by Jeff Wheeler
Foolish of you to think that, Druidecht. Very foolish.
Annon saw the other one loom over him, coming down at blinding speed.
Khiara rushed to his side in an instant, holding her long staff between her fists in front of her, up at an angle so that the mouth could not close around her because the staff was too long and struck the inside corner of its jaws. The power of its strike knocked her down, but the mouth could not close around her. It recoiled and hissed.
Annon reached down and helped Khiara stand. “Fly!” he told her.
She inhaled deeply and shot into the air, rising above the boulders. Annon ran toward the shrine and saw a flicker of motion as the head followed him quickly. He dived to the side instinctively, just an instant before the head swiped down at him. He struck the sharp stones painfully and struggled to his feet. Fear made him quick. He had seen lizards stalk prey before and recognized the bobbing of the heads, the scuttling motion as they scrabbled from the top of the rock. Their necks were powerful and quick, their tails offering balance to keep from overshooting their victim.
He abandoned using the fireblood and sent out a call to the spirits of the mountains, pleading for help.
He runs! How delicious! Save the Preachán for later. He is hiding behind the rocks.
I want the Vaettir still. She would be very tasty.
I love how they wriggle. The one I ate is still struggling. We will gorge ourselves.
The panic inside Annon mounted as he glanced for a place to hide. The lizard-spirits were quick and crafty, coming down from the boulders and slinking swiftly to each side, trying to box him between them. Their plump tails dragged along the stones, speckled with black.
A rock sailed from behind the boulder and struck one on the side of the head. Erasmus grabbed another and prepared to hurl it too.
Khiara came down on one, jamming the end of her staff into its neck.
How pesky these mortals are.
Indeed. How tiresome.
The one she struck whipped its head around, snapping at her and Khiara barely managed to inhale fast enough to move above its reach. She began twirling the staff, getting ready for another lunge.
Nizeera launched at the one advancing on Annon, raking its side with her claws and teeth. It was like watching a cat attack a horse. It hissed, but the tail swished and swatted Nizeera away in annoyance.
Are you ready to die, Druidecht?
Are you ready to surrender?
Which do you prefer? The Arch-Rike will treat with you.
You could surrender.
Come closer and we will discuss it.
Come closer and—
One of the lizards writhed with pain and flopped on its back, twitching violently in spasms, its mind-shriek nearly knocking Annon down.
A slit opened up from its underside and Lukias crawled out, dripping with ooze and steaming in the cold air.
The other lizard-thing hissed with fury, rushing Annon viciously. As it lunged, Khiara’s staff came down on top of its bulging eye, smashing it. Again, another mind-shriek of pain that nearly bowled Annon over with its intensity.
Erasmus appeared at its tail and grabbed a strange metal object bound around it and tugged it off. It was a metal band, as thick as an iron collar but fastened to its tail.
“Annon, now!” Erasmus yelled.
He realized that the band around its tail was its protection against the elements. Annon raised his hands, spoke the words again in his mind, and unleashed a plume of fire into the lizard’s contorting bulk. This time the flames ripped into it, charring the scales and overwhelming it with pain. The creature thrashed recklessly, shrieking at the torture it was experiencing. It scuttled away from the plumes of flame, hissing in fury at him. It charged Annon, mouth gaping.
Scrambling backward, Annon unleashed the fireblood inside its widening maw. The flames wreathed around it, coursing and hissing, causing the beast to explode in a shower of ash. The flames consumed it entirely.
Annon retreated still, trembling, clutching the talisman around his neck. He knew he had almost died. He knew the Arch-Rike was expecting them and had prepared the creatures with protection against fire. He had nearly failed the others and doomed them to be ingested by giant lizards.
Lukias staggered toward him, his face pink with acid burns. He trembled as well, his eyes full of emotion and disgust at the ordeal he had survived.
“Khiara,” Annon said hoarsely. “Can you heal his injuries?”
