Ancient Voices: Into the Depths

by Allison D. Reid

  Morganne barely slept the night Elowyn told her that her greatest desire had been granted. In the dark of morning before the sun’s rising, she had hurried through the bitter cold to the small chapel that stood watch alone on the edge of the road. Drawing a reluctant hand from the warmth of her wrappings, she had let herself in and waited with breathless anticipation for Jadon, hoping that Elowyn had not misunderstood his message. Much to her amazement, Jadon had come, leading her through the gate and back to the small library and scriptorium.

  After that, Morganne was told to come straight to the gate each morning and ring the bell. The first couple of times she went, her hand hesitated on the bell cord. She stood there in the cold unsure if she had in fact dreamt it all. But once she got up the nerve to ring, Jadon came faithfully, his unruly curls peeking out to catch snowflakes as he walked over to unlatch the gate. She would then spend a wondrous hour with him in the library, poring over beautifully illuminated tomes, learning to decipher the language of the Prophets.

  No one knew what the old language sounded like and so it was no longer spoken. The only people who still wrote in its mysterious flowing script were scribes tasked with copying old tomes for the sake of preservation. Thus Morganne’s job was easier than she had expected, as she only had to learn the language well enough to read what others had already written. That she was permitted to touch such sacred books, to read them, and even to take them home with her to study, was unimaginable to Morganne. And yet there she was, sitting alongside Jadon while he methodically taught her with the same patience Gareth once had.

  Their daily lesson would end when the bells in the tower rang out to mark the rising of the sun. Jadon would close the book and hand it to Morganne as the other monks began to gather in the large chapel just beyond their door. Their voices would suddenly lift into song with resonant clarity, harmonies intertwining in rounds like a dance. There was no need for instruments, which would have only spoiled the perfection of the song, raised up as a pure and heartfelt offering to the Creator of all things. Morganne wanted so badly to join them, wishing that she could at least linger in the library and listen to their melodious prayers. But each day when the bells rang, she wrapped her book in a heavy cloth to protect it from the weather, then allowed Jadon to escort her out and shut the gate behind her.

  As much as Morganne loved opening her shop, her heart was trapped between the tightly closed pages of the book that was waiting for her. Her fingers worked mechanically through the day, her mind fixated on the tome that she had nestled protectively into the folds of her cloak. On nights when the tavern wasn’t too loud and smoky, she would put Adelin to bed then settle down at the table in front of the warm hearth fire, where there was plenty of light to read by. She would stay there for hours, until the very last patron had abandoned his cup for the night and Wyman barred the front doors.

  She discovered that by comparison to her own, the old language had far fewer words and the sentences were more simply constructed. The difficulty was in the translation itself, since each word had a plethora of meanings. To find the proper understanding for any given word, one had to glean clues from all the surrounding text. Subtle changes in the translation of key words in a passage might change its message entirely, and the intent of the author was not always clear. Morganne found that she often needed more help with interpretation than reading the words themselves. But this did not disappointment her because it meant she would also need to learn history, and prophecy, and about the ancient tomes themselves, all of which were of great interest to her.

  The first book Jadon had given her was not from the mountain, but one that the monks used to teach the old language to members of its order. It contained many of the same stories that Gareth’s primer did, and comparing the two helped her to learn the art of interpretation more quickly than she would have otherwise. Jadon was impressed by her dedication and progress, remarking that it was obvious Aviad had given her a heart for the tomes. He cautioned her to use her gift with wisdom in unity with the Spirit. When Jadon felt she was ready, he pulled one of the mountain tomes from the shelf as the ringing of the bells marked the end of their lesson.

  “I do not know what this tome contains, but it has probably not been read by human eyes in a very long time. That you are the first in generations to receive its message is a great honor.”

  Morganne took the tome with trembling hands and said, “I can only hope that I am worthy of it.” She spent the remainder of that day restless and distracted, making uncharacteristic mistakes in her stitching and measurements to the point where the girls in her shop asked if she was feeling well. When she could not bear the wait any longer, she bundled Adelin up and hurried home, leaving the shop in their hands. While Adelin napped, Morganne gingerly freed the ancient tome from its cloth wrapping and opened the clasp. The pages were badly yellowed and fragile, and the script was loose and shaky, as though it had been written in great haste by an elderly monk.

  This tome bears warning to the Order of Aviad. I, Tal-bet, of the Order of Emeth, stand as a Witness to Truth as it has been given me by the One we all serve. Your warriors brought you victory at Aviad’s Shrine, and our own beloved Varol sealed the Enemy into the Rift. It may seem that Alazoth’s fate has been met, that his followers, by their nature, have no way to release him from the confines of his prison. Aviad has honored me to suffer horrific visions from within the Rift for your sake, that you may be told what is, and what is to come.

  The Enemy, beyond our sight, festers beneath the scar of the Rift like an unclean wound. In my waking dreams, I have seen that wound burst, spewing forth darkness and chaos into a sleeping world. Where Aviad’s Shrine should be there are only ruins, and men’s hearts are equally desolate. Not far to the east lies the Rift itself, on top of which no weeds will grow nor animals nest. It appears as a barren ridge of jagged rock, save for a gaping crevasse that cuts deep into the earth. It is filled with many wicked beasts, terrifying to behold, whose pleasure it is to crush men’s flesh. Many men of valor will go there seeking glory, but meet only Death.

  Surrounding the Crevasse is a thick and tangled wasteland that no earthly power can tame. That wood belongs to the Shadow, and year by year, it expands its reach, encroaching close upon the ruins of Aviad’s Shrine. The Shadow cannot defile it, but he would see it swallowed whole, its sacred soil unreachable and forgotten. Indeed, his desire is that all of our holy places shall be lost to the coming ages so that men will no longer seek them. The Shadow would have us believe that Darkness holds the only true power, that Virtue is inferior and weak. We must continuously expose this lie lest mankind become ensnared and corrupted by it.

