Come. Receive your Calling. We await you.
So, to the Golden Sepulcher he would go.
~
Red skies lit the world from above, red fires from below. The Golden Sepulcher was gone, and rising amid the ruin of its former existence was a rough chapel, dedicated to the Aura and their Creator. It was sunset, many days after the fall of the Golden Nation as the Kinn had always known it. The world was in turmoil, but somehow it didn’t matter… for in the chaos, the Kinn had found freedom.
Just as Tressa had.
Months before, she had almost died… almost… in the test designed to raise her from an Acolyte to a Pit Strider. She had endured nameless horrors and countless pains; she had traveled through fire and shadow. The paths she had taken when she awoke from the horror, friendless and abandoned, she would never speak of again. But she had found a new hope, and that had sustained her when the darkness could not.
She served the Aura, now. She Strode Spirit. She was… for the first time in her life… truly free. Now she sat at the door of the small stone chapel, sackcloth robe blending in with the shadows at the wall’s edge, watching the sun set on another day of penitence and waiting.
Waiting. And hoping.
Without warning, the chapel wall at her back grew hot, and an ethereal glow shone from the open entrance out into the waste beyond. Tressa turned to look inside, careful not to put weight on the stump of her hand. It was so bright… she couldn’t see…
But wait. There were forms within that brilliance… three of them. Three spirits… in the chapel…
Blessings of Light, she thought, the Aura have come at long last!
The glow faded somewhat, as the three forms resolved into solid shapes. They were like men, though taller and stronger… and brighter than any Tressa had ever seen. One resembled a man, one a nymph, and one a Kinn like herself. The man wore gray, had a merry face, and a long cap; the nymph wore brown and had skin like smooth bark; and the Kinn wore a silver cloak and hood, and looked peaceful… but sad.
The Gray Aura, the Brown Aura, and the Silver Aura. Tressa turned away, sitting down outside the chapel again. Excitement made her heart throb, and her veins pulsed with fervor. The few Faithful shamans had left the chapel for the day. Why had the Aura come now? They must know she had seen them… the Aura knew everything… so why were they here?
She was still thinking about it when the three glowing spirits exited the chapel, walking past her with mere inches to spare. They assembled some yards away, gathered as if waiting for someone else… perhaps another of their own kind? Tressa could have sworn the one with the friendly face winked at her as he passed. So they did know!
The moon came out, as the wind blew ever softer and Tressa waited ever longer. The sun was about to dip past the horizon when someone at last came into view, walking slowly around a large heap of rubble that had once been the Sepulcher’s prison chambers.
The someone was a he; he wore a ragged black jacket and pants, and though he looked young, he used a staff to support himself as he walked. Tressa stared hard at him from the shadows of the chapel. His wild, dirty blond hair… his smudged, tired face… his ice-blue eyes… did she know this human?
With a shock, she realized she did. It was the boy who had taken her hand. The beginnings of a scraggly beard clung to his chin, but he was one and the same. He… is of the Aura?
It made sense, in a way. As Tressa herself had repented… so had he.
The boy stopped when he saw the three Aura. He bowed low, greeting them in words too quiet for Tressa to hear. The Aura responded one at a time, raising their hands as they did so. Though she could not make out the words, she heard their melody and felt their power.
The Silver Aura spoke first. His voice was filled with solemnity and gravity. He spoke of responsibility. He spoke of love. He spoke of duty. And he spoke of blessing.
The Brown Aura was next. He spoke but once, and Tressa felt healing wash over her as he did.
The Gray Aura spoke last. His words went on for a long time. He spoke of all things past, all things present, and all things yet to come. He spoke of the broken world, and he spoke of the new glory that would rise from it. He spoke of challenges and fears, of victories and defeats, of honor and power and praise.
As he finished, the Gray Aura pointed to Tressa. The boy looked; she felt a shiver as his eyes fell on her, but all his glance spoke of was sorrow, and remorse. He nodded, and then bowed low before the Aura once more.
To Tressa’s utter surprise, they bowed back. Then they blessed the boy. He was weeping. She watched, hardly noticing it as she herself wept with them. Then they joined hands, Silver, Brown, and Gray, as their glow grew brighter and brighter… too white, too pure to look upon… Tressa closed her eyes, weeping from joy and sadness at once… and when she opened them again, the Aura were gone.
The boy was walking towards her. She did not bother to get up. He was close enough, and there was no reason for her to run, not if he was truly of the Aura. He put down his staff and knelt in front of her. He said nothing, though she saw a hundred emotions in his eyes, merely taking the severed stump of her hand and quietly holding it in both of his.
Yes, repentance had come to him as it had to her. He was, in his own way, apologizing for what he had done. After the passing of a minute, the boy let go, rising up and turning away. He put out his hand, and the staff leapt off the ground into his grip. He entered the chapel, and Tressa saw the door glow with white light once more. When she got up to look inside… he was gone.
