by Matthew Wolf
“That’s amazing! To be born within the city of the elves, you’re so lucky. I can’t even imagine the stories you must have. Sometimes I wish that I was born an elf.” She realized it sounded silly, but Mura just looked at her, not indulgingly, but interested and she continued her confession. “Other times, in my dreams, I see myself as just a cloud and I whisk beyond the Gates to see what lies beyond Daerval.”
Mura smiled genuinely, “That sounds like a lovely dream. When the imagination has no answer for the unknown, what you see must seem limitless. Modesty aside, however, Farhaven is a world just like you imagined. A world of magic and one without limits.”
Ayva’s heart nearly burst hearing those words. “I knew it!” she said, gripping her skirts. I must sound like a little girl. “So, you knew Gray from Eldas then?”
“I wish,” Mura said, tossing another stick into the fire and brushing his hands, “Perhaps it would be easier to understand the boy, or at least to be able to help him with his answers, but I only met Gray once I came to the Lost Woods, so I don’t know where he lived in Farhaven, but he has the mark of a Reaver.”
“A Reaver?” Ayva asked. “You mentioned that before, I’ve never heard of it.”
Mura stared into the fire. “Casters and wielders of magic, the spark. They are few but powerful. They live in the great city of Farbs, but reside in the restricted and infamous Citadel, a great black keep in the heart of the desert city. It is the hub for all the human kingdoms, the capital and a great bastion of power, wealth, and knowledge.”
The words again flowed through Ayva, conjuring images. “Gray lived there then?”
“Likely, but he is nothing like a Reaver. Nor does he wield the power of one.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “It’s all magic, is it not? And why not a Reaver if he bears the mark?”
Mura shook his head, as if realizing whom he was talking to. She saw the look in his eyes. It was the same look her father got sometimes—like he was trying to piece out a puzzle in his mind. “Of course not, my apologies.”
“No, I want to know,” she pressed. “Please.”
Mura pulled out an apple from his pack. He carved it as he talked, offering a piece to her. “Let’s see, where to begin? The power of a Reaver is the power of the eight elements, fire, water…”
“… stone, moon, sun, flesh, metal, nature,” she finished.
“Ah, very good,” he said waving his knife with emphasis. “But did you know that each element stands for a kingdom?” He raised a sliver of apple, as if to simulate one of the kingdoms. She shook her head. “They were nine empires of old, called the Great Kingdoms that held sway over all the lands. Each element represented one of these cities. They were the famed cities destined to unite the world in a time of bloodshed and bitter conflict. And they accomplished this. For five hundred years, the lands knew peace, creating the age of the Lieon, or the Everlasting Peace. In the end, it was not meant to last.” He bit into the slice of apple. “These same kingdoms broke the sacred alliance and shattered the world.”
“The Lieon,” Ayva whispered. Mura nodded, chewing. Something about the numbers didn’t add up to Ayva, but she held her peace, captivated.
Mura prodded the fire, then looked up. “My mind wanders from my point. What was I saying? Ah, yes, the power of the Reaver. It stems from the eight elements, and they harness them with varying degrees. Their ranks split up as Neophytes, who wear gray, and then the infamous Reaver, who wear the scarlet robes. It is a title gained after many years. Some Reavers may only don their robes at the age of ninety or a hundred, and some never—it is a very difficult challenge to live the life of a Neophyte, let alone pass the Seven Trials.”
All of it was a mystery in Ayva’s ears, and she only feared Mura would stop.
“Of course there is a final rank, that of Arbiter—only three Arbiters exist, and some say, ever have. They live thousands of years, having harnessed and obtained a level of the spark that some say is not feasible for mortals. Rumors abound that they uncovered ancient powers and that now they give their souls to the dark. For that and other reasons, many nations fear them and the magic of the Citadel.” Ayva shivered, and slid closer to the fire. “Needless to say,” Mura whispered, “Reavers and those from the Citadel do not seem like Gray’s sort.”
