by Jacob Cooper
The High Duke allowed the informal use of his name as no one else was present.
“Let us not pretend your motives are altruistic,” High Duke Wellyn said. “I have not forgotten about my father.”
“Ah, yes, that little bit of unpleasantness. Really, it was a gift to you, it seems, yes?”
“Perhaps,” Wellyn said.
“Yes, perhaps.” Tyjil smiled.
Outside the doors of High Duke Wellyn’s personal chambers, a Khansian Guard gripped his spear with sweaty palms so tightly he thought it would splinter under his hand. The voices were muffled but the words were clear enough. Glancing to the left, he saw his counterpart standing at attention, a mirror of himself on the outside. But on the inside, his heart pounded like a stampede of wild horse herds on the plains of the Eastern Province where he grew up.
Being a Khan demanded unwavering loyalty to the High Duke. All his kind swore fealty and was not released from his duty until death took him. They were never to marry, never to father a child, or find themselves with any encumbrances whatsoever. Their sole purpose in life once taking the Khansian Oath was the protection of the High Duke of the Realm from any enemy.
The Khan knew this and had pledged his life to fulfilling that oath. He, however, had sworn an oath previously to joining the Khansian Guard that he knew transcended any other commitment; one that traversed the ages long before the Senthary ruled these lands. No one but another of his order knew the state of the world outside their borders. There was nothing left, no land that lived. The world was crossing the threshold of extinction. There was nowhere else to retreat.
The Orsarians had come out of desperation thirteen years past and been utterly defeated. Now, a new threat would come, one from the North. But the Khan knew this would not simply be a battle for land.
From the pieces of the conversation he had just heard, he knew he would have to act quickly. In these times, years passed away like hours. There was little time. He must be swift and return to his station with haste. If he were discovered absent from his duties, his life would be forfeit.
He would go tonight, once he was relieved. If he rode hard, he would meet his contact just before second moon and make it back for his next rotation shift at dawn. From there, a series of contacts would pass the message along to someone at the Jarwyn mines, though he did not know who. It was the way it had to be in order for the network to remain clandestine. Missing a night of sleep would be a small sacrifice to deliver his message, a message that might save this world from the clutches of the Ancient Dark and its Song of Night.
The Khan attended to the remainder of his duties until relieved and went to the war stables to find the fastest horse available. The steed was a thoroughbred, strong through the shoulders with a perfectly arched back.
“We are going to preserve the world tonight,” he spoke softly to the horse.
He mounted the magnificent beast and rode hard through the night.
SEVEN
Ehliss
Day 6 of 1st Low 407 A.U.
THE YOUNG TERRANIST STARED DOWN at her instruments with disapproval. She wondered how anyone could do any meaningful work with such crude tools. Were the measurements she took accurate? Ehliss had her doubts. She was certainly not confident about turning in one of her first reports out of the apprenticeship to the Ministry of Terran Studies based on readings taken by such outdated tools. She couldn’t even core a decent ice sample with such a dull pipe drill, never mind accurately measure the temperature or recession of the glacier’s volume. It had receded, of that much Ehliss was certain. She reminded herself cynically that other areas of study throughout the Realm were focused on more enthusiastically and were provided well-maintained tools and instruments.
No one cared much for the study of the great Glaciers of Gonfrey, not even most terranists within the Ministry itself. In truth, Ehliss believed that the only reason the Ministry continued to take readings of them was out of tradition. Some argued for the discontinuation of any focus on the northern borders of the Realm save for maybe an expedition every year or two. Even if that notion gained ground and was enacted, Ehliss knew that she would still come to visit the glaciers.
She had accompanied her father, the former Minister of Terran Studies, many times as a child on his various expeditions and the glaciers were always her favorite. They were beautiful and kind to her. Nonjudgmental. Understanding in all their serenity. Everything most of the world had not been to her. Sometimes she would speak to her mother out here in the great open expanse. The frigid air felt cleansing as the wind howled and somehow she felt closer to the other side, wherever that was. She had overheard her father do the same thing for years after her mother passed away. Ehliss was so young then. Only here, alone and amongst the grand things of the world did she remember what her mother looked like.
Something caught Ehliss’ attention from above. A large bird of some create was cutting through air and the long streaking clouds that resembled branching spears, the typical cloud formation for the Rising Season. The bird flew at extremely high altitude and faster than she thought was typical for any breed she knew of.
An eagle? she wondered. But its size was too great even for the largest cast of that species. And why is it heading north? There is no game on the glaciers. Ehliss thought, not for the first time, that there was perhaps something beyond the glaciers and that maybe the eagle, or whatever it was, knew something she did not. It was large enough to carry a person, she observed. Or at least it looked that way to her from so far below. None of the records of the Ministry gave even the slightest hint of anything beyond the glaciers. Many historians theorized that the Hardacheons had come from the north several millennia ago, but that would have been long before the land northward had cycled and entered an isolated ice age.
