. I am the only survivor of them all and only because I have hidden everything I am.” He pulled a pendant out of his tunic, “I wear this, a runic item designed to make me invisible to spirits and constructs, lest my enemies seek me out. I have not spoken my full name to anyone in over eight cycles until this rainy day to you.”
“I have carried out a mission given to my distant ancestor by High King Haden, the last of the High Kings. My family has stayed loyal to his commands for over a thousand cycles,” Aramer's face grew stern. “I will tell you this, boy. I said you could decide my fate, but I will not walk down into the camp and reveal myself. You may chose now, whether I leave here and never return or you allow me to continue my deception. Because I might as well cut my own wrist right here and now as reveal myself in that fashion.”
Aerion stared at him. He put his head in his hands and massaged his forehead against the ache in his head. “You put so much on me. How can I make such a decision when you won't even tell me what, or who, you are afraid of?”
“Because you must,” Aramer said. “I am involved in a mission which has lasted since Moral sundered the Starblade and ended the line of High Kings. It is a mission that will continue until I and those few other Heralds fall or finally succeed. And because, you know, Aerion, that what I tell you is the truth...” Aramer smiled slightly, “Or as close to it as I can tell you here and now.”
Aerion lowered his head. “I'm going back to camp. I'll tell them I had a dismal day in the rain and didn't managed to get any game. Only my ancestors know why I won't tell them about you.”
***
Seraphai of the Shrouded Isle
The Eastwood
Fifteenth of Eoban, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Seraphai looked up as someone cleared her throat outside of her tent. For a moment, she considered feigning sleep, but she discarded that thought. The keen ears of the Wold would have heard her stir. While they would politely accept the fiction, they would question her rudeness... and draw assumptions about how her blade had affected her. “Enter,” Seraphai said, her voice outwardly calm even as doubts coursed through her.
She had not expected the short blonde woman who didn't need to duck to enter the low entrance of the tent. Lady Amelia Tarken of Boir, Royal Guest to King Simonel, gave her a shy smile, “Hello, Lady Seraphai.”
Despite herself, Seraphai returned the smile. Something about the Boir noblewoman engaged her more than it should. That bothered her, especially because she knew at least some of that came from the young woman's talents with mind magic. “Hello, Lady Amelia. And... please, call me Seraphai, no one has called me Lady Seraphai in...” Her voice trailed off as she remembered the night that her entire life had changed. “Well, in a long time,” she finished lamely.
“I wanted to come by, to check to see if... well to see if you were alright,” Lady Amelia said. The concern for her struck her to the quick. Seraphai had heard of the terrible things that Xavien had done to her. She had also heard from Tirianis of the hours of labor spent in healing those mental and psychic wounds.
Seraphai shook her head, “I am...” her voice trailed off on the trite response she would have given anyone else... even Tirianis or Simonel. She realized that Amelia deserved more. Seraphai took a deep breath, “I am as well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“Which is to say that you are doing terrible?” Lady Amelia asked with a crooked smile. The tone of her voice made Seraphai snort with laughter.
“I think you've learned a bit too much of your bedside manner from my cousin Tirianis,” Seraphai said, after her mordant laughter eased. “But yes... I am not, perhaps, as light of spirit as my kin might wish, Lady Amelia.”
“Please, call me Amelia,” she answered. “I think that I've grown to enjoy the casual manner of the Wold.”
Seraphai nodded, “Yes, tho
ugh to some of them, even first names are far too formal.” She shook her head, “Which I can understand, it is something which they reject on a very instinctual level. It is part of what divides them an my own people.”
Amelia frowned at that, “I must confess, that is something that puzzles me. I know, from legend, that the Viani and the Wold are related and yet different, but I know little of the differences.” She flushed, “I said as much to Simonel at one point and he gave me a look like I'd peed myself or something.”
Seraphai snorted again, though this was more bitter than humorous. “Yes, the differences are blatant to us... mostly because we identify with those differences. And to tell the truth, to an outsider, they might seem minor or even indistinct.” She sighed a bit, “And some of those differences are linked to why the Wold live in self-imposed exile, here in the Eastwood.”
