Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3)

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  To confront another of his fears, he guided his mount to Marah’s window. Strands of her straw-colored hair danced in the breeze. She rested her cheek on the windowsill and watched the Paltiel Woods. Mount Teles dominated the horizon. Snow covered the peak year round.

  He asked, “How shall I address you?”

  She blinked a few times. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you Marah of Narbor? Lady Marah? When Edan led our knights against the Roshan, we addressed him as Sir Edan, but some just called him Reborn.”

  “I’m Marah.”

  Lahar nodded.

  “What do I call you?”

  “Lahar.” You called me the King without a Crown. “Just Lahar. Did your teachers tell you the history of the Forbidden City?”

  “Dura reads the histories to me, but she never said it would be so peaceful. The trees don’t make a sound.”

  “More quiet than they normally are. The purims usually hunt the plains.”

  “They are all off in the west, fighting.”

  “They are, are they?”

  Marah nodded absently. He wanted to argue, but her assuredness stilled his tongue. Once again, he found himself believing her. Trying to downplay the idea, he told himself that she believed what she said. The lie soothed him for a bit until his unease returned.

  The clop of horse hooves and chatter of the soldiers destroyed the silence. Lahar thought back to his lessons, years before, when he learned about Jethlah ending the Age of Chaos and building Shinar’s walls. He couldn’t recall all of Jethlah’s miracles, but he doubted if talking to the dead was one of them.

  His nerves gave way to a kind of peace. Marah’s powers would shape the kingdoms of Argoria for generations, and all he could do was wait for her to grow into them. Still, he kept glancing at her, wondering what lives she lived inside her head. What kind of thoughts did the girl have? What kind of dreams? She would be difficult to protect. His life might have been easier if he’d convinced Samos to adopt him instead. He could have been a decent king in Ironwall.

  Later that day, the knights took a shift walking their mounts to let them rest. Annrin sent her bear ahead so it didn’t spook the horses. She walked beside him, and he sensed hostility coming off her every time he glanced at the sedan chair.

  Annrin whispered, “You are afraid of a little girl.”

  “She’s so young. At least Dura looks like she earned her powers.” Lahar made a point of looking at Annrin instead. “Do you think Marah really talks to the ghosts of Shinar?”

  “Does it matter? I mean, in the grand scheme of things? Who cares about her imaginary friends?”

  “My father might be one of those ghosts. He might be trapped inside a beast.”

  “You can’t do this to yourself. If we could destroy the beasts, we would.”

  “I believe her. I believe she talks to the dead. She knows things she shouldn’t.”

  “Well, look at who raised her. You can’t expect her to be normal.”

  As they neared Mount Teles, his thoughts drifted to the White Gate and the elves that had fought to protect Marah when she was a babe. Lahar dreaded them as well. The great white peak bursting through the clouds provoked thoughts of the seraphim and the Seven Heavens. Legends claimed the door to the Seven Heavens rested at the apex of the tallest mountain in creation. He squinted at the clouds and wondered what Ithuriel wanted.

  Why did he warn me?

  III

  After a month on the plains, the caravan passed the tree line into Paltiel. Marah marveled at the great oaks, which grew thicker the farther they traveled. The trunks began as slim stilts and grew larger until they were the size of towers. The soldiers diverted their path around roots like gnarled giant’s toes. When they passed through the shadow of Mount Teles, the wildlife fell silent.

  Marah hummed at the tranquility. The voices were gone, truly gone—no tricks or meditation or sorcery. She was alone in her own mind. Her thoughts belonged to her alone. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the coolness of the shade and the occasional warmth of a ray of sunshine. She leaned her cheek against the window pane.

  Dura asked, “What has gotten into you?”

  “Paltiel is perfect.”

  “Wait until you see Telessar.”

  “Why are we going to Telessar?”

  “I need to show you something, and we might not get another chance.”

  Dura studied her without saying anything else. Marah went back to her window.

