Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  What game are you playing Reuven?

  “We have acted,” the king insisted. “My brothers both saw to the end of the traitors from my father’s time. Overlord Damian Dannars and Lord Daniel Baccan are both dead; their ploy with the God Stone is finished. The Faith will not bestir themselves. Strife within the priesthood ensures that end. There is naught to fight.”

  “They are dead, Your Grace, but not by your hand. They fear that hand comes for them next.”

  “You mean this hand, heh?” Prince Adreyu called out as he tossed a palm-sized crystal into the air, casually catching it with his hand.

  Aerona stared at the crystal in disbelief. It was maroon in hue, and the faintest of black lines could be traced along its face. She felt a pain in her gut, like a wound that never healed, and would never. Subversion. It was not the stone she wielded, but its kin called out to her.

  “Put that away, fool of a prince.” Reuven shouted. “No child deserves that seat.”

  “Child? Fool?” Prince Adreyu screamed, drawing the sword that rested beside his seat. “You will regret those words, Reuven.”

  “Sit down Adreyu,” the king commanded. “Or you will see the dungeons, brother or no.”

  “Brother, this farce cannot go on for any longer.”

  “It can. It will. Do you need to excuse yourself, brother?”

  Prince Adreyu glared defiantly towards the king before storming off towards the back of the chamber, and slamming a door behind him. At a nod from the king, Prince Adonis followed, the knights in tow.

  Alone the king seemed much more distressed, and a less sere sovereign than moments before. His brothers tax him, but there is something far deeper that disturbs him more.

  “They do not know the truth, Elder Reuven,” the king explained, his face seeming worn and beleaguered. “Neither of them can know. The fool I was for sending them south. If the Dark Brotherhood did not misstep so much, they would not have become unwitting thralls. I fear what they would do with a god’s own power flowing through their veins.”

  “I do not fear the brotherhood,” Reuven intoned.

  “They were here once. One of them. I doubt they knew you were here before them. I said all the words, played their game, and yielded less than they desired. Still, I would rather not see them again, nor be the man who crosses them, even if it were beside you.”

  “There is naught they will bring against me. Their dark god will not oppose me. It is I that they should fear.”

  “Then we sit upon the tide.”

  “I have your knights, then?”

  “If I commit my knights to the will of the Mazain Empire, I will not return to an idealist upon the Lion Throne?”

  “Men and women in your city cry out against poverty and oppression, longing for the days of your father, and the peace he brought, before the God Stones. There are groups—they gather, they talk. Such talk does not come without reminder of what your brothers wrought, what you continue to do. It is fear that stops them. It is fearlessness that will put an end to doubt.”

  “Much have I feared in my lifetime, though fearlessness I can feign for a time. Alas, there is none alive who does not fear. Your sovereign has feared for fifteen thousand years. The First Born have feared for fifteen thousand years. The charade will only last for so long. Who do we turn to?”

  “She,” Reuven declared, pointing at Aerona. “Does not fear.”

  Aerona could not believe the words, and she stared dumbfounded as the Deathsworn parted. The king asked her to remove her helmet. Confused but obedient, she let her long hair flow out and let the plate rattle off the floor. What Reuven truly knew, what King Tristifer learned, she did not know. All she could think of was her Damian, and what this man did to hunt him.

  “The Harpy herself in mine own halls,” the king mused. “Much of my attention had been set towards your traitorous consort, though I would not have neglected your own efforts. Fallen from her perch, the fearless winged daemon who inspires fear. How did you face the fell sorcerer and live, my dear?”

  Memories flooded back. Sebastien Tiron’s disfigured, demented form, and Lord Eldred’s relentless assault on her: the one time in her life where she thought it would all end. “What do you know of the dark god, Your Grace?”

  King Tristifer chuckled just then, and naught seemed more unnatural to her. “I hear His voice, though I do not succumb to it.” As the words passed his lips, he held an Animus Stone in his hand, and it was resonating a deep purple glow. “Elder Reuven has taught me control. As you would have, if you but heeded the dream.” The king did not stop peering, and Aerona felt naked.