Ayva threw a stick into the fire, absently chewing on the apple slice in thought. “I see…”
“Moreover,” Mura said, staring deep into the fire, “the power of a Reaver is not what he wields.” The orange flames snapped, as if soaking in the story as well. “Reavers wield all eight elements, but the forbidden ninth—that of wind. The banished element. A power far greater than all the other elements that died out long ago in all races, and some say never existed, except in one man. The traitorous Kail.” Mura stared out towards the bamboo woods. “And now two.”
“Gray,” she whispered.
Darius approached, lumbering under the weight of sticks filling his arms. “Where’s Gray?” the rogue asked. Mura grumbled and Ayva fell silent. Darius snorted, “With the Ronin again?” He tossed the kindling upon the ground.
Twirling a scrap of kindling between her fingers, she watched the bamboo woods. Nearby, the villagers had all settled down and a deep night was sinking in. Where are they? She shook her head. “Stubborn fool,” she muttered, throwing the tinder into the fire. Making me worry like a girl waiting for a dance.
Darius looked towards the forest, “I don’t get it. Maris is so worried about roving bands of nightmares and they are still out there?”
“Are you worried about Gray?” Ayva asked.
“No,” he said quickly, sounding flustered, “I’m worried about us, I mean, the villagers.” He grumbled and composed himself. “The Ronin, our supposed fierce protector, is out gallivanting in the woods. What good is that?”
Ayva hated to admit it, but she agreed and eyed the shadows. What if the dark army is out there right now?
Karil approached, offering comforting words, or answering questions to villagers as she passed, and all seemed to listen and trust her Ayva realized curiously. She approached, moving like flowing water. “You have to trust him,” the elvin queen said.
“How did you hear us?” Ayva asked incredulous.
“An elf’s hearing is quite different than humans,” she replied. Karil knelt at Mura’s shoulder but looked to Ayva as she spoke. “He will come back. You must trust him to do the right thing.”
Rydel appeared, pulling back his heavy cowl. She hadn’t seen him approach, but it didn’t surprise her. The man was quieter than a shadow. Tall and imposing, she was afraid of him, but equally intrigued. “It is only natural that he spends so much time with Maris,” he said. “The boy and the Ronin hold a strange connection, something ancient it seems.”
Mura grumbled again, “Not natural.”
“I agree,” Darius said.
She couldn’t argue with Rydel, for Gray did seem tied to Maris. A Ronin. Darius shook out a blanket and handed it to her. She accepted it with a smile and then pointed to the mountains ahead, dark and imposing in the night. “Why is the road we are following called the Lost Road? I’ve heard you call it that several times now.”
“A good question, with a dark answer,” replied Karil. The elf pulled back her hood and motioned for Ayva and Darius to sit beside her. Ayva was taken by her features—her tall pointed ears, sharp nose, high cheekbones, and silver eyes. She was breathtaking. Darius seemed equally taken. Again, a sliver of envy shot through her.
Karil spoke, “The story is short and bittersweet. The road at one time led to the Great Kingdom of Hoalin, or the Shining City as many call it now, the shining bastion of all the Great Kingdoms in this land, said to exist even before the Gates. During the Lieon, as one of the destined nine Kingdoms, they fought for the safety of the lands of good. Then it came time for the Shining City to send their famed war leader, Menithas, to the frontlines when Eldas was under siege. He and his army did not show. It was
a betrayal of the deepest kind. Thousands of elves died.”
“If the Shining City had fought, would the war have been won?” Darius asked.
“Many think so,” said Karil. “It has been many years since then, but few in Farhaven have forgotten it, and least of all the Ronin, I expect. Their hatred for those who had a hand in their death so long ago still burns red hot, even deeper than the elves. The only thing they loathe more is their once-leader.”
“Kail,” Ayva whispered the legend’s name and the flames crackled and sputtered.
“The Betrayer,” Darius cursed.
“He is known by many names, Betrayer among them,” Karil said. “Soulless, Dark One, Traitor, but none are more well-known than the infamous Wanderer. One day perhaps history will know the true reason for his betrayal.”
Ayva couldn’t help but feel the ominous weight of the following silence.