  A week later, they approached Telessar, the Forbidden City. Elven sentinels met them in the woods and escorted them along a wide dirt path to the gates of the city. Massive black doors with iron bands were built into a great white wall that stood at least fifty feet tall. Close to its base, they could not see the city beyond, but they gathered at the foot of Mount Teles.

  At the gates, Marah and Dura exited the sedan. The sentinels knelt before Marah, which caused the Gadarans to murmur. In Ironwall, Marah had met a few elves, but she was taken aback when the warriors knelt.

  “Reborn, you and your mentor are welcome in Telessar.”

  “Thank you?”

  “The others must remain outside.”

  Marah turned to Dura, but Dura stood two steps back with her head bowed. She was leaning more than bowing and rested her forehead against her staff. Marah didn’t know what to do, and for once, the voices didn’t prod her in the right direction. She sucked in her lips and looked around for help.

  A sentinel asked, “Do you wish to see the city?”

  “Yes. Please,” Marah said. “Thank you.”

  “I envy you, Marah of Narbor.” He ushered them forward. “To see Telessar for the first time is a great gift.”

  The black gates whisked open. Marah started at the well-oiled hinges because all the gates in Ironwall creaked and clacked. They were heavy things accompanied by the sounds of gears and chain, but the elven gates appeared weightless. Beyond them, she caught a glimpse of white towers. Dozens of sentinels stepped forward to block the Gadarans while one elf escorted Marah and Dura inside.

  Lahar stood with his men and watched the black gate close. He heard a soft catch as the doors met, which amazed him because they were at least two feet thick. His gaze traveled up the gatehouse and across tree branches towering over the wall. He thought of climbing a tree and followed a series of branches to a trunk that led back to the forest floor. Annrin stood at the base, watching him.

  She said, “Don’t think about it.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “They won’t let me inside. If they see you climbing a tree, you’ll be dead before you get your boots off the ground.”

  Lahar looked at the gate. “Don’t you need to know?”

  “Few ranger lords have been invited inside.” Annrin drew closer, and their shoulders touched in conspiracy. She whispered, “Klay hasn’t been inside, so I doubt they’ll show me favor. Only Broin knows Lord Nemuel better, and he’s never been inside either.”

  “I fought beside Nemuel once. My father never liked him. Do you know it has been generations—and I mean centuries—since an elven king visited Shinar? They send lords instead.”

  “It is the same in Ironwall. Elven kings are a mystery.”

  “We defend the mountain for them. Over twenty generations of my family maintained the Eastern Defense, and I’m not allowed inside?”

  Annrin’s hand found his. “They would say we are the ones attacking it.”

  “I’ve never raised a hand to them.”

  “They make no distinction between Shinari and Roshan. To them, we are all Avani.”

  “But Marah is invited inside?”

  Annrin hummed an affirmative.

  Lahar struggled to keep a straight face. The heir of the Baladan Dynasty, who had pledged service to the elves centuries before, was barred entrance, but the heir of the Roshan Empire, which wanted to raze the cit
y, was given access. Envy diminished him, but the thought continued to nag. He dwelled on the fact that Azmon’s daughter had seen the Forbidden City before him.

  Annrin squeezed his hand. “She is Reborn.”

  “Why do they care?”

  “There is an old legend, that Archangel Ithuriel ended the elven civil war. As penance, he charged them with protecting the mountain and the Reborn.” Annrin shrugged. “There is another legend that the Reborn are part elven. And a fishmonger once told me that, all across creation, the elves collected the Reborn to unite the best of the Avani.”

  “I doubt they’re that stupid.”

  “Why is it stupid?”

  “Emperor Azmon is a Reborn. Maybe he was a hero as a child, but he betrayed them and the seraphim years ago. Not all Reborns are good.”

  They both grew quiet, and Annrin whispered, “Maybe they were killing the bad ones.”

