As they crossed the threshold into the cavernous mouth, Nikka winced as if he had been struck. The source of his discomfort was obvious. Where Nikka’s cave flowed from one section to the next, each section complimenting the previous and acting as a prelude to the following room, this structure jarred at his senses. It radiated violence and harm. As if it had been sliced and shaped with the fine blade of a surgeon. Dust hung in the air, grinding between Wist’s teeth, as if the stone still bled from the vicious cuts. The taste of it made him flinch. The methodical cuts in the stone lacked the warmth and vitality of Nikka’s work; this place had been prepared for its purpose with indelicate strength. Nikka visibly braced himself and strode forwards with Wist into the body of the cave.
They walked on down a slope, which was lit softly by a glowing light. The preternatural glow illuminated everything evenly; its consistent level matched the straight walls of the structure, as if the rock itself lit their way. The only sounds in this eerie place were the swishing of Dregan’s ponytail, the rustle of their clothes and their footfalls.
Nikka’s discomfort lessened with each spiralling step, but Wist still wished he could help him. This place obviously brought back memories for Nikka, but at least the light must bring him some solace. Wist could feel the dull ache of the stone lessen as they continued downwards; as if the deeper they went, the quicker the stone felt it could heal these wounds.
Trepidation mounted in his throat like bile. Would he see Eliscius now, or be kept waiting once again? Part of him yearned to see his old mentor, but a darker part wanted to postpone this confrontation; hide away from the light. It was as if a black mood yearned to consume him from within, to force him to implode. Wist made himself focus on Faric’s powerful stride, drawing confidence from the impressive figure. The Lyrat walked on, keeping pace with Dregan, for nothing daunted him. Wist used that irrepressible stride as a template for his own, and pushed himself on once more.
The path ceased its decent and broadened out to a wide corridor with several squat pillars placed at regular intervals, rooms branching off from the main concourse left and right in perfect symmetry. Everything here spoke of function and simplicity of construction. This place had been created swiftly; formed for a purpose. It seemed that the limits of the energy needed to form the building blocks of this underground stronghold had been reached, and there had been none to spare for beauty.
Dregan walked straight through the open space without glancing around, heading for the large opening at the end of the chamber. Light shone from the room beyond that doorway. As they crossed that last threshold, Wist had to blink the bright light from his eyes.
At the far side of the room stood a table made from stone. Its curved legs and bevelled edges sat in defiance of the plain, straight lines of the rock walls. Atop the table, there were parchments and maps piled high, rocks used as weights to mark places or hold back the tide of paper from overflowing on to the floor. Behind the table, a figure sat deep in thought, poring over the closest document whilst his other hand fidgeted with another. The sharp lines of his face had not changed; the hair on his head was thinner than before and longer than it had been, but there could be no mistake: It was Eliscius.
He glanced up from his studies and caught Dregan’s eye. ‘Only three, Dregan?’ the old man asked without preamble. His voice sent shivers along Wist’s skin. Dregan nodded in reply, inclined his head in deference to Eliscius, turned and left the room.
The old man rose from his seat. His movements were soft and slow, achingly graceful. His deep-set eyes sparkled, penetrating the room. Was it frustration that marked his face or concern? As Eliscius moved to cross the distance between them, he watched as the expression transformed to one of genuine warmth. He embraced Wist, like the past come back to life.
‘Ah, Wist, my boy,’ Eliscius’ voice sounded as dry as kindling. He took in Wist for a moment before stepping away. Then he looked at the companions. Addressing Faric, he bowed, ‘One of the Lyrat Pair. You are taller than I had expected.’ The Lyrat replied, stating his name, and Eliscius nodded, content with the answer. Then he moved over to Nikka, ‘The dark dwarf; I regret that I could not contact you before, but your race has a natural resilience which guards against communion of the mind.’ Nikka followed Faric’s example, stating his name with a respectful nod.
‘Where are the others? I expected the other Lyrat and a Masheshi girl. Have they fallen?’ asked Eliscius, tension marking his countenance.
