— —
He stood in a field of wildflowers. A gentle breeze blew, and a myriad of colorful butterflies raced around in their frantic search for food. No sun was evident in the bright blue expanse overhead, nor did any shadows fall onto the ground. Sky and field swept off into the distance to merge at some infinite point. The surroundings set his spirit at ease. He had created this place with his mind many times, and used it when he composed messages for his wife or son.
Conjuring up an image of Sindian standing before him, joy spread through his core. Though, on this occasion, the presence of his son filled his heart and body with longing and grief as well. Smiling, Clytus bent down on one knee. Pausing, he forced the pain away and gained full control of his voice before he spoke.
“Sindian, my son. I am not sure what to tell you.” He gave a shallow laugh and shook his head. “I am not even sure if you will ever draw upon this message. Yet, I felt I needed to create it.” He reached out and brushed his son’s cheek, the cheek that would be there if ever his son drew upon this Silrith’tar. “You will not appreciate a father’s love until such time as you hold your own child in your arms. Mayhaps not until then will you be able to forgive me for what I have done to you and your mother. My only hope in making this is that you will understand why I did what I did.” He sat down cross-legged amongst the flowers and rested his arms on his raised knees. “I always thought I was a strong man, stronger than anything that could be thrown at me. I never expected that your birth, holding your small body in my hands, could change me so. Yet it did. I simply wanted you to know that…” Clytus trailed off, staring off into the distance.
To know what? What could I possibly say that will make him understand?
“I want you to never forget how much I love you.”
— —
Dark clouds, the sounds of men milling about, the smell of horses and unwashed bodies, all ripped back into view as he yanked the Silrith’tar from his head.
Damn you for a fool, Clytus Rillion!
He shoved the Crystal into a pouch that hung from his waist. Standing, he headed for the cook fires.
His mood grew darker when the young Shaper, Jintrill, came strolling up to him. The boy had not said word one to Clytus since his threat back at the stead two eves past. He did not feel he missed neither the boy’s wisdom nor his council.
Yet, I must admit the boy did well in healing Tylin. And having a Shaper along has raised the men’s morale.
“Mir’am Rillion, sir?” Jintrill wrung his hands as he approached. “Might I have a word, please?”
“Aye. What is on your mind, Sier?” Clytus had not meant it to come out as a growl, and felt a pang of guilt when the boy flinched.
“Well, sir. Um, the Order did not equip me with the items it seems that I need.”
“And?”
“I do not have a tent, sir. I was told I would need nothing other than a bedroll and warm clothing.” Jintrill waved a hand at the sky. “I am not prepared for this type of weather.”
Wiping his hand across his mouth and chin, Clytus took a moment to feel the growth of a few days facial hair. It felt good.
The one thing I do enjoy about traveling away from home is being able to grow a manly beard without Lilaith hounding me to shave!
He almost laughed aloud watching Jintrill’s nerves get the better of him. “Come with me.” He led the young Shaper over to the cluster of wagons. Trilim worked at one unpacking his cooking gear. “Could you please show this young man where he might fetch a spare tent?”
Trilim looked up from his pans and over at the wagons. Gazing at each in turn, he finally pointed to one. “There! Nestled in with the sacks of grain on the third wagon, see?” He glanced at Jintrill.
The young Shaper walked in the direction Trilim pointed and put his hand on a burlap sack. “This?”
“Nix, lad! That is the grain!” Clytus knew Trilim would have never spoken to a Shaper that way, even one so young, if he had not seen Clytus do it on their first meeting.
I will need to correct that. Even a young Shaper has more power than most. The Gods forbid if this one holds a grudge. That could mean trouble later for a common man like Trilim.
Clytus gave Trilim a warning glare and walked over to the wagon. He pulled out a cream canvas sack wedged between several bags of grain and pushed it into the hands of the Shaper. “Here, you may pitch this next to mine. I think it is time for us to converse about why you are here, lad. And mayhaps a few ways you might be able to survive this little adventure we are on.” Without waiting to see if the boy would follow, Clytus headed back to his tent.