  “Sovereignty,” she mouthed.

  “So it is that I hold my seat, seeing every play, every thought and movement. Yet if events are not soon altered, the power will be twisted and perverted by the mottled bird who portends our doom.”

  “Ser Elin Durand.”

  “Kingdom or empire, nation or theocracy. These are not the foes. What that Dalian has become. Lord Eldred. The manifestation of Sariel’s twisted will. Wrought by stones, corrupted by pain, and forged by Darkness. None will survive his wrath if we do not heed those who averted it once before…” As his words trailed off, the king looked to Reuven, who seemed wholly a stranger to Aerona.

  “Fifteen thousand years ago,” Reuven began to explain. “The First Born discovered twelve stone-shaped crystals that resonated with immense power. They gave us knowledge and guidance, such as we needed in those dark days. Some we named early, others later. What we did not question, fools that we were, was who sent them, and what their true purpose was. They were always meant to summon the dark god, Sariel. Who now calls Himself the Darkness Rising.

  “On the fields of the northern continent we were betrayed, and Sariel rose in the realm. Emperor Archelaus stood against Him, as the bastion of Light, and fought against the Darkness, driving it back. Weakened and defeated, Sariel was forced to a gaol; and the stones, whilst they remained sealed and protected, would halt His return.

  “That can no longer come about. Emperor Archelaus has weakened o’er the years. Sariel has touched the realm, and soon, the Time of Ascendance will come—again—and that cannot come to pass.”

  “There is an enemy coming that I cannot stop, only delay,” the king said. “Elder Reuven cannot prevent it any more than I can. But you, Aerona Harkan, do not fear, and can do what no mortal can. There is much that I would sacrifice for your allegiance.”

  Confused and scared, Aerona did not know what to say, think, or feel. It all just came out. “I did not fear? I was scared. Scared for my life. I could not defeat him, no more than I could stop him from slaying Damian! If I, if I stand before him again, I will only die. I fear!”

  “Aerona,” Reuven said with a hand resting on her shoulder. “Stone and Sky is the Mazain Empire. Stone for what it was at the dawn of time. Sky for what it is now. Gregory Tanev is my brother, but not the name you know him by. Amos, the Betrayer. It was he who brought Sariel from the planes beyond, who drew out Lord Kaldred, who brought the Calamity to Isilia, who brought you out of Darkness. Your survival changed the Great Fate. It must be for our cause.”

  “He was my father’s friend,” Aerona pleaded, not believing a word of it.

  “He was never a friend to Emperor Archelaus.”

  She denied it over and over in her head. This living god my father? No, Robett Harkan was my father. Kind and warm, strong and redoubt. Feared and merciless to those who opposed him. His face, his smile, his warmth. No, he was too real, mattered too much! He was not a god. “You did not know my father.”

  “I did, and still do. If he learned what we intend to do, we would all be dead.”

  “He fears,” King Tristifer added, “that when I acquire too many God Stones, that I would use them as my father always intended. If you would but take one, fulfill his will, that would allow for us to move the pieces on the board.”

  “You know what the emperor desires, King Tristifer,” Reuven said flatly. “
You are as unafraid of fratricide as patricide?”

  The king sat back and answered solemnly. “Adreyu is a ruthless war monger. He has defied my will in many affairs, and he will do so again. He was never meant to go south. The Cleaver Prince is a moniker he has well earned. Peace will ne’er pass whilst he lives.” King Tristifer sighed audibly. “The knights obey his will. Lest I wish for a bloodbath in these walls, I have no other recourse.”

  Reuven did not say a word. Nor any of the Deathsworn. Aerona thought only of the madness spoken to her.

  “You must think me monstrous,” the king continued after a while. “I was the one who commanded the execution of my father in this very chamber. I am not afraid of the act, only what it would do to my people. If it were not done by my hand, there is hope yet of peace with the Dalians. When the real war is done, that will matter most.

  “Swear to his death, Reuven, retrieve the stone, and blind the emperor. That is my wish.”

