by Kyle Belote
Judas lowered his wand, his eyes going round. “Todd? What in the Underworld are you doing here? I almost blasted you to hell and back!”
“I know, I know, I am sorry. You told me to come last night, but you weren’t here when I arrived. I waited until midnight.” The young man with dark hair bent to collect his things.
“I did?” Judas puzzled. He thought back to the day prior. Todd spoke the truth. He ran into the young lad–literally–right after they revoked his citizenship and before the Council called on him.
Judas pushed the doors open to the criminal court when he bowled over someone waiting outside. Books, parchment, and ink went flying, crashing to the floor.
“Sorry,” muttered the young man. He stooped to pick up his belongings. “I didn’t see you there.” He bustled to snatch up his things, not bothering to throw a glance at the person who knocked him over. “I’m waiting for the ruling of…” his gaze wandered up, and the color drained from his face. “Master Lakayre!” Blue eyes flashed wide and disheveled black hair whipped around as he did a double-take.
“Ah,” Judas groaned. He recognized him, but his name escaped him at the moment. “I wondered when I would run into you, though to be honest, I didn’t think it would be quite so literal.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the young man sputtered as he picked up the last of his belongings and tried desperately to smooth his hair. “A coworker told me you were in the castle. I came as quickly as I could, but I’ve been busy as of late. My editor at the paper has been hounding me…”
“I see,” Judas intoned with a straight face. To be honest with himself, he didn’t know how to react to the boy.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the boy asked. His question caught the warlock off guard. Usually, I ask that question. The librarian floated through his thoughts, still fresh. Judas, about to respond, stopped when a man burst from a flight of stairs near him. They locked eyes, and the man crossed over to him.
“The Council demands your presence,” the newcomer breathed.
“I just got done seeing them,” the warlock exclaimed. “I haven’t broken any laws that I am aware of, unless, knocking over the lad is a capital offense.” He let his attention meander back to the young man when the messenger in green robes cleared his throat. Judas turned to regard him again. “Yes?” he queried.
“The Kothlere Council, not the Kothlere Court, summoned you.”
“Too bad! I might be more inclined to help them if they gave me back my citizenship. Seeing as I’m still an exile, I’m not predisposed to aid them. They can figure out their problems without me.”
“It is not for me to say the thought process as to why they chose to summon you, warlock,” the messenger replied, his answer evasive. He used Judas’ proper title as a rebuke. “I do know their beckons are of the absolute most importance, and your presence is hereby requested.”
“‘Absolute most importance’ huh? What’s so important? Famine? War?” Judas chuckled at the young man. Most likely a gross exaggeration, like everything else the Council did these days.
“I cannot discuss the details of their summon, but the Consul has called for a closed session,” the messenger replied.
Closed session? Something must be semi-serious for them to close the proceedings to the public, mused Judas.
Still, while intrigued to find out what riled the High Council and the Consul enough to close their doors, the warlock couldn’t overcome his righteous anger at being denied his citizenship yet again. His nature to help those in need called to him, festering, like an itch needing to be scratched, but why should he assist those who shunned him?
“I do not answer to them. I am an exile, their choice, not mine and exercising my right to ignore the summon. You should quit being their pawn,” Judas chuckled. “Express your master’s displeasure on someone else to gratify his manhood.”
“Warlock! I must protest!” the errand boy stated unabashedly.
“Protest all you want. Go away.” Judas waved him away with his fingers and turned back to the young man he knocked over. “It’s Todd, right?”
“Yes, sire,” the first boy responded, a glowing smile forming. Soft footfalls and a cleared throat informed the warlock that the messenger crept forward.
“Forget it,” Judas growled to the messenger, not bothering to look at him. “Let the people who elected the Council realize they can’t or won’t do anything for them. Perhaps true change will finally come.”
The messenger leaned in, conspiratorial-like. “It’s the Mirror,” he breathed, almost inaudibly.