“We should all get some sleep,” Rydel announced, breaking the silence. “I will take first watch, and then Mura.”
“Then I,” Karil said.
Rydel looked like he wanted to argue. “Then you, my queen.”
“Then me,” said Ayva.
“Three should be enough,” Rydel replied.
“Aww… nothing for me?” Darius asked with a feigned look of disappointment.
Mura winked at Ayva, “I’d gladly let you have mine my dear, but middle shift is definitely the roughest and I don’t sleep much anyway.”
Karil spoke, again, softly, “Get some rest, Ayva, and you as well Darius. I’m afraid we’ll all need it in the coming days.”
With that, they moved to their bedrolls, Ayva settled in beside Darius and even closer to Gray’s empty spot. Though as she lay there, she was restless. She knew Rydel and Karil were right, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what Mura had said. She glanced up and east, to where she knew Gray had wandered. Above, a spray of stars lit the night, casting soft light on their camp. The crackling campfires lulled her, and after days of hard travel, she found her restlessness overcome and her lids like weighted shutters. She drifted off to sleep, her last thoughts of distant lands and legends.
The Nexus
KEEPING ONE EYE ON MARIS, GRAY watched his surroundings as they wove through the haze of mist and bamboo. Beneath him, Fael’wyn nickered. He stroked his mount’s neck, understanding the creature’s unease. Anything could hide within that mist.
Before him, Maris rode confidently. Gray eyed his swaying cloak and the insignia. It reminded him of his own, yet different. Instead of his two crossed swords, Maris’ bore the mark of a simple leaf.
Abruptly the Ronin stopped. They stood in a small clearing now, and green and black stalks of bamboo encircled them. The mist was thinner here. A white layer coated the ground and swirled around Fael’wyn’s hooves.
The Ronin dismounted. “Get off your horse.”
Cautiously, Gray obeyed and approached.
“Discard your blade.”
“Why?”
“You will not need it,” Maris replied. “Its powers will confuse your own for now. And in the future if I command you to do something, you will do it without question.”
He was taken aback by the Ronin’s sharp tone. Hesitantly, he grabbed the haft of the sword and threw it aside. The Ronin grasped Masamune, his famed blade, and threw it. The blade twirled end over end, sticking into the ground.
“Now what?”
Maris gave a wolf-like smirk. “Now, I’m going to teach you to maintain the flow.” The Ronin bent his head and there was a low hum. The mist pulsed. Gray’s blood stirred as a faint green aura sheathed Maris’ limbs. The Ronin raised his head and Gray took a step back. Maris’ pale eyes now glowed an ominous green.
“How did you do that?”
Maris’ eyes dimmed. “When a Ronin finally learns to control his power his eyes will glow according to their gift when he embraces the flow.”
Gray remembered Kail’s red eyes.
“I will not mince words with you, Gray. If you control too much of the flow, you will die, but if you fear it, it will control you. It is essential that you learn where you stand quickly, or you will be a victim to your own power. I know you’re afraid of who you are, but you must conquer your fear before you can maintain the flow. You must face your past.”
“But I can’t remember anything!” he said angrily.
“Ah, you can’t remember who you were, not who you are.”
He looked to the sword on the ground, “I’ve heard the same before, but what if my power still feels my hesitancy?”
“Then you must give in.”
“Give in?”
“Give in to the power that lies within you. There is a wall before you, Gray. You are trying to go left, right, up or down, to push the wall, or pull it. Instead, imagine there is no wall and walk forward.”
With a breath, Gray shut out his surroundings, and delved inward, probing the corners of his mind. It was different this time, like reaching his hand through shining glass. Just as before, the swirling ball of air appeared, glowing in his mind. He opened his eyes.
The swirling ball of wind now floated in the palm of his hand. He looked up and a note of surprise flashed across the Ronin’s face.
“Very good,” said Maris, as he approached.
Gray’s concentration wavered, and sweat beaded on his brow.
Maris circled, continuing, “If you can do that, I assume that you likely have found your source. That may save us some time.”
“My source?” he asked.