“They also don't like that name,” Amelia said. “They prefer...”
“The Folk of the Eastwood, yes,” Seraphai said. She shook her head as she thought about that, “With good reason, my mother's people gave them that label and the younger races of men adopted it. The Wold kept to themselves and so could not say contrary.” She sighed, “Wold is... something of a slur, I suppose. Yet it is how we view them and label them. It is how we perceive them on a level deeper than mere philosophy.”
“What does it mean?” Amelia asked.
Seraphai frowned and it took her a long moment to think through the tight knot of meanings attached to the term. “I think that 'forsworn' is as close to it as I can come in any language outside of Kalakhis Ena. Even that doesn't hold the overtones of betrayal that most of my people feel when they use it.” She shook her head, “It comes back to their differences. They rejected our way of life, rejected our beliefs, and turned their back on...” she shook her head, “I was born long afterward and even I'm not immune to bitterness over their actions. To say that some of my elders are still furious would be an understatement.”
Amelia looked puzzled, “Well, then, why are you so... amiable with Simonel?”
“It's a disagreement between our people, not between individuals. Certainly there are some Wold whom I would... not associate with,” Seraphai said. “In fact, there are some who would try my self control, which is one reason I've kept mostly to myself, here.”
“That explains it, though I wondered about the sword as well,” Amelia said.
Seraphai's hand dropped to the sword in question. “Ah, yes.” She took a deep breath, “The sword.” She gazed down at it, sheathed on her hip. “I take it you are surprised that I still bear it?”
“Somewhat, I thought that we managed to break its grasp on you,” Amelia admitted. Her tone mixed a sense of concern and worry.
“No,” Seraphai answered. “Though I wish you were right. Unfortunately, the blade's control is too strong. You broke me away from it... but you could not break it away from me, if that makes sense.” She took a deep breath, “You saw something of my doom, I think.” Her own memory of that time were blurred, as was common when the blade's influence over her waxed.
“Yes. I saw you leading an army, in the name of Andoral Elhonas.” At that name, the sword seemed to pulse. The air in the tent seemed to draw close and the afternoon light seemed to dim.
Seraphai shivered, “Yes.”
“Why?” Amelia seemed genuinely confused.
She thinks I have some choice in the matter, Seraphai thought. How did she explain seven thousand cycles of history in a single breath? “You've heard of... well, the one we call Kingslayer?” She waited for the other woman to nod. “He forged several blades, each to kill one of the former chieftains of the old tribes... to include the Maghali Mede.” She shrugged, “Kingslayer was one of the most skilled wizards who ever lived. Each blade was made with layer after layer of High Magic weaves. Each had its own series of powers... and he crafted the last to kill the Maghali Mede. Makhvili Dzala, the Blade of Power.”
“That's what you carry?”
Seraphai nodded, “There are a number of legends tied to it, to include those about who bears it in his stead. Prophesies abound as well...” She shrugged. “In truth, the important thing is that the Blade has a will of its own... a spirit of sorts and one that works to the Kingslayer's will.”
“And you are bound to that spirit?” Amelia asked. “Is there no escape?”
“Not even death,” Seraphai said bitterly. “And that I have tried. It protects me, even from myself. I have tried... numerous times. I suspect even were I to find death, I would find my spirit bound to it.”
“I'm sorry,” Amelia said. She seemed at a loss for words.
“Do not be,” Seraphai said. “I have lived a life longer than most people on this world could. I, quite selfishly, assumed that I would have far longer to enjoy, so the things that I will not enjoy are my own fault.” She shrugged, “And I am not resigned to my fate. I'm gifted with visions and there may be a way to stop this fate... or end it.”
“You and the wizard... Cederic?... that's what you're here for?” Amelia asked.
“Indeed,” Seraphai said. She felt a sudden pang of worry for Cederic. She had not been able to contact him in the past days. She worried what might happen to him, out there, where he would have to face their opponents more directly... and weakened as he was, so cut off from his normal power sources. “Which brought me here to save my cousin Simonel... and you.”