The three words snared Judas’s attention. If the reasoning for the summons of the Council involved the Mirror, the importance was paramount. If Xilor resurrected from the dead, an army sat outside the walls of the capital, and famine spread across the land, the Mirror of Imation took precedence. All at once his anger faded and he realized the moment of duty beckoned. It wasn’t just his fate on the line, but all Ermaeyth.
“Take me to them,” Judas croaked. The messenger turned, and Judas made to follow.
“Hey, but what about me?” Todd, the writer, called.
“Sorry, the High Council calls.” Judas smiled back, humored by the kid’s unrelenting determination.
“But when can I interview you?” he nagged. “The people need to hear your story! The true story! The people want to know!”
“If you can find my house, come by tonight and you can conduct your interview,” Judas yelled back, knowing the young boy most likely didn’t have a clue how to get to his house. Todd would pour over records for hours to get a hint where the Lakayre Manor lay. By then, he would be tired, disgruntled, and the suns would have set. Instead of flat-out refusing him, yet again, like the Kothlere Court did to him, he would give the boy some hope.
“I’m sorry, Todd,” Judas said, the memory retreating. “I totally forgot.” He knelt to help the young man who was almost done collecting his things.
“I figured as much, or you ducked me again. Why are you so afraid?”
The last question gave Judas pause, like a slap in the face. “Afraid? Is that what you think?”
The boy shrugged. “What else? Worried people will hear your story and be inspired by the truth?”
Judas sighed. “No, I’m not.” He stood. Todd finished collecting his belongings off the porch. The fact that Todd thought him scared rankled him. When he spoke, he did not try to hide his agitation. “My tale is a narrative of pain, sadness, loss, grief, death, and remorse. Most people would not understand half of what I went through, nor endure. I don’t indulge the idle curiosities of people like you, and the citizens of the city who smile at me are kind enough to keep their distance. I lost loved ones and watched others lose loved ones, saw men who fought and died for ideals not their own. I killed more people than I would even want to count and did this all for the sake of a misguided ideal of freedom proposed by a government as corrupt as the enemy we faced. Freedom for you, me, and everyone else who is still alive–even for the ones who died! There is nothing inspiring about that, son.
“What of the old men and women who cower as I walk by, frightened that I would kill them, or they would become cursed for being too close to me? Perhaps they think I am contagious, and if they breathe the same air, they will become sick, too? It’s almost like the Krey, which incidentally, most people are wrong. Tell me, is it shaping up to be an inspiring story? Do I sound afraid?”
Todd swallowed, the reflex audible. The warlock took a few deep breaths, letting go of his irritation, breathing out the stress. Todd opened his mouth to say something, but Judas waved him off. “Don’t. I’m sorry. I’m in the wrong. I apologize for not being here when I said I would. I’ll make it up to you. Meet me in Dlad City for lunch and we can talk about the interview, okay?”
Todd’s eyes narrowed, suspicious.
“I swear, Todd. Just not right now. I am expecting company and then I am leaving. I’ll meet you.”
“Alright,” he mumbled.
“Dlad City. Any place in particular?”
“A small inn called Traveler’s Respite. You know the place?” Todd nodded and turned to leave, a dejected look on his face. Judas bid him farewell, waving to him. A movement caught his eye as he turned to retreat inside. Turning his head, he spied Staell inside his barn, the unicorn waiting for the young man to leave before coming out into the open. As the unicorn crossed the lawn, he called to Judas.
Is she awake yet?
Judas shook his head. “No, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. Since unicorns don’t knock, I was intrigued to find out who it might be.” He sensed amusement from the unicorn, but Staell changed the subject.
What is her name?
“Julie.”
Staell grew silent, still, thoughtful. When he spoke again, his words were measured. I plan on visiting the Hive.
Judas took the news in stride, but he couldn’t help but feel the weight upon his chest. The Hive, a slang term used for Outpost Dire, home of the Krey, the most lethal killing force in all Ermaeyth. On this side, at least.