Both ecological and weather systems, as well as the terrain itself, varied with stark contrast on their continent. At the northern borders lay a land in an ice age covered in glaciers that most in her profession believed extended in total size larger than the Realm’s borders; to the south was the Schadar, a desert of such intense heat and dry conditions that none could survive there. Well, none but the Kearon, she reminded herself. And the Schadar was expanding, if the reports were true. But, she also knew the glaciers were receding. Slowly, to be sure, but she had found soil so fertile at the edge of the Gonfrey Forest that met the beginning of the glaciers that it rivaled anything she had ever seen in the Realm, even from the Western Province or the plains of the Eastern Province. This soil was where the glaciers had once covered. She wondered if the glaciers had simply shifted instead of receded, but the patterns she took note of did not suggest a glacial shift. She was so excited to report it to Minister Findlay.
She retrieved her field journal to try and sketch the large bird of perplexing create, but it had escaped her sight and melted into the northern horizon.
EIGHT
Shane
Day 3 of 3rd Rising 407 A.U.
THE MAN, STARING DOWN AS HE WALKED, made his way through the northern reaches of Calyn on his way to see Lord Banner Therrium. His shoes scuffled against the street that bore no stone, more of a cleared pathway to most of the Realm, making a dull scratching sound. Sighing heavily, the man tried but failed to exhale the desperation within him.
Though it was nearly mid-day, the clouds caught in the treed canopy high above had not yet begun to dissipate in the day’s heat. The gentle sound of branches rustling in the breeze and a light drizzle attended the city. Frequently, small spectrums of colorcast light were created as the sun’s rays broke through the trees and shone through millions of minute raindrop prisms. The man had not been to Calyn in over twenty years.
Calyn. The jewel of the Realm and state city of the Western Province. As all cities of the wood-dwellers, Calyn was part of the forest and nestled into the trees that surrounded and coursed through it. With a ceiling of thick branches and forest growth overhead, little direct sunlight made its way down into the citie
s of the wood-dwellers. The climate remained cool and the air humid as moisture dripped from the underside of leaves far above the cities.
Rain would permeate by gravity’s pull to the forest floor, but when evaporating, the layers of leaves and branches far above the ground would catch the vapors, turning them again to water. Wispy clouds formed on the undersides of the canopy, giving a slight haze layer that burned off in the heat of the day. This condensation provided a near constant light precipitation in the land. The height of the trees could extend a hundred feet or more before branches sprawled out from the main body, creating a natural canopy of flora throughout much of the Western Province. A wood-dweller city had all manner of buildings, roads and attractions, much as the cities of other provinces. Stone and concrete were used, but the erections constructed were carefully molded around the forest’s own creations, clearing as little ground as was necessary.
Nothing in the province, or the entire Realm of Senthara, rivaled the majesty of Calyn. Even the Duke’s palatial city of Iskele in the Northern Province, which was by no means bland, paled in comparison to the splendor of the West’s state city. The spires of the city reached to dizzying heights, in some places rivaling the height of the tallest trees, and were wrapped by vines and foliage of the forest in a circular ascending pattern. This effect was one of seeming acceptance and even protection of the city and her people by the forest itself. Calyn seemed to live and breathe as if it were a part of the forest’s symbiotic life cycle. With sprawling elevated highways among giant and ancient trees, aquifers as wide as small rivers, architecture that defied description, opulent industry, and rare species of wildlife ornamenting the Western Province and her cities at every turn, Calyn was indeed the envy of the Realm.
But, in the handful of cycles since Thannuel Kerr’s death, the city seemed to canker with decadence, a reversion from its lofty station, along with the name of Kerr. The entropy was slow and almost unnoticeable, but it was there despite the efforts of good men to uphold Lord Kerr’s ideals. This became increasingly difficult, as the mere mention of House Kerr would bring down derision and scorn upon anyone who dared allude to it. Lord Kerr’s plot to overthrow House Wellyn had been published throughout the Realm in painstaking detail. All of Senthara had seen the damning reports that were copied from the Archiver’s tablets and distributed widely. His family had not been incriminated in the reports, but irreparable damage to their reputation and standing had occurred.
All the houses of the Realm reacted with utter disbelief, initially even refusing to believe the claims made by the High Duke’s council, as if this were some elaborate hoax or grand misunderstanding. Slowly, however, the constant barrage of reports and new evidence that flooded the Realm convinced the vast majority of the population. Even those who staunchly refused to accept that Thannuel Kerr was capable of such devious feats were forced into holding their peace for fear of reprisal. Those who publicly stood by House Kerr dwindled over the cycles following his death until finally no one, not even in the Western Province, dared speak on behalf of House Kerr.
The man noted the magnificent architecture that adorned the city as he scuffled along, some familiar, some not. Its grandiosity did not captivate him as it once had. Much had changed since his last visit to Calyn. The slower pace of his fishing village, Faljier, on the west coast of the province suited him much better.
Ancient Heavens! Forgive me! he had pleaded inwardly with his head bowed low. His face wore the expression of a defeated and broken man.
His captors had assured him that instructions would come shortly, and word had indeed arrived by wing just four nights earlier. He remembered how his hands had shaken so violently as he broke the seal of a four-pointed star, the High Duke’s seal, and tried to read the words on the small parchment. He eventually had to set the message down on his humble wooden table and use small stones to spread it open in order to actually read it, so much did his hands tremble from adrenaline and disgust. The smell of the day’s catch had still lingered on the table, soaked into the wood. After he had read the message once, and then again, he threw the parchment with its words of mal-intent into the coals of his low burning fire. Though the parchment was quickly consumed, the ramifications of its words had hung heavy in the air.