  “Aerona,” Reuven began, and the compulsion matched his gaze. “This is what you must do. Mine nor King Tristifer’s hands can be bloodied.”

  “If I refuse?” Aerona asked.

  “The Light shall be eviscerated.”

  That night Aerona was sleepless and alone. Yeuil had removed Aerona’s armour, and told her the stave-sword needs be maintained as all other steel does. Whence the woman left, Aerona leaned it against the far wall, beside Vindication. She would not look upon either. Gifts built upon a house of lies.

  No Deathsworn were within her chamber, nor was there any sound outside. If I wanted to, I could flee. Run away. Put Reuven, Tristifer, and all this behind.

  She did not. Could not.

  “Liars! All of them! Liars!”

  There was no sound but that of her own voice. She was truly alone.

  It was so hard to accept that Robett Harkan was a lie, and Emperor Archelaus her own father. The emperor was unknown to her, or what the Mazain Empire even was. They spoke of him with such familiarity and reverence. An immortal who has lived since the dawn of time. “Lies built upon lies. None of it is true it cannot be. My father lived and he died on the sea. He is not some god.”

  Yet one matter was inescapable to her: Gregory Tanev was her father’s friend, raised her when he died, and was the man she always leaned on for advice and good counsel. The same man who coldly kept her alive, not once, but twice, if the liars told it true. It was the only part of this that had to be true.

  Yet he was there, in the end, it was his voice…

  He betrayed me…

  If that old man was a lie, could my father be too?

  Father would not…

  “You have questions.”

  Reuven stood at the door. He was still in his armour; the tip of his stave-sword peeked above his shoulder. He slung it off his back, leaned it near her weapons, and sat beside her on the bed. Aerona felt that compulsion again. She could not send him away.

  “Why did you lie to me?” she asked.

  “I do not lie, Aerona. Truth that you do not wish to hear is not a lie.”

  It took a lot out of her, but she asked it anyway. “Archelaus and Amos. Why? Tell me why!”

  “Your father,” Reuven began. “He has been called many names over the years, and those who learn the names have given him titles. ‘Father Above’ and ‘Father of All’ among them. It is not to any one child whom he owes his life too, but all. He bears love for you. Yet that love cannot stand in the wake of the thousands who suffer at the hands of Darkness, and the servants who serve the Dark Will. The same treachery that took a brother from me.

  “Amos betrayed your father and my brothers at the dawn of time. It was that worm who had answered the call of Sariel, twisting the Animus Stones to His sustenance, after Emperor Archelaus decreed that they be buried and forgotten. Amos was the vestige that Sariel’s essence was infused in, who brought Darkness to the realm. No act ever made your father more incensed, yet he cannot bring his judgment against him. He no longer has the strength, nor the will.”

  “When Adreyu and Tristifer held their stones aloft, I felt a longing that I had not felt in so long,” Aerona admitted. “Not since Lanan. I heard the voices, and His voice, it could not have been anything else. What will he do when he has the stones?”

  “Sariel will do more than touch the realm. Ser Elin Durand is his chosen vestige. Whence the stones are assembled, the evil your father vanquished will come again, though he cannot defeat it. Not the way he is now. Nor could he when he had all his strength.”

  “I… must face it.”

  “Not alone.”

  The chamber was brighter than high noon as Reuven held a palm-sized crystal in his hand. There was a voice in Aerona’s mind, though not of the dark god. It was serene and peaceful, warm and loving, kind and benevolent. Unlike the other stones, no writing was upon the face, but what seemed to be a swirl of sand within. “What is it?”

  “Gabriel’s last gift against the Darkness. The Heart of the Sand.”

  Chapter Twelve

  From Dawn to Dusk

  Stephen knelt before a caricature of Mother God in his solar, and prayed.

  Oh Mother God, guardian of all children blessed by your Light. Long have I laboured in your name. Long have I put down the enemies who would do harm to you, and to your children. These choices grate my heart down, and delivers sleepless nights. Without your guidance and protection, I would be lost. Continue to grant the sight that I have been blessed with. Give me the strength to smite your enemies. Let your children stand without sin or suffering. May the dawn come.