The Krey: men and women of the Grand Royal Army exiled and secluded from the masses much like Judas, but for different reasons. Most trained since youth, toddlers or a few years older. A few did not manifest the bloodlust until adults, a rarity in the grand scheme. The Krey took to the battlefield when the war is at its worst or when Ralloc wanted a quick resolution to the fighting. In the bloodlust, they became mindless monsters unless controlled by the A’uri accompanying them, channeling the squad into a hive-like mind. If soldiers were proficient, the Krey relied on ruthless efficiency, zealots for death. Bile rose in Judas’ throat the more he thought about them. He did not like the Krey, but he held no dispassion for them either. He sympathized for their kindred spirits in regards to exile but no further. He could vividly recall the soldiers of the bloodlust from the war and the carnage they wrought.
“Why in the gods’ names would you do that?”
For reasons far worse than you realize, Staell declared. I go to set them in motion for when the war starts. By the time the Council realizes they are at war, it will be far too late. Xilor will be on their doorstep before they can muster forces. The Dark Lord will be at their walls before reality sets in unless we can slow him early enough. Thus, enter the Krey.
“Isn’t there another way?”
Yes, of course, there is always another way and leads to many more deaths. Do you want that on your conscience? You know what war is like, what it does to people, who is affected, and not just the soldiers. How many people will be displaced, forced to flee their homes in the wake of his army?
Judas sighed noisily. Staell gave too many points to ignore. He couldn’t let his personal feelings impede what was right, even if lawfully wrong. On that thought, Judas advised, “You do realize what you are asking them to do is treason. They will hunt them down.”
Judas let the conversation drop, knowing it would only rile him further. “I’ll wake her. You better wait till I call you.” Staell dipped his head in acknowledgment before Judas slipped back inside. He climbed the stairs to the second landing, slipping into the first room on the right down the left hall. Hesitant, he entered.
Soft sunlight filtered through the window. Judas stood inside the door. Her subconscious brushed against his. He took a moment to marvel at her ability to perceive and yet be asleep. He planned to wake her in the library in the Kothlere Castle, but that plan never manifested. The moral dilemma flared once more in him, and he wrestled with all the implications. He played with her like a god, deciding her fate. But he did it with the best intentions, and yet he reminded himself that Xilor probably thought the same thing.
Mastering himself, he walked towards her, ready to wake her when her eyes snapped open. For a brief instant, Judas faltered, startled. She awakened, impossible as it seemed; he had not lifted the spell. He always noticed her struggle in the back of his mind, fighting to regain consciousness, but never successful. Now, she broke through, shattering the barrier with sheer force of will.
She lay quite still, eyes blinking rapidly, adjusting before she sat up slowly.
Judas tried to think back just now if he lost control over her at any point. He hadn’t. She broke free. Judas smiled to himself, giddy with excitement. Someone his equal in aptitude, he wouldn’t ever be alone. He knew an opportunity to train her right stared him in the face. She could be someone the youth idolized, a new hero for a new generation, instead of fearing her like most feared him. With great power, like hers, came the seductive pull to do as one wished, and the knowledge none could stop you. He pushed the thought aside. He’d worry if the situation warranted it.
“Good morning,” Judas breathed, finding his voice at last. She turned to him, her amber eyes going wide. “I imagine you have a lot of questions, yes?” He stifled a smile, noting the similarities between the question he posed and his old master, Fife Doole, who always spoke in a similar fashion.
In silence, she let her gaze linger on him, intent on not responding. Judas noted the fear on her face. He understood. She glimpsed a stranger and woke in a strange place, and probably the last thing she remembered was the chaos when they saved her.
“Do you understand me? You must still be in shock from the whole ordeal,” he reasoned, reassuring himself more than for her benefit.
Now, her eyes darted everywhere around the room, frantic and quick, never more than a few moments on anything, but always returning to him.
The fight-or-flight mode, he recognized.