‘No,’ answered Wist, ‘they were swept into the Corb as we attempted to cross it. The river rose against us and carried Aviti away. Tyla went in after her.’
‘That it worrying,’ said Eliscius to himself. ‘I had not foreseen this. Powerful forces gather against us. You must forgive my lack of courtesy, but I must hear the story of your journey now. Please do not omit any detail, no matter how insignificant it may appear. We should be seated before we begin.’
They arranged themselves around the document-strewn table, and then Wist started the tale with what he could recall of his trek through the desert to the gates of Mashesh and his dismay at the statue that met him there. He told of how he had been saved from his fate by Aviti and Cairn, and taken back to their family farm. He wished that Aviti could have been there to complete the holes in his tale of his time there. His mind was already starting to smooth over the memories, patching over his state of panic and uncertainty, replacing it with the warmth and paternal affection that N’tini had unselfishly shown him.
Then came the painful relating of N’tini’s last moments and the words imparted to him before his death. Something passed through Eliscius’ eyes as he mentioned the prophecy of the twins, but before Wist could ask, it was gone. Wist was still awash with guilt for stealing that moment from Aviti and her brother. As he wrestled with his conscience, Faric stepped in, relating his and Tyla’s appearance at N’tini’s pyre.
In a low flat voice, the Lyrat told how he and Tyla had come to be there. He told of their awakening and Eliscius’ part in it. Without emotion, he told the story of the downfall of his people. Mechanically, he strode through the destruction of his race as if it were of little consequence.
Once Faric approached the moment where he had found Wist, Wist took up the tale again. The Lyrat’s dispassionate relating of events had angered him. He wanted to ensure that Cairn’s sacrifice would be known; given a proper hearing. It was the least that he could do. He looked Eliscius straight in the eye as he told him of their flight into the night. Tears fell from him as he told of his fear and impotence. Without self-pity, he pushed on to tell of the attack of the Krowen and Aviti’s extravagant expulsion of power. Again, Wist floated on the edge of helplessness, but he refused to let it grip him now. Eliscius watched on, empathy imprinted on his granite features.
Wist faltered once more and Faric took up where he had stopped. The Lyrat related their decent from the upper plane to the desert and the night in the cave, while Wist fingered the rag which still adorned his wrist. Faric carried on through Aviti’s retelling of her vision. Wist could remember how frail Aviti’s voice had sounded when she had described Cairn’s brutal death and her acceptance of his identity.
Interrupting Faric, Wist proceeded to tell of their journey to the abandoned town and the Lytch. Since it had happened, he had driven the thought of it from his mind; the ethereal being that had assumed the form of his mother, and how he had failed to banish it. The pain of retelling his repeated failures hammered down upon him once more; admitting them to Eliscius stripped the last of his defences away.
But this time, he did not stop. He ploughed on through their desperate flight to the ford and the shock at the ferocity of the river. Aviti: he could picture her fall into the river and Tyla’s brave plunge after her. How he wished to see her again.
Then he spoke of the desert. He found that speaking of the vast arid tundra settled his nerves. To his own amazement, he spoke of the place with genuine warmth and affection. Wist even included the migrating
heard of majestic Corozon in his description of the desert. He concluded the tale by detailing their meeting with Nikka and their night in his home and then he sat with his companions and awaited Eliscius’ judgement.
13 - Remembrance
The oppressive silence in the room lay upon Wist. He waited impatiently for Eliscius to speak, finding no relief in his deepening stare. No-one could hold Eliscius’ penetrating gaze for long. Glancing to his companions, Wist shifted on his chair, yearning to talk, but lacking the words to articulate his pain. The old, dark-skinned man looked away to the door, where Dregan had returned. The mage moved to the vacant chair at the table.
‘Thank you for rejoining us,’ began Eliscius. ‘You have missed quite a tale, but its retelling must wait.’ Eliscius moved on the chair as if to find his centre; his place from which to speak. After taking a single deep breath to gird himself, he continued.
‘My time at the head of Mashesh began over two centuries ago.’ Eliscius’ dry voice cracked as if it had lain derelict for many years. It echoed delicately off the stone walls.