  Marah pivoted her head all around, trying to take in the sights of the city. With her clouded vision, she struggled to see far, but little details stood out. The pathway of cobblestones and moss was smoother than any she had known—her feet never snagged a stone. The city wound around the mountain, like Ironwall, but Ironwall seemed a poor imitation of Telessar. Ironwall was a place of steep walls and terraces, a city cut into the stone whereas Telessar became an extension of the mountain, and the fabled white spires aided this illusion. Dozens of them circled the trail up the mountain, and to Marah’s limited sight, they seemed to guard more gates. They were shaped like the great oaks of Paltiel but decorated with golden leaves.

  Marah asked, “How did they make the spires?”

  Dura said, “When we get closer, you will see. The stone is white and seamless. They have no buttresses either. The elves guard the secret of their construction. Many Avani have sought to build similar spires, but they always topple over.”

  “Why do they sparkle?”

  “I’ll show you when we get closer. The vines are golden too.”

  “Metal leaves?”

  “They say the leaves are alive, a present from Alivar. They protect the walls against the Runes of Dusk and Dawn.”

  For the first time in her life, Marah wished she could hear the voices. She had not realized how often she relied on their help, but she wanted to know if the story was true. Had Alivar breathed life into golden vines?

  Dura pointed at one of the largest spires. “That is our destination.”

  “What is it?”

  “You will have to see it to understand. Words don’t do it justice.”

  They climbed the path up Mount Teles and wound around the side of the mountain. She noticed few elves, and Marah became less interested in the city and more concerned about the distance. She wondered if the sentinels might carry Dura the rest of the way, but she feared angering Dura with the request.

  They passed a gate, and one of the larger spires stood hundreds of yards away. As they drew closer, Marah sensed a heaviness in the air. She wondered if she sensed elven sorcery. Something powerful slept in the mountain or higher up the mountain. She couldn’t tell but reached out with her senses to find its source.

  Who? A deep voice seemed to yawn. Who are you?

  Marah froze. The words had a timbre unlike any she had heard before. They conveyed a vastness, and she feared she was making a terrible mistake. Her instincts told her to run, and she stumbled a little beside Dura.

  I am Marah of Narbor. Who are you?

  I am Ashtaroth, the Cloud Queen.

  An image came to Marah, of a frigid white place. A serpent with white scales coiled around a warm light. Everything else was white clouds and snow. The wind howled, and Marah shivered despite the fact that she was not cold. She marveled at the clarity of the image because her own eyesight had never been so detailed. None of the voices had sent her such beautiful pictures before. She thought she might be looking through another’s eyes, and she slowly realized the voice came from the scales.

  The serpent spoke to her. The image blinked from white scales to darkness. Marah spoke with a dragon.

  Ashtaroth asked, Why have you come?

  I was brought. You sleep around the gate.

  I guard it from foolish mortals. I sense your rune, prophetess. It disturbs my slumber. Take it away from here.

  We will leave soon. We head to Shinar.

  There is great evil there. Demons walk in the flesh of men.

  I know. Evil and sadness.

  Fire will cleanse the city, but the sadness will always remain. Your kind should have never been taught the Runes of Dusk and Dawn. Tell me, young one, do you know the Riddle of Runes?

  Marah struggled to remember her lessons and all the long lectures from Dura and Larz. She felt certain she had never heard the phrase before, but she did not care to admit that to the dragon. A sense of its power made her wary.

  Alivar knew the riddle, Ashtaroth said, but Jethlah and Jace did not. What is the Source of Sorcery? Where did it all begin? When you know, I will allow you to see the gate. Come without an answer, and I will destroy you.

  I don’t understand.

  I’m tired. Begone.

  The connection broke. Marah struggled to speak to Ashtaroth again but hit a wall. She fumbled with her instincts and realized the dragon was stronger than Archangel Ramiel. Nothing she did could force the dragon to talk. She gazed up the mountain, seeing a green blur and sunlight sparkling off white spires. She wondered where dragons came from. She knew the history of the Avani and the nephalem, but she didn’t know the history of the dragons.