  His prayer was broken by a hard rap upon the door. He beckoned the visitors in, and five Faithsworn entered his solar, all helmeted save for Ser Jarl who spoke. “A summons, Counsel. The holy magisters have requested your presence on a matter of state.”

  The news struck Stephen hard. His mind wandered to what the magisters could wish to discuss, and what they knew or were told. He calmed himself, and reasoned there were only two matters which could have been called to his attention: the fear of the kingdom to the west, and the disappearance of the Blessed Three. “I will not keep them waiting.”

  The Cathedral of Light was still asleep whilst he descended the marble steps to the Halls of the Faith. He saw some priestesses further down the hall, closeted in gossip, though he looked to the murals of the Voice’s past, and the blank marble that would be the canvas of Lutessa’s exploits.

  I shall stand here soon, describing to the painter what worth she was in life. Lies, certainly, but the new realm will not be christened by reminders of the failings of the old.

  Stephen arrived in the Hall of Prayer, and he saw a few petitioners kneeling in front of the long pews; the stained glass behind Mother God’s monument was bathed in a pale, golden light. He espied an elderly priest upon the dais whom he did not recognize, but regarded him thoughtfully. It was near time for morning mass.

  The libraries beneath were busy with the shuffling of robes as fatigued, young novices were deep in study. Stephen chuckled: the youth of the Faith were far too anxious to prove themselves—oft forgetting that a rested mind was what they needed.

  He felt a cool breeze on his face as he stepped out to the holy city. It was just after dawn, and the city had just begun to stir. Goodwives beat clothes in the yard, dumped night soil into the alleys, or roused the late risers of their households. Men and women passed him as they went to their shops and stands, or went about early morning errands and chores. Most gave him a passing glance with heads slightly bowed; the rest halted him in the streets, pleading for his blessings on account of some ailment, worries of coin and hearth, or deliverance for unruly children. He stopped and listened to the words, offered his blessings and hopes for the future, and moved on.

  In the days since Overlord Damian Dannars had come to the city, Stephen found it more taxing to pass through the streets when need pressed. The islanders did little bodily harm when they landed on the holy shores, yet the fear that they instilled had
yet to dissipate in the months afterward. Faithsworn and priests alike had told him that even the most courageous of men and women would only leave their homes at the greatest of need—some even would go hungry for days on end than risk the cobbled streets that they once knew so well. To the faithful, the crimson cloaked reavers were still in every shadow and darkened alley.

  To assuage these fears, Stephen thought it best for nighty mass and preaching priests on every corner. At first, there were few who attended. When the resolve hardened amongst the braver, more followed in their wake; and the sons and daughters of Mother God remembered who warded them from daemonic servants. Reminders are what we all need. Reminders of the truth from the divine. ‘Tis our nature.

  Faith now restored to the denizens of Dale, it was an implausible task to press on and refuse the simplest of blessings. Whatsoever the holy magisters decreed, he thought a little patience would not be remiss. The only work that mattered was the will of Mother God. He preached pleasantly, praising the good will of all who believed in Her Light.

  Stephen passed the market square, and many of the hawkers called out to him personally, offering bargains, or in more cases gifts. These he declined, begging the merchants to offer their services to the children of Mother God who were truly in need. “The war has left beggars of many. Ride to the outlying villages and give to them what you would have given to me.”

  The crowds dispersed when he passed through some roundabout alleys, making for the eastern reaches of Dale. It was much wider than the other districts, with more green than grey or white stone. There were few clerks and pages needed to serve the magisters: most issues of law, even those curated by man, were handled by the Crystal Throne. So it was that small stone apartments were erected nearer the main squares, whilst a great palace of fluted marble rose against the eastern wall, more to the vanity of the magisters.

  There were no pages upon the steep marble steps. The Faithsworn opened the oaken doors as Stephen entered. He heard no footsteps, nor gleaned the slightest hint that the day was underway. When this is over, these offices should be closed. The poor need their alms, and I would give to them all the worth in these halls.