‘I had risen through the ranks of the council to oversee the growth and development of one of the greatest cities in all of Tapasya. My city was not perfect - far from it - but it was alive: a bustling, heaving, pulsating place. For every political scheme and mordantly debased crime, there was an act of selfless courage. Perhaps, if I was guilty of a crime, then pride would be my sin, but who could fail to be prideful of such a rich city.’
‘Do not mistake my words.’ he warned, the deep lines of his face lying immobile as he spoke. ‘It is not gems or trinkets of power to which I refer. It is cultural wealth I speak of, a variety and depth of which was unparalleled across the world.’
Passion flared in Eliscius’ eyes as he spoke of his former home. A sharpness in those dark orbs defied his age. ‘But in the centre of all that beauty, a dark, despoiled jealousy grew. Working his way into my confidence - I was too quick to excuse his impenetrable introversion and overlook his bitterly competitive ways.’ Wist felt panic building in him.
‘I should have suspected he was seeking to supplant me. He was too eager for power and it would be his downfall. Tilden whispered in too many ears - some of them were fiercely loyal to me.’
Tilden. Again, the name returned to haunt him. Eliscius’ soft voice triggered an avalanche of memories that had been withheld from Wist: Tilden’s bitter exit from the city, driven out in disgrace; his own ascension to Eliscius’ side, and the plot to bring Eliscius down. He remembered how he had stood beside his mentor and watched Tilden flee from Mashesh with violent curses cutting through the night.
He and Tilden had vied for Eliscius’ patronage. Where Wist had shown promise as a guard, Tilden excelled in the arcane arts. Wist’s prowess with all manner of weapons had brought him to the attention of Eliscius. His sudden appearance in the middle of the city had also helped. With no knowledge of how he had gotten there, Wist had appeared in the centre of Mashesh. The captain of the guard took him in, gave him a home and a place training amongst the youngsters who had signed up for duty. That was where he had first met Tilden.
Tilden had been an urchin, found performing street magic. Someone had noticed that not all his tricks were slight-of-hand and so had brought him to be schooled. Other than the colour of his skin, Wist had little in common with him, and so the two had stayed apart. Their only true common ground was their ability. So adept were he and Tilden, that they swiftly moved on to have their training directly overseen by Eliscius, who had often hand-picked a few youngsters for his tutelage.
Eliscius had ignored the whispers warning him to beware a pair of boys he knew so little about. He had believed Wist’s ignorance of his past, and understood Tilden’s reticence to speak of his. Many people were forced by circumstance to do whatever it took to survive, no matter how shameful. He would not force Tilden to speak of it, believing that when he was able, the boy would approach him.
‘In those times, Wist’s pale skin never raised even a comment,’ continued Eliscius, his voice breaking in on Wist’s memories. ‘Our secular city attracted people from the furthest reaches of the earth. They came seeking their fortune or simple enlightenment. A more cynical view would be that many came to relieve the foolish of the burden of their wealth, or to lose what little they brought with them. Either way, the colour of their skin meant little to anyone.’ He smiled at his audience, his face stiff with age.
Eliscius told of how Wist’s pre-eminence with all manner of weapons had not only pushed him through the ranks of the guards, but had also gained the notice of envious eyes, most notably Tilden. While Tilden’s prowess with dark magic was easily Wist’s equal, Tilden’s chosen path was longer and more littered with pitfalls. Every step along the Mage’s path was purchased with long hours of study and painful days of recuperation when he made the slightest mistake. Wist’s memories cascaded through his mind along with his mentor’s tale, as if the old man’s words were unlocking doors and unbarring passages.
The rivalry that had existed between Wist and Tilden twisted to jealous hatred in the budding Mage. Much of this had gone unnoticed by Wist, so involved had he been with his training. Wist had immersed himself in each lesson to the exclusion of any external life. He ate and slept wherever he was being tutored, from the dusty floor of the stables to the grubby servant’s quarters in the Artisan. Every day was filled with knowledge and achievement.