“All will be well,” the short shriveled man next to him had said. His words were higher pitched and couched in the most annoying Sentharian accent that only those from the Realm’s capitol spoke. Tyjil continued: “You must do what your Liege commands. In order to accomplish your…assignment, you must become a new person. It is not so difficult, though I know it may seem troubling now. Put aside the fisherman and take up the hunter.” Tyjil grinned maniacally.
“I will not do it,” the man had said with his head still bowed.
“For their sakes, I think you will.” Tyjil gestured to the woman and two younglings, a boy and girl, across the room guarded between two large men, both Khansian Guards, though they were not in uniform.
“I didn’t realize the Duke’s personal guards had taken to kidnapping and extortion,” he said, finally raising his head. At that small show of defiance, one of the Khans removed a short blade from his belt and brought it to the boy’s ear. To his credit, the boy did not flinch or move.
“Shane!” the woman cried out.
“Now, now, I’m hoping we don’t have to resort to such—” Tyjil paused briefly. “Barbarism.” Addressing the boy he asked, “You are what? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Fifteen,” the boy answered, trying to make his voice as deep as he could.
“Ah what a delightful age,” Tyjil had replied. “Just about to become a man. You will find a young lady soon, no doubt, and children soon after! Oh, how wonderful it will be!” He turned his gaze back to Shane. “It will be wonderful, won’t it? You will comply, won’t you Shane? I think? Yes?”
Shane met his wife’s eyes. The pleading of a mother for her children had been there. “Ahnia,” Shane spoke and tried to continue but couldn’t. He raised his hand toward her, his mouth still trying to form words. In a way, he was asking for understanding, for what to do, for permission. How can I do this? How can I not?
With a terror-stricken face, Ahnia had nodded slightly but distinctly. “Yes,” she whispered as a tear spilled down her right cheek.
“Good!” Tyjil clapped his hands together. “Splendid, really.” He motioned to the Khan who held the boy to release him. “Now, let us see to your preparations.”
“Why me?” Shane had asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Why?” Tyjil scoffed. “Why? Because no one knows you and no one would miss you. How many people are in your little fishing village here on the edge of nowhere? The nearest neighbor is hours away, even for your speed. Could you even call this plot of dirt a village? Do not interpret our choosing you as any sign of importance. It is your lack of importance that is attractive.”
“What you ask is impossible! It cannot be done!”
“Nonsense,” Tyjil responded dismissively, taking on a more placating tone. “As I alluded to earlier, you must become someone else. A hunter. One who waits patiently and can weave a snare in plain sight without being noticed. I happen to be an expert in such things. You are quite lucky to have me as your mentor, really. Yes?”
When Shane had not answered, Tyjil accepted this as consent to continue. “Very good! Let us begin, yes?”
“I don’t understand why you are doing this. What is it that Lord Therrium has that threatens you so?”
“Take heart that you are involved in a grand movement that will change the Realm forever and bring a new era of prosperity. That knowledge alone should make you—” Again the High Duke’s advisor stopped before completing his speech and appeared to be in a thoughtful mode. “What is the right word? Content? Honored? No, not quite. Let me see … ah, yes. Proud.”
Shane had felt nothing of the kind, but did not ask any further questions.
Now, four days since that encounter, slowly but deliberat
ely, Shane made his way through Calyn toward Hold Therrium. He disdained what he was compelled to take on, to attempt, but he had no alternative. Not if he valued his family. He did not know all the details of his mission, but he suspected what they might entail. Lord Banner Therrium was not the man Thannuel Kerr had been, but he was still lord of his people, of his homeland. Any action against him was treachery; any action he refused to take would cost him dearly, in ways he was not prepared to accept.
Before arriving at Hold Therrium, he would seek out Lady Kerr for a purpose he did not understand, but it was not his purpose to understand, just to obey. Others would follow his arrival, he had been told. He must prepare the way, open the doors. This first step in a broader scheme would not take long, he had been told, perhaps a cycle, only a few span. Tyjil had warned him not to arrive before the Fourth Rising Cycle of the Moons, the last cycle of the season. This time was needed for the other aspects of the plan to be put in place.
He tried to steel himself as he walked but could not tear his mind from the disbelief of his circumstances, how they had changed in the recent days. By compulsion, he left his small village without his family and was now on an errand that betrayed both his family and race in order to save those he loved. The irony was not lost on him. It was a task that only a wood-dweller could possibly hope to accomplish, though the thought of it made him physically ill many times as he traveled down what he was certain must be a one-way path.
But what had Tyjil said? So many things that he inwardly recoiled from, but there was one thing that had found a small home in him.
“Eventually you will become what you think,” he had taught. “Though repulsive to you now, force yourself to constantly think about how you will accomplish your mission, not what your mission comprises. You will find an embryonic excitement that will grow as you nourish it. You will begin to become what you must, and you will start to revel in your new self.”