She sighed, wiping her eyes of their tears…
…and saw that her hand had been healed.
Epilogue, Part Two: Initio Ultem
Lauro Vale, Emperor of Vastion, woke with a start. He sat up in bed, searching the shadows of his chamber for any sign of what had disturbed him. His queen, Avarine, slept soundlessly beside him. He made no move to wake her; his rest had been more than fitful, of late, and it would be unfair to spread his anxiety to her.
Lauro quietly slipped out from under the covers, putting his feet into boots that always lay ready beside the bed, and throwing on a light vest of everweave that hung on the post. He got up, absently scratching the new-grown beard he had let come in. Avarine liked it, so she said, but he found it uncomfortable.
He walked silently across the carpeted palace floor, heading for the far door, his thoughts a million miles away. In the years since the Day of Norne, he had still not regained his ability to Sky Stride… but sometimes, on nights such as this one, he felt… something. A wisp of awareness across his mind. A shred of his former power. Or so he hoped.
Through the arched door, Lauro swept aside the curtain that blocked the way to the balcony. It was one of many set in the palace wall, and he had lately taken the habit of coming here whenever his sleep was perturbed, which was almost always. The soft light of moon and stars poured down over the Emperor’s form as he walked. He moved to the balcony’s edge, leaning forward on the stone railing, his gaze sweeping the night-clad rooftops of his Royal City.
So much had happened. After the King of Storms had died away, Vast had been an ashy graveyard of old sorrows and new hurts. He had raised a new, greater kingdom from those ashes: the Empire of Vastion. His wife, Avarine, had exerted a similar control over the nymph peoples, and led an Empire in her own stead, smaller, but no less vigorous than his own. Together, they had so much to be thankful for…
…but alone, he couldn’t shake the fear. Couldn’t shake the betrayal. Couldn’t shake the empty, hollow pain in his heart that had begun when Gribly abandoned him. He could only assume his friend had gone to stop the Legion… but it felt like abandonment all the same.
And Gribly had never returned. Ever. So he had failed… or succeeded, but died in the process. That hurt. Badly. Lauro did not think the hurt would ever go away. So he came here each night, every night, for almost a decade… and he cried.
Every night.
“It’s been a long time, Friend
,” said a voice.
Lauro spun, old instincts kicking in as he prepared to fight for his life. But no… there was just a tired-looking man, sitting on the edge of the balcony parapet, a gnarled staff propped up between his knees. A ragged mane of hair obscured his eyes, but there was something eerily familiar about that face…
“Who are you?” he asked hesitantly.
“I am… the Prophet,” the man said, raising his eyes to stare at Lauro, face to face.
“Gribly?” Lauro gasped in disbelief.
The figure shook his head, pulling his black coat a little tighter. Lauro shivered… it was cold out here.
“I bear no name,” the Prophet said in a low voice, “but in the past, I was called Gramling.”
Gramling.
“You… you’re the Prophet?” Lauro felt his heart would stop from the shock.
Gramling nodded. Lauro couldn’t help but notice how old he looked… not in his features, but in his eyes. So strong, so alive… but so old. He had seen things no mortal had seen… and he was far from the bitter, vengeful lad Lauro had come to know during the Last War.
“Then… then… Gribly…” Lauro couldn’t make himself finish the sentence.
Gramling- no, the Prophet- slipped from the parapet, standing at ease on the balcony, staff in hand. He looked Lauro straight in the eyes… and he told him the story. He told him, from beginning to end, all that the Aura had done, and planned. He told him of the legend of the Prophet, which he had fulfilled, and the legend of the King, which Lauro had fulfilled.
He told him of the Legion. He told him of the Last War. He told him of the final confrontation, when the Gray, Brown, and Silver united against the Gold. He told him of the Song of the Aura, and what it had meant for the rest of the world.
When he was finished, Lauro did not shed a tear. The hollowness inside him was gone, now that he knew the truth… but he felt more tired than he ever had before, in any battle. Is this what it felt like, Father? He wondered, and he knew. Is this what it was like, to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders… and know that you were alone?
But… I’m not alone. Not anymore.
“So… this is what you came back for, finally?” he said at last, when the silence grew too heavy to bear. “To tell me what happened, in the end?”
The Prophet shrugged. “You deserved to know. I would have come sooner, but my duties… had me occupied elsewhere.” His voice was quieter, now. “You were more than his friend, Lauro. You were the brother I was not.”
“Don’t say such things,” Lauro countered. “You stood by him when it counted. That’s all that matters. And I was never the best of friends, you know.”
“No one is,” the Prophet said. “All we can do is try. But you tried, Lauro. You really did.”
The Prophet fell silent, and for a time more they stood there, while Lauro wondered what to say. Was this a greeting? A goodbye?
“What will you do now?” he finally managed. “Now that you’re… what you are?”
“I will heal this land, as the Creator desires,” the Prophet said. “Day by day, act by act… it is all the greatest of us can hope for.”