‘And then came the coup - or at least the attempt.’ Eliscius’ voice shifted timbre. Gone were the frail, parched words that stumbled from his lips. They were supplanted by a dangerous, glinting edge that cut through his earlier frailty. ‘Inexperience was no barrier to Tilden’s ambition. One by one, he turned the heads of his tutors; whispering dark treachery in one ear, baseless flattery in the other. And so, Tilden gained favour among some of the younger members of the council.
‘To those who felt my leadership was too progressive, he gave visions of change and growth without limit. To those who feared stagnation, he spoke of inactivity and idleness. I could sense the discontent growing in the city, but I could not fathom the cause of it. Staying in the shadows all the time, Tilden stitched threads neatly through his puppets.
‘Tilden coerced, bullied, blackmailed and tricked many of the powerful figures within the city to attend a meeting. Here he unveiled his true intent: to remove the feckless leader of the council and replace him with his stooge; the council member with the least influence and support among any of his peers. This is where Tilden made his critical mistake. Seeking a pawn he could manipulate, he shied away from the stronger members of his conspiracy, fearing that the church, no doubt watching his progress from the shadows, may have usurped him after he had completed the task. If he had been willing to share even some of the power, or risk a little of his covert control of the group, I believe he would have been successful. But his ego would not even consider such a compromise and, when he suggested his cat’s paw, his spell over the group was broken. The subtleties of the game he had played were exposed in full and he was forced to flee.’
Eliscius looked at each of his audience as he spoke, taking great care to address each one of them.
‘From there he ran straight to my chambers,’ continued Eliscius, ‘only to find that I had taken it upon myself to continue Wist’s tuition personally. That evening, we had been discussing the art of negotiation and had sat deep into the night locked in debate. Tilden burst in upon us, spitting fury and hatred; making extravagant claims. Paying him little heed, I summoned the guard and had him thrown out of my chambers. Despite this, I was troubled. I had badly misjudged the boy. It was not until the next day that I discovered the extent of the plot he had so skilfully weaved.
‘I was relieved to learn that he had run from the city; he would have been executed had he been captured.’ Shivers coursed along Wist’s skin as he thought about Tilden’s foul tirade. He had burned with a righteous fury to teach Tilden a lesson for those words, but Eliscius had aske
d him to control his temper. Part of him wished he had killed Tilden that night; a larger part of him was disgusted with his own eagerness to spill blood.
‘For most inhabitants of the city, life settled back to its familiar rhythm; the rumours of the coup were dismissed by many as too outrageous to be taken seriously. But I found no contentment. Dark introspection gripped my soul, and I took to wandering the corridors of the council trapped within my own thoughts. It was not Tilden’s betrayal that ate away inside me, but how those whom I thought supported my leadership had abandoned the cause.
‘Was I the only deluded fool that truly believed in working for a better place for us all to prosper in?’ The bitterness of two centuries dripped from his words, concentrated and refined by time. ‘For too long I wallowed in self-pity and doubt. I despaired for my city, mired in a dark cell of my own making.
‘Then word came to me of a force massing at the far side of the Corb. One of your people came to me, Faric. He told me of the great numbers and the brooding malevolent will that festered within that wicked mass of creatures that could only be described as Evil: pure and undiluted. The horde consisted primarily of an unholy collection of the most dangerous creatures of the desert. But many other baleful denizens of the darker places of the world were among their numbers, driving and pushing the weaker creatures before them.
‘Before many days passed, it had begun to move. Like an avalanche it began gaining mass and momentum as it moved, crushing any who stood against it. Those who chose to flee were driven relentlessly onwards, any who faltered were devoured by the malignant beasts. The trail of desolation left in its wake was an abomination. By the time the first of those refugees reached the gates of Mashesh, I had already made the preparations for their care. This threat to my city and its people had forced me slough off the depression, which had oppressed my will.
‘All the people of this land came to the defence of the city.’ Eliscius shone with obvious pride as he talked. ‘Your people came, Nikka, and yours too, Faric. They could have retreated into their own lands, back to the mountains or the hidden caves of the desert, but they choose to serve the people of this land.
The Redemption of Wist Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3: The complete collection Page 16