For more than half an aurn the young Shaper’s struggle to put up the tent entertained Clytus. When it became apparent that he would miss lastmeal if he continued to do nothing, he helped the Sier finish the task.
With Jintrill’s tent in place, Clytus led the way to the cook fire where Trilim stood stirring a large pot and ladling out its contents to any man who approached with a bowl in hand. This eve’s lastmeal consisted of a hearty stew heavily laced with barley, dried jerky and hard rolls. “Enjoy the rolls while you can, lad.” Trilim spoke to the scout he served who was there before Clytus. “They will be gone before the second tenday passes. Then it will be flat biscuits for the duration.”
Once they had gathered their food, Clytus and Jintrill returned to their tents and sat down. Clytus ate in silence. He guessed that Jintrill was not in too great a hurry to begin the conversation. Setting his empty bowl down, he turned his attention to the young Sier. “So, why do you think you were sent with me?”
Stuffing the last of his bread into his mouth, Jintrill took a moment to chew and swallow. “The Council only said that an expedition was leaving on the morrow and it was in need of a Shaper who held a gift of healing.”
“On the morrow? They gave you only one day to prepare?”
I have long believed the Council to be idiots, yet this?
“One eve, actually.” Jintrill set his bowl down next to Clytus’. “I was summoned to the Council just before sundown.”
Clytus studied the boy for a long moment. “Tell me of that meeting.”
“Well…”
Raising a hand to forestall Jintrill’s answer, Clytus kept his voice low so no one passing would accidentally overhear him speak down to a Shaper. “And I do mean for you to tell me all that was said. Do not be the fool and have a false tongue with me now.”
“Aye, then.” Jintrill paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. “A message boy came to my room at dusk. He informed me that the Grand Elders had summoned me to the Ques’lian to appear before them. Except, when I arrived, only Grand Elder Blanch sat in attendance. He told me that I was to meet a caravan led by you at the main gates first thing in the morn. When I asked where the caravan was headed, he told me that you were heading into the Nektine hunting a Drakon for a need the Council has.”
“Did he not inform you as to what to bring nor how long you would be gone?”
“Nix. I tried to ask a few more questions, yet he simply said that it was Council business and for me to do as I was told for once.” Jintrill shrugged his shoulders.
“It sounds as if you and the Grand Elder do not get along.” Clytus could not stop the smile that grew on his face.
Mayhaps this young lad is not so bad after all.
Jintrill wore a sheepish look. “Well, to be honest, I had several run-ins with a few of the Elders during my days as an Initiate.”
Understanding crept into Clytus as to why Sier Blanch had sent this particular boy. “How long since you were given the blue robes?”
“The better part of two moons past.”
“And you were still living at the Academy?”
“Aye. I am not posted yet.”
Jintrill’s puzzled look told Clytus the Shaper did not follow the events that bound him on this
quest. Clytus felt sorry for the young man. “The Grand Elder, in all his pompous wisdom, sent you with me to get you out of his hair.”
The boy stared off into the distance, his face a blank mask.
It would be a hard line to swallow for any man. More so for a newly raised Shaper.
“Be that as it may.” Clytus clapped a hand to the young Sier’s shoulder. “You are here, and we will have need of more healing before this journey is finished. I promise you that.”
Jintrill’s face took on a look of gratitude. “My thanks to you, Mir’am Rillion. I will do my part.”
Clytus rose and gathered the dirty bowls. “Just so we understand each other. This will be no picnic. You are not in the protection of a city any longer. Stay sharp and do as you are told. If things fall apart, keep your head down and try to stay close to me. If I am not here, find Alimia. She will keep you as safe as she can.”
“My thanks to you, sir.” The Shaper’s spirit seemed higher.