“I… see.” Even though he didn’t… not exactly.
“But,” the Prophet added, “there is one more duty with which I have been tasked, and for it to succeed, I will need your permission.”
“Permission?” Lauro raised an eyebrow. Whoever the Prophet was now, he certainly didn’t act like the Gramling he remembered.
“Ker’junas,” the Prophet said. “The Midnight Sword. I am to take it, if you are willing, and remove it to a place where it shall rest undisturbed, until the end of time… or until it is judged to be needed once more.”
Lauro paused. Giving up the Midnight Sword was not what he had anticipated. True, his Empire had little need of it now… but in the future? They still knew nearly nothing about how it worked. Was this a test? Was the Prophet gauging his character, in order to determine his worthiness?
“Does… does this duty come from the Aura?” Lauro asked hesitantly.
“No,” the Prophet told him. “It comes from the Creator.”
Lauro could hear his heart thumping in his chest, so acute was the silence that followed. The Creator Himself!
“Take it,” he said. “Rid my kingdom of its dark power forever.”
The Prophet nodded, turning and walking to the edge of the balcony, where he vaulted easily onto its edge. Right, Lauro thought. Stone Strider. I’d almost forgotten. The Prophet turned, black coat flapping in the cold winter wind, and pointed the end of his staff at Lauro’s heart.
“Farewell, Lauro Vale,” the Prophet said.
“Farewell… Gramling,” the young Emperor replied.
Then, in a flourish of dark cloth and a rush of wind, the Prophet was gone.
~
The trees of the Highwood rustled in the cold night air, moonlight spilling down from their branches to illumine the path of the Prophet as he travelled. It was some distance from the Royal City, but after taking Ker’junas from its place in the Emperor’s palace, he had walked most of the night.
Distances were not the same for him, now. Striding was not the same. Living was not the same. Ultimately, he did not regret it. Someone had to carry the burden, and he felt almost glad… almost… that it was himself, and not his brother. But that was not a line of thought he wanted to pursue, and so he quickly dropped it. Besides, there was a journey of infinite length ahead of him, and strong as he was, he would need more than grace to see it to its end.
The Prophet continued on, far beyond the beaten paths of mortals, treading silently through leaf-strewn clearings and twilight-laden groves of silver light. He had come from forever, and had forever to go… but this was a single step. A small leap. The first of many journeys. He felt… at peace. Sad, but at peace all the same.
One does not need success, in order to thrive, he thought. One does not need happiness in order to find joy. One needs only to try, and be tried… that is where strength is found. And honor, and justice.
We strive for truth, and that is enough.
Through the forest he walked, coat fluttering in the wind, on his way to eternity. There was just one thing that still needed doing. That still required completion. Closure.
When will you free me, Son of Gram?
The sword sheathed at his back spoke into his mind with the voice of haunted sorrow. He ignored it.
Free me… I taste blood on you, Son of Gram. Blood. We are alike. Please, by all that is mercy… free me…
You know not who I am, the Prophet replied at last. The person who was, I have left behind. The man who was once called Gram has joined the Aura in their shimmering halls. The blood that you taste is false. It was washed away by a power greater than you. Greater than me. Greater than all of us.
But you could be greater, Prophet… you could be above all others… you could be a god…
Silence, Traitor. Your time for corruption is gone, and over. Whether you are the Red, or the Gold, or something in between… it matters not. I am beyond your temptations. For one reason, and one reason only, do I carry you.
No…
The Prophet’s voice grew in confidence as he spoke in his mind. To place you where none can reach you. To end your tainted influence. To hide you in the bowels of the earth, where the hands of the wicked will never touch you again. To begin this world anew… as is the Creator’s will.
With that, the enemy in the sword fell silent. The Prophet made no move to renew the contact… though he knew himself above its influence, there was no point in weakening his defenses.
He simply walked on, through the forest, through the moonlight, and that was enough. He was the Chosen One. The servant of the Aura. The mouthpiece of the Creator.
He was the Prophet… and he would not fail in his duty.
The End of the Beginning
CAST of CHARACTERS in SONG OF THE AURA
Allfar: One of the legend
ary Aura. Not much is known of him, but he is commonly associated with Wind and Sky elements, in the old rites. Spectansis is his Nymphtongue name.
Alwene: Mother of Gramling and Gramlen, wife of Gram. She died in the first burning of the Gray Cathedral.
Amarand: The cleric of the Zain tribe, and master to Variand, the Zain scribe. He is presumed dead after a Sea Demon attack.
Argoz Greenwood: The Cleric of Ymeer. Also succeeded Ymorio Highfast as the Dunelord of Ymeer. When Ymeer fell in the Last War, he led his people to the Grymclaw in pursuit of the Brown Aura’s protective Grove. Eventually he came under command of the Halanyad, and followed her to battle in mainland Vast.
Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six) Page 17