  Dura asked, “What is wrong?”

  “There’s a dragon on the mountain.”

  “How do you—never mind. I need to stop asking that question.” Dura took Marah’s hand. “Do not worry. She sleeps.”

  “I don’t like her dreams.”

  Dura opened and closed her mouth. She directed her confusion up the mountain. Together, they watched the heights before Dura led them toward the spire and they passed through another set of black doors.

  Inside, the walls were lined with an endless corkscrew of shelves. Some were stuffed with leather-bound books, others with scrolls, and near the bottom, the shelves contained clay tablets aged into stone.

  Marah could not see the top of the spire, but the echoes of her gasp carried upward longer than she thought possible. “What is this?”

  “The elven library. It’s what your father wants.”

  “How many…?”

  “If they’ve counted them, and I’m sure that they have, they won’t share the numbers with us. The elves learned from the seraphim. They use information to control.”

  “And they just let us in here?”

  “I could study for ten lifetimes and not learn it all. They consider our lives to be too short to be dangerous. You could spend one lifetime trying to find the scrolls you need, let alone mastering their contents. It makes the library in Shinar seem childish.”

  “I cannot see the top.”

  “That’s a pity, child, because I can’t manage the ramp. At the very top of the spire is a dome that sits on three hundred small columns. At midday, when the sun hits the spire, it looks like all the marble is floating on a halo. Can you see the beginning of the ring, there on the far side?”

  Marah shifted her head left and right, but all her eyes saw was a brownish shadow atop whitish blurs. She thought it might be the ceiling and walls. Her eyesight infuriated her.

  Dura said, “You must remember this place. You will need answers when I am gone.”

  “You won’t go anywhere.”

  “We both know I’m dying.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “You must. If I wanted to be like your father, I would have prolonged my life when I was young and strong. I won’t spend eternity struggling to walk across a room.”

  This is why she brought you here.

  Marah
halted and wondered whether the voice was the dragon again. She didn’t recognize it, and in her confusion, she wondered whether elves were speaking to her or if, maybe, her own voice had spoken. She could not say where the voices began and her own thoughts ended. They seldom lied to her, though. At least, she hadn’t caught them lying to her.

  Marah asked, “Is this why you brought me here? To say good-bye?”

  “So insightful for one so young.” Dura ran her fingers through Marah’s hair. “I wish you talked like a little girl.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “I know, and I apologize. If I could give you a childhood, I would. Your father conquered all of Sornum trying to find scrolls like these. Had he listened to me when he was younger, he could have walked in here and explored the collections. The Ashen Elves welcome the Reborn into Telessar.” Dura inhaled deeply and sighed. “But he was on Sornum and feared the stories of the Forbidden City. The elves can be cruel to outsiders. Instead, he turned to the shedim for runes. They promised a faster path to power.”

  “Why does he want these scrolls?”

  “He thinks they hold great power, enough to defeat the seraphim.”

  “Do they?”

  “The angels would never trust mortals with that knowledge, not even the elves.”

  “He must know that.”

  Ambition blinds him.

  Dura said, “He is desperate. You can’t predict what desperate people will do. They often destroy themselves and drag others down with them.” Dura held Marah’s shoulder with an uncomfortable fierceness. She kept squeezing the flesh and shaking her head. A tear dripped down one of her cheeks. “There just isn’t enough time to prepare you. You must live with my mistakes. I’ve burdened you with a terrible mess.”

  “There is plenty of time.”

  “I should have killed Azmon when he was a boy.”

  Marah didn’t know what to say. She stood on the far side of an unspoken chasm. The history that Dura shared with her father added weight to the room—a lifetime of secrets lay between them. She couldn’t appreciate the intimacy of their feud although she witnessed the pain it had caused. Dura’s voice trembled, and Marah had no power to stop her tears.