And spirit may be all this boy will have to keep him alive out here.
“Now, get some sleep. It will only get rougher as the days go on.” Clytus turned and headed back to the cook fire.
Alant Cor watched the last sliver of sun bubble down into the ocean’s depths as darkness fell over the whitecaps that stretched off into the endless distance. Stars came out to dot the sky like glittering jewels spreading out over a black cloth. Long ago, what little he could put down during lastmeal had abandoned him into the wake that trailed behind the Mistbreeze Trader. With the ship’s gentle rise and fall subsiding, so did Alant’s queasiness. Try as he might, he had found nowhere on this accursed boat to hide from the relentless rocking. Yet here, sitting with his feet dangling over the back edge of what he now knew to be called the quarterdeck, he at least did not feel so retched. He had spent most of the last tenday sitting here.
At dusk, looking back at the sun as it sets, I could almost call it beautiful.
Yet, he could not think of much that had been pleasant on this journey. It would take them the better part of three tendays to reach Hath’oolan. With more than half that time behind them, Alant’s only hope was not to starve to death before they reached land.
“I did think I would find you here, Sier.” The now familiar squeaky voice of Krin sounded behind him and lifted Alant’s spirits a bit. The boy waddled up, slid his almost jet-black legs under the railing, and plopped down next to Alant. “Tis be beautiful, this part of day, huh?”
“Aye, one of the few moments I find peace on this miserable boat.”
“Do no be so glum, Sier. You did keep your lastmeal for near three aurns this eve. You be improving.” The boy giggled. “I do bet that by the time we do reach Elmorr’eth, you will done made a fine addition to this here crew.”
“Oh, aye! Laugh it up! It surely did not feel much of an improvement when it went over the side, even if it did stay in my belly for three aurns.” Alant did not begrudge the boy the jest. Despite their age difference, Krin had become a friend. He reminded Alant of a young Arderi, so full of life and happiness, eager to see the Plane and all its wonders. Unfortunately, this always reminded him of how much he missed his home and family.
Alant cut his eyes to the cabin boy whose room he shared. The sea breeze tussled the curly black hair that sat on Krin’s head, and threatened to drape it over his large, innocent eyes as they stared out to sea.
So full of wonder. I wish I could take life with such ease.
“Krin, you say you have been to Hath’oolan?”
Without taking his brown eyes from the distant horizon, the dark-skinned boy nodded. “Aye, Sier. About once every turn of the seasons or so.”
“Tell me of it.” Alant’s voice had an airy sound to it.
The cabin boy hrumphed and shook his head slightly. “No much to tell, truth be told. The Elmorians be a private race and do guard the secrets of their city well.”
“What do you mean?”
“They do let no one past the harbor gates except them and their Gralets.”
“Gralets? What are those?”
Krin took his eyes off the horizon to look at Alant with a serious manner Alant had never seen on the boy. “I be unsure myself, Sier. I asked the Captain about them once, except he had no answers neither.” His normal wide friendly smile sprang back to his lips. “Have you ever seen an Elmorian, Sier?” When Alant shook his head indicating he had not, the boy’s smile broadened. “I have on occasion. They be dainty creatures. Tall and thin like a mast, they do no pose much in the way of a physical threat, you might say.”
“Aye, yet they are very powerful with the Essence.”
The boy’s smile faded and his face grew somber. “Oh, aye, that be true enough, Sier. Most times when one do take notice and really looks at me, I do feel… well, exposed for lack of a better way to say it. Like they be no looking at me so much as inside of me. Yet, still…having one or two of their monstrous Gralet’nars beside them—each built like a blacksmith’s anvil—will set any man on the path of what be right and true.”
Alant nodded his head. “So, the Gralets—Gralet’nars?—are some type of guard for the Elmorians?”
“Aye, Sier. Big and powerful, they be. Like a walking tree that has a sword at its hip. Tis said they can no be killed by any natural means. They handle any labor the Elmorians needs be done—hauling cargo and the like.”