Her breathing erratic, her pulse quickening from adrenaline. Judas knew it would be a matter of time before she got in control of her body and emotions. He backed away from her so he would not trigger her inevitable flight reaction; he did not want to seem like a threat.
I don’t need someone else to think of me as a threat.
Her pulse slowed, her breathing turned rhythmic and natural, calming. Her lips parted, a croaking voice spoke.
“Water.”
Judas withdrew his wand, summoned a mug and poured water from the tip of his wand. When he handed the mug to her, he was impressed she didn’t react to his use of abilities. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, or maybe she accepted it. Maybe shock? Another thought, his gamble paid off, and the Essence of Transference worked.
“Where am I?”
“You are in my home: the Lakayre Manor near the city of Ralloc.”
“Ral-lock? I remember, the Capital of Sonkol.”
“Yes, my dear, you are correct. Good!” He smiled. Tension eased out with his smile, almost a sigh of relief.
“Here are some clothes for you,” he offered. He picked them up out of the chair near the window and lay the clothes on the corner of her bed. “Please, dress. I’ll be downstairs. When you are ready, come down, a visitor came to see you. I am sure you have many, many questions, and I will answer what I can. The timing is a bit sensitive, but we’ll take it in stride.”
He smiled at her and left the room.
***
Chapter 9 : The Betrayer
The Betrayer traveled as light-footed as possible, heading south with all haste, facing the two setting suns: Apor and Praema. The power to teleport long distances like others eluded him, but he managed the ability over short distances. These little hops took hours, if not days, off his traveling. He needed a Journeyman and one of his porting stones.
Not too far ahead, just north of the Corridor of Cruelty, was Cape Gythmel. He could acquire a porting stone there and rest up before continuing. Everyone who traveled through Gythmel was grateful for the small town, regardless of the proximity to the Corridor.
The deadline pressed down on him; a proverbial lynch tightening around his throat, the Dark Lord holding the rope. Deadlines were a common occurrence for him, Xilor always made sure he knew where the line lay, but unreasonable? Logic ruled Xilor, regardless how foul. The Betrayer never followed him willingly, the cloying assurance of power almost made the choice worth it, rev
eling in Xilor’s shadow, and the promise his power would one day be his.
His hope for Xilor’s power came after he betrayed everyone, turning his back on his former life. Now, regret turned his thoughts to that fateful night, Xilor standing before him, a towering wraith, a dark blemish in the night. If he had to make the choice again, he’d make the same, but was contrite about letting himself fall into a position of weakness. Though rather contradictory, his reasons were good. The blood of innocence would be on his hands. He did what he needed, even if unforgivable.
Tutelage at the feet of the Dark Lord had been both horrifying and eye-opening. The magics he performed traumatized him, things other great wizards never did, not even Judas Lakayre.
Judas.
Bile rose in his throat. He hated the warlock almost as much as he hated himself.
No, that’s not true. Not anymore.
He mentally kicked himself, chaffed, even his anger denied him. His hatred for Judas abandoned him long ago, his self-loathing guaranteed that. Once the Dark Lord’s facade of power dropped, he turned his hate towards him. Xilor transformed him from a man of power to a tired, sniveling lackey under tyrannical feet, searching for scraps, holding his breath. But he never prayed for death. What kind of life did he give up for this one?
One that allows you to look at your reflection every morning, he reminded himself.
Service to Xilor was not an equal trade; both sides do not give and receive. it was all one-sided, Xilor’s side. Immeasurable remorse for his decision weighed him down. Death by his own hand would be a reprieve if his master went back on his word. With death so close to him that fateful night, he was emboldened, and the Dark Lord granted him one boon: he would not kill for Xilor. With the innocent out of the equation, Xilor held no power over him, he would have never joined him.
Death would be his choice.
He knew why he sided with Xilor, and it pained him. His loathing for Judas Lakayre nor his discontent with the Kothlere Order was to blame. The real reason–the reason he hated himself and couldn’t live with his shame–was his cowardice.