She floated down gracefully, tossing aside her elegant staff. When her feet reached the ground, she rushed to Lukias who bent double and began to vomit. She gripped him by his shoulders, murmured soft words in the Vaettir tongue that Annon did not comprehend. But the effects of her prayer-like utterance were immediate. The acid burns on his cheeks, arms, and hands began to heal, fresh skin replacing the blisters. He continued to tremble as her power surged through him, calming him until he was resting in her embrace. Annon recalled the pleasure of being healed by a Shaliah and was grateful she had chosen to join them.
“Thank you,” Lukias said, bowing his head respectfully to Khiara. “The sensation of being healed so quickly is quite unnerving. I do not understand the power you possess, but I am in your debt.”
“It was freely given,” Khiara replied, rising and fetching her staff.
“What were those creatures?” Annon asked, staring at the gaping corpse of the one Lukias had slit his way out of. Erasmus knelt by it, studying it with obvious fascination. Nizeera prowled nearby, stalking back and forth and sensing the air for danger.
“I don’t know,” Lukias muttered. “I was not expecting them to be here. The protections I know of are inside the temple. They are equally dangerous, I assure you. This presages difficulties ahead. You recognize that, don’t you, Annon?”
The young Druidecht stared at the flat lake, dreading to go any nearer to Basilides.
“I do,” Annon answered softly, searching for a spark of courage in his heart to keep going.
“I heard this phrase once by a Vaettir, who are by nature very superstitious and believe in the existence of gods and spirit beings. It is wise nonetheless: Beauty is indeed a good gift of the gods; but that the good may not think it a great good, the gods dispense it even to the wicked. The same can be said for wisdom.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The encounter with Sanbiorn Paracelsus happened when Tyrus was twelve years old and lived in an orphanage in Kenatos. Even though Tyrus was young, he was uncommonly clever and quick to comprehend the world of adults. Though he lived in the orphanage, he was unlike the other orphans, since he still had family in the city. His older sister had brought her two brothers from Stonehollow when Tyrus was just a little baby, and so he had no memory of his birthplace. She loomed large in his life, a sister-mother who worked hard as an Archivist and was eventually chosen by the Arch-Rike himself to begin training as a Paracelsus. His sister was the most important person in the world to him, and he studied with iron will to master the lessons in the orphanage school so that he might be selected someday to become a Paracelsus. He was fascinated by the powers they manipulated. Occasionally, members of the order would come to observe the progress of the young. They were not easily impressed. Sanbiorn Paracelsus was one of those.
That autumn day, Sanbiorn arrived unannounced and began interrogating the students. He challenged them with material higher than their abilities and scoffed when they could not answer his questions. Sometimes he would withdraw a trinket from his voluminous robes and ask them to explain the swirling mist contained inside a gemstone. Some he would begin speaking to in Cruithne or Preachán to see what languages they had mastered. One could never anticipate the kind of questions he would ask. His intent and purpose was to make the students feel ignorant and unworthy. Tyrus hated him for it.
On that visit, Sanbiorn had begun quizzing other students but with lackluster enthusiasm. He was bored of them, he declared. No one had advanced very
far since his previous visit. He chided the schoolmasters for producing such an inept crop of students. He roamed the room, skipping several completely with only a look of distaste to signal his rejection. Tyrus clenched his fists, feeling his fingers tingle with heat.
Suddenly, Sanbiorn Paracelsus was standing in front of Tyrus, gazing down his long nose at the boy. “What hour does the south bell toll?” he asked in the Vaettir tongue.
Vaettir was Tyrus’s biggest strength. They did not teach it at the school. He had learned it from his sister. “Dusk in the winter. Dawn in the summer,” Tyrus answered.
The response caught Sanbiorn off guard. He switched his language to Cruithne. “What is the best stone used to harness emotions?”
“Diamond, for it will not shatter,” the boy replied in Preachán.
Again, a startled look. He proceeded in Aeduan. “What device do Lydian sailors use to navigate on the seas?”
“A lodestone compass, sir.”
“Describe the principles of the lodestone magnet, boy.”
Tyrus did, launching into an extensive treatise on the subject. Cartography and navigation had always fascinated him.