“I somehow doubt that I am that important,” Amelia said. “My father, perhaps, in a military sense. Me? I have done little of importance.”
“You will...” Seraphai said. She felt a surge of confidence, “I'm not sure what, or why, or how, but I know it. Before you discount yourself, think of what you have accomplished. You killed a man, protected as he was, with your mind magic. You have earned the title of Royal Guest of the King of the Wold, a feat bestowed on only a few dozen people in history, and you have managed to become something which I would say was impossible... you've earned my friendship.” Seraphai said the last with a sense of profound realization. “And I have no friends.”
“Not even Cederic?” Amelia asked.
“Cederic...” Seraphai trailed off. “Under other circumstances he might have become my lover... save the touch of any man loosens my own self control. I...” She shook her head and then gave a wry smile, “Well, I am not comfortable with that topic, ironic as it might seem in one my age.” She sighed.
“Well, thank you for your friendship,” Amelia said. She gave a fragile smile, “In truth, I have made more friends here in the Eastwood than I think I've had in my entire life.”
“Tirianis and myself?” Seraphai guessed. She did not mention how the other woman had not mentioned Simonel, just as Seraphai had not mentioned Cederic. The thought gave her some amusement as well as a bit of dread. Love between the Viani and the other races of man seldom went well, her father was the exception rather than the rule. In the case of the Wold, she would guess their inner savagery and violent emotions would make it an even worse pattern for long term happiness.
“Yes,” Amelia said, her voice soft. “Tirianis has been very good to me... and talking with her has helped.”
“She has many gifts,” Seraphai said. “Truthfully, I am surprised that she has not stepped into the place of the Enchantress, yet. Her gifts as healer, her skill with mind magic...” She trailed off. “But then, I suppose the spirits of the Eastwood will make the choice.”
“Oh?” Amelia asked.
Seraphai nodded. “With my people, such decisions are one of precedence and discussion. The Wold are more primal... the decision will come from the spirits, much like most of their decisions.” She shook her head, “Simonel told me of some of their prophesies... some of which harken back to a much more savage time.”
“Yet it seems to work for them,” Amelia said, her voice sharp.
Seraphai shrugged, “Perhaps. But some is nonsense and much of the rest is... distasteful. I don't mean to criticize, but compared to the magic my
people perform, it seems crude.”
“Compared to the Iron Wizards, much of their workings seem incredible,” Amelia said sharply. “It makes me wonder how you must see their efforts.”
Seraphai sighed, “I apologize. I did not mean offense... in truth, it is something of my people's curse... arrogance.” She took a deep breath, “And don't discount your Iron Wizards. Their artisan symbols are large and bulky but powerful and very efficient, something that no practitioner of magic will discount. Their Artificers are very methodical and they craft magical constructs on a scale that most of my people would think a fanciful tale. Everything from their ships to their casters.”
Amelia stared at her, as if uncertain if she was the butt of a joke. “You truly think that?” The uncertainty in her voice suggested that she wasn't quite convinced.
Seraphai sighed again, “Look, Amelia, I am not a wizard. I know enough to work some simple weaves. Nor am I a prodigious enchanter. I have some skill at mind magic and I have complete mastery of the mages arts. Still, believe what I said. The Grand Duchy of Boir has accomplished much... and most of that without the benefit of the knowledge of previous wizards to go off of. They practically invented an entire new branch of wizardry!” She shook her head, “I am impressed by that. Most of the Viani would admit to that, at least, even if the principles of it irritated them.” In truth, she thought it no mean accomplishment, especially given their lack of knowledge, short lifespans, and constant bickering.
Amelia shook her head, “That last was something of a backhanded complement. Still, I accept the apology.” Seraphai decided to keep quiet that it wasn't, really, an apology, so much as an explanation. It wasn't her fault that the younger races of man so often took offense at the truth. “Well, I was going to go to drink some tea with Tirianis... would you care to join me?”