“What some call the nexus, it is what you draw your power from,” the man answered. “It is what you just pictured in your mind and what the power of the flow feeds on. For each Ronin it is different. I, for instance, see a leaf, Seth, a flame, but no one Ronin’s is the same.”
“The flow… is it only the power of the Ronin?” Gray asked.
“Correct. Reavers, magic wielders from the other side of the gates, wield the spark, not the flow. Some are powerful too, but it is not the true power.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked, still holding the floating ball of wind in his hand.
“The flow is the essence of all elements, whereas the spark is but a sampling. There is an old saying, ‘Ki are the eyes of the world, the spark its hand, and the flow its soul.’ Aside from the power of Arbiters, the highest of their ranks, there is no comparison.”
An owl shrieked and the power in Gray’s hand died, air dissolving across his palm.
Maris’ eyes narrowed. “I see. Your power is pitiful and hard to hold. Then your true power can only be summoned under dire need.”
Gray bristled, but said nothing.
Maris summoned a breath, and a giant ball filled his palm like molten green fire. Angry and alive, the whole glade was illuminated by its glow. Maris made a fist and the ball disappeared. “The stronger you are, the more of the flow you can hold. I know my limits, but I’ve had the luxury of a thousand years of practice. You, on the other hand, do not. You will have to learn quickly. You will master the flow here and now.” Gray’s heart beat wildly inside his chest. “What comes next is of terrible importance. This once, you must summon every ounce of the flow that you can hold.”
“Assuming I can, what will that do to me?” Gray asked.
“I have heard it described a thousand different ways. To me, merely touching the flow is bliss and fear, like holding a flame that burns my hands, but ignites my soul. For you however, holding all your power may feel worse than death.”
Gray swallowed. “What happens if I don’t?”
“If you do not fill yourself to the brink, you will always fear what is inside you and it will never truly be yours to hold. It takes many years to acquire a relationship with your source, your nexus, but we do not have that luxury. We will have to force it.”
Gray looked to the ground. Strangely, he trusted the Ronin. Why would he suggest it if he did not think me capable? But why risk it? Was it not two days ago that I didn’t even k
now I held this power? At last, he smiled and looked up. “I’m ready.”
Maris nodded. “To trigger it, I will have to attack you, and it will have to be an attack that requires you to defend with all your power.” Gray’s fists clenched at his side. “But that is not enough,” continued the Ronin, “after you block the attack, summoning your power by need, you must make it yours. You may lose your mind up until that moment, but if you ward off my strike, you then must come to your senses and gain control of the raging fire inside you to truly make it yours. With that much of the flow inside you, it can be only contained by your sheer will, or you will die.”
“I understand,” Gray said.
“Then let us begin,” Maris said and closed his eyes. Bright green flames suddenly roared to life, coating the Ronin’s limbs. Gray threw up his arms, shielding himself from the flaring heat. He glanced down and saw the mist shudder when the air crackled and the hairs on his arm stood on end. Leaves floated, rising from the ground. Puzzled, Gray touched one and startled as it snapped, sizzling as if on fire. Fear pounded in his veins and he saw Maris through the haze.
The man was a flame of green, burning like an emerald sun. Green filaments pulsated from his center, making the nearby stalks bend. All the air in the glad rushed towards Maris, but wind coated Gray’s feet and anchored him to the earth. Roots burst from the earth all around him, undulating as if with a mind of their own. Maris raised his arm and a flaming green spire shot towards Gray.
Gray cried out, bracing himself when his world dimmed… Power roared inside him, but it was too much. He was useless against the storm rising inside him. He grasped, reaching for control, but his vision clouded completely and he fell into the abyss.
No! He raged. But it was no use as his voice dwindled, too small for even him to hear. Lost in a world of white, there was no pain, no anger, simply a shroud of endless pale… time and space of no consequence. A thousand years or a single moment might have passed. Something was oddly pleasant in that vague notion. Emptiness. He could finally give in… love and hate, life and death… none of it mattered in the ashen world. All strife and struggle was gone. Even existence was of no concern. Simply a fleeting memory.