The Paracelsus’s eyes were gleaming. Not with pleasure, but rage. Sanbiorn started on another series of questions, all of which Tyrus answered without hesitating. His mouth went dry with the effort, but he kept the older man’s gaze, challenging him to test the depths of his knowledge. He would show him that he was not an ignorant little orphan to be intimidated.
Sanbiorn was growing flustered. Every question, regardless of the difficulty, was being handled by a mere child. There was a sickening pasty color filling his cheeks. His eyes bulged with animosity.
“Clever, are we?” Sanbiorn snarled, glowering. “Well then, how do you summon a Shain spirit? How do you trap it?”
Tyrus knew the answer. He nearly let it trip off his tongue. His sister had explained the concept of trapping spirits a year before and had used that exact example to educate her brother. Yet something about Sanbiorn’s expression made him pause. He saw that proving his mastery of the craft at a young age only caused the other to resent him. In showing off his knowledge, he was creating enmity.
Sanbiorn mopped his sweaty brow. “Well? Shain spirits. Answer me, boy!”
The room was so quiet, Tyrus could almost hear the sweat trickling down his own back. He realized with dread that he had been a fool to reveal how much he knew to another man, especially a Paracelsus. Would it not be wiser to be deferential to men with power? What good would goading them bring ultimately? A momentary thrill of self-satisfaction? Was that worth a lifetime of the man’s contempt? Why not appease the man’s pride instead? Make him feel important.
Tyrus realized, in that moment, the danger caused by succumbing to pride. He realized he was enjoying the humiliation of a man who held so many advantages. What a costly mistake that could be.
Sanbiorn’s expression began turning from desperation to triumph. He perceived the young man being flustered. He misunderstood it, but his emotions were too enraged to consider the facts. “You do not know? Really, I would think a little braggart like you would know something so simple.”
“I’m sorry,” Tyrus said bleakly. “There is so little…about that topic…here in the orphanage. I cannot say that I know even a portion of what you do.” He felt his neck itching from the writhing emotions inside himself. Let the man win. Let him triumph. Do not let him understand what you truly know.
“Of course you don’t!” he practically crowed. “Then I suppose you know little of Beetleflicks. Or Sylphs. Or any of the myriad wonders that exist in the wilds beyond Kenatos. Beings that would steal your courage in vapors of mist.” His voice lowered theatrically. “You do not know these things, boy?” A smile began to curl on Sanbiorn’s mouth.
Tyrus knew of them all. He stared helplessly at the Paracelsus, shrugging apologetically, feeling the scarlet rise to his cheeks. “I would give anything,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely, “To know what you know.”
Sanbiorn looked down at him smugly. His expression was completely altered from what it had been moments before. He glanced around the room disdainfully. “Someday, some of you may have the opportunity to study in the Paracelsus Towers. It is a great privilege. Only the best are chosen.” He glanced down at Tyrus who looked at him with wide eyes. “I do not know if any of you will qualify. Probably not. In the meantime, keep studying. Work hard. The Arch-Rike is a worthy master to serve. There are secrets of power that cannot be shared in a classroom and must be foraged from the ancient books left down to us. Obey your schoolmasters. They will tell us which of you may be worthy someday.”
Tyrus licked his bottom lip, nodding with every word. Sanbiorn left the classroom with the same huff of self-importance that he had brought with him.
The next month, Tyrus found himself apprenticed to the man.
One of the secrets to holding power over others was never revealing how much you really knew. That insight and habit, which Tyrus attributed to the classroom scuffle with Sanbiorn, had served him consistently over the following years. He gleaned what knowledge he could of others, but rarely shared what he knew himself. He found that the Paracelsus in the Towers loved to boast of their discoveries or the projects they worked on with or without the Arch-Rike’s express permission.
Tyrus, on the other hand, mostly communicated the problems he was having and solicited ideas on how to solve them. He had already solved them himself, of course, but he liked to validate his thinking and see if he had missed an interpretation that he had not considered. He developed a reputation for a curious mind and one who tackled large, thorny problems. His peers sought him out for advice. He would often listen to their thinking first, offer to ponder the problem for a few days, and then return with an answer that helped. Even if he knew the answer immediately, he would adopt a pondering look and promise to think about it. Often the inquirer would solve it on their own before he got back to them.