Waving the boy to stop, Alant shook his head. “Aye, very well and good. Yet the city! Tell me of that! You must have seen some of it.”
Eyes twinkling, the easy smile returned to Krin. “Tis be called the White City for a reason. Yet, as I did say, Sier, they no allow outsiders to enter the city proper. The only sight to see be those that do top the outer wall…” Krin let out a low, long whistle. “Tis a sight worthy to see, though. Beautiful spires and towers that do stretch up to the sky, unbelievably thin, and they be so white that if the sun do catch them just so, your eyes water. It be said that the White City be no built by hand, rather it did be pulled from the very ground by the power the Elmorians have over the Essence.” Krin looked back to the horizon and let a long, slow breath escape his lips. “Mere words do no give it justice. I would give much to walk its streets proper. No matter the cost the Elmorians may take from my hide.”
Joining the cabin boy in staring off into the distance, the two fell silent. The last of Krin’s words brought to mind the last thing Sier Sarlimac had said before Alant boarded the Mistbreeze Trader.
I am going inside, into the very heart of the city itself. I wonder what price I will be forced to pay?
The tall grasses of the field bent slightly in the warm breeze that danced past him from the east. Holding out a hand, he stroked the floret on their tips, and smiled. He loved the tranquility of being in a field, surrounded by an ocean of grain. He gazed at the gentle rolling hills that spread off into the distance in every direction. Spinning in a slow circle, he filled his very core with the sights that surrounded him. A splash of white on the greenish-brown landscape unfolded before him, and his heart leaped as his eyes fell upon the sight of a boy sitting on a blanket, nibbling at some cheese. The boy giggled at something his mother said to him. Clytus Rillion stood there watching his family, his heart aching with affection.
They had tried for so long to have children—Lilaith came from a large family and had wished to populate the entire Plane. As the winters rolled by with no offspring, his wife would say it was the will of the Gods, and they must not feel the time right to bless them with children.
Clytus snorted.
The will of the Gods! More like simple old bad fortune.
They sought out Shapers, drank enough Oolant drought to choke a mule—not to mention pauper a rich man. Clytus had even allowed his beloved to drag him down to her priests, all for naught. They gave up more than a decade ago. Still, Sindian had been born late in the autumn, near six winter
s past. So small. So innocent. Clytus could almost have believed in the Gods, with such a perfect gift cradled in his arms.
Now, when I stand off and look upon him, I realize what the true meaning of immortality is.
The snap of a twig drew his attention from his family, causing him to glance to his left. The entire field remained a steady swaying motion in the light breeze. A wisp of movement, and the grasses parted like water before the prow of a ship, some hundred paces away. Fur, perfectly colored to match its surrounding, sliced through the stalks as the hunter crept forward.
Clytus tried to call out warning, yet his voice failed him. The creature dropped to the ground, flicking its tail. In an explosion of power it lunged, propelling itself forward at an incredible speed, directly toward his family…
My son.
Forcing himself into action, he tore across the field, heading for a spot that would intersect the prairie lion before it reached its destination. He hefted the short hunting spear he carried in his right hand, and reached out for the Essence. The Sight of the Essence—all motion and energy—dropped on the field like a thin blanket of translucent fog. He saw its swirling Strands all around, interacting with the wind, the edges of the grass, the space between him and the lion sprinting across the field. As fast as he had ever done, he tied together the Strands as he ran, binding the spear to the lion. When he felt the connection complete, he hurled the weapon. His form powerful, yet perfect, his aim true, yet enhanced by the power he wielded through the Essence. The steel oak-leaf tip glinted in the sunlight as the missile arched, streaking across the sky. Alas, even willing the Essence to guide his throw, he felt it slip from him. The Strands unraveled and the spear spun sideways, tumbling in the air end over end. It landed well short of its target, swallowed up by the sea of tall grass.
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