His own work he kept expressly secret, only sharing his ideas with the Arch-Rike who encouraged the ambition of the scale of his projects. The Arch-Rike was one man he respected and admired, for he too was a keen observer of the nature of those with power. Tyrus shared much of his work with the Arch-Rike and made sure that he benefitted from Tyrus’s inventions. But Tyrus always made two of everything he constructed. For example, the Tay al-Ard device. The Arch-Rike was the only other person who had the fully functioning kind.
One of the inventions he did not tell the Arch-Rike about was a soul-trapping stone. Since the craft of the Paracelsus involved trapping spirits into performing acts for a specified duration, he wondered if it would be possible to trap his own essence in a stone. His own spirit, for lack of a better word. He discovered the proper charm, a stone that was suitable for such an exercise, and crafted the small sculpted rock with the ancient Vaettir runes of power etched into it. He kept it always in his pocket, easily within reach.
When the Kishion had prepared to kill him, Tyrus had gripped the charm in his hand, squeezing it with all his strength. The force of his fingers had activated the magic. It was not instantaneous. It was not designed to be. But when the dagger had plunged excruciatingly into his back, he released his spirit into the stone, causing his body to collapse in the dirt. Just like a dead man. Any attempt to feel his pulse would indicate he had died.
From inside the stone, he was aware enough of his surroundings to feel the Kishion leave. He waited for good measure, just to be sure. Then deliberately, knowing the pain would return instantly, he used the charm to bring his spirit back into his body again. The agony nearly made him black out. He could feel his blood starting to flow again, sending dagger-pricks all over his body. The wound was deep in his muscles. His pumping heart would soon leave him dead. There were no lesser spirits of Mirrowen in the Fear Liath’s lair. As his eyes fluttered open and he felt himself dying again, consciousness fraying around the edges, he summoned the Tay al-Ard from the bottom of the churning waterfa
ll into his hand and invoked its power to bring him deep into the woods of Silvandom. A memory of the place was all he needed. It was a peaceful part of the woods, thick with friendly spirits.
Please, he beckoned with his thoughts. Please save me. I am a friend of Mirrowen. I release your trapped brethren.
The spirits of Mirrowen attended him immediately, healing the deadly wound.
Tyrus lay in the feathery growth, breathing deeply again, experiencing the fading of the agony in his back. The gash closed. The blood ceased to drain. He lay still, panting from the effort.
He wanted the Arch-Rike to believe he was dead. It would provide him time to set in motion the rest of his plan to conquer the Scourgelands and the Arch-Rike himself.
Phae heard the words from the man’s own mouth. “I’ve come for my daughter.”
It was her father. Tyrus of Kenatos. Tyrus Paracelsus. She stared at him in shock, her heart burning with a sudden unfamiliar feeling—hope. Her father had survived the Kishion’s attack. He was limping slightly, she could see that, but he had survived. It meant that the Kishion was not unstoppable.
The Kishion slipped off the saddle, fast as a hawk. He pulled Phae down, catching her before she sprawled on her face. His arm was made of iron and fastened around her neck and she saw his dagger appear in his other hand. He did not stop her from breathing, but he was clearly claiming ownership of her.
Tyrus held up his hand. “If I had wanted to steal her from you, I would have waited in the tunnel and touched her as you passed by. Hear me out, Kishion.”
She heard the Kishion’s breath coming in short puffs. “I have orders to bring her to Kenatos.”
“This is the only road to Kenatos,” Tyrus said. “With one word, I can collapse this tunnel and delay your journey back. I am here to make you an offer. I wish you to join us.”
The Kishion snorted. “I am loyal to the Arch-Rike. You waste your breath.”
Tyrus shook his head slowly. Phae’s heart trembled, wondering what he was going to do or say. Fighting him was impossible. She gripped the Kishion’s arm, but did not try to pull it away. Her knees began to quake. The dagger was near her. She saw it poised, ready to plunge into her. Please don’t kill me, she thought.