  My vision took me through the Wood of Shadow, into the horrors of the Crevasse and beyond the seal of the Rift. I was plunged into the very depths of the abyss where the Shadow feeds on lost souls. They cry out in eternal anguish, their twisted faces betraying the excruciating emptiness of their separation from Aviad. Therein lies Alazoth’s altar, stained with the blood of men, housed in a dark room constructed of their bones. On the altar sits the stone chest into which Alazoth’s destructive powers were sealed. Many have been lured there with promises unkept, but as you well know, neither dark heart nor coerced hand can break the seal. Only one of pure intent and willing heart may open the Chest of Sorrows. Carved onto it are the figures of all those whom the Shadow has tormented in his attempts to open the chest, forever bearing witness to his failure, and serving as a warning to others.

  Do not rest easily in this knowledge, for there will come a day when a young man will make his way freely into the rift and stand before Alazoth’s altar. I know not what circumstance of life will bring him there, but he will reach out his hand, and the chest will open, breaking both its seal and that of the Rift itself. Alazoth will awaken and take up his hunting staff once again. His son will make ready the path of his re-entrance into the world, and his armies will be rebuilt while the dark clouds gather. His followers will be secured in preparation fo
r the coming battle; careless men will be corrupted, and bad men will give their souls to the Shadow while seeking riches and favors. When all has been prepared, Alazoth will leave the Rift with his Hounds, which are born of the eternal fire of the abyss. Their eyes glow red and they breathe smoke and flame. They fear only the water of the river that runs from the Spring of Immar. It will contain them for a time, but eventually Alazoth will lead them across it. With his staff he will guide them under the dark cover of the new moon, a malevolent shepherd ushering in a time of destruction and chaos.

  I do not believe that Aviad sent me this vision simply to strike fear into our hearts. That is not His way. His message comes to us with a purpose, which we must discern and act upon. Perhaps there is a way to avoid this catastrophic event, or more likely it is inevitable and Aviad is giving us warning so that we might prepare for these dark times, which may very well be the end of days. I have given this tome into the hands of my most trusted student and asked him to deliver it, so that your order might benefit from the knowledge it contains. He is given all authority to speak on my behalf and that of my order.

  The tome went on to describe the “Wood of Shadow,” which Morganne realized with some shock was the Deep Woods she had lived on the edge of her entire life. Never before had she thought to question why the wood had remained a tangled wasteland, unable to be tamed even by the powerful hand of the Sovereign. She was grateful that she had not known until now the dangers that lurked beneath those darkened trees. The Crevasse and the Rift were also described in vivid detail, with carefully drawn illuminations in the margins.

  Morganne might have comforted herself with the thought that this tome contained nothing more than the overly imaginative ravings of a crazed monk. But she knew all too well that the prophecy within it had already come to pass, that Gareth and the others had been right all along. Morganne could hardly bear to read through some of the pages, which brought the horrors of the Rift to life with unspeakable clarity. One drawing in particular held her captive; the Chest of Sorrows seemed to protrude from the page, covered with the forlorn faces of all those who had tried to open it without success. There had been so many from across the ages, that their cheeks were squeezed tightly together. Hollow eyes and tormented expressions grabbed at her heart while starved, bony fingers reached out toward her in desperation. For a moment, she forgot that she was only looking at an image of the chest, and not the chest itself. She could almost feel herself being pulled in, those twisted fingers grabbing for her hair, her clothing ... her soul.

  She felt a sudden tug on her dress and barely stifled a shriek as she slammed the book shut. Adelin had awoken from her nap. Her round face and wide blue eyes were fixed on Morganne as she teetered on the edge of melting into a startled wail. Clearly, this was not the reaction she had expected in response to her timid tug. Morganne quickly whisked Adelin up in her arms and hugged her tightly, a wave of relief sweeping over her. She wrapped the book up and tucked it away, knowing that she would need to gather her courage before she would be ready to read from it again.

  Even with the book well out of sight, she could not escape her fears so easily. She tossed and turned on the narrow bed that she shared with Adelin, envious of Elowyn sleeping peacefully on the rug by the fire. When she did manage to sleep, she dreamed of the Crevasse and the Rift. She dreamt that she was being dragged into the bone room by a host of beasts like the one Glak had brought back from the mountains. They placed her before Alazoth’s altar, face to face with that horrible stone chest. They wanted her to open it, to condemn herself into becoming one of those lost souls, staring out mournfully into the abyss through all of eternity. She was promised wealth, prestige, power, beauty, even immortality...but nothing could entice her to share the fate of the forlorn faces on that chest. She resisted, realizing that she was lost in a nightmare from which she would eventually waken.

  When morning came, Morganne rose from bed pallid and weary. She wrapped the book to take it with her, secretly hoping that she would not be asked to continue reading it, even though she felt compelled to by its obvious importance. She laid it on the table before Jadon, saying, “This is a dark tome you have given me.”

  Jadon did not seem surprised. “The old tomes can be difficult,” he responded, “not in their translation, but in their message. They are scribed by men living in desperate times, whose hearts are made heavy by the suffocating weight of the Shadow’s presence upon the world. Such men are given voice by Aviad so that they may speak the words we need, but do not always want, to hear.”

  “Indeed, there are many things written in this tome that I do not want to hear. I fear these things are no longer prophecy, but have come to pass in our generation.” Morganne went on to describe what she had read, hoping the information would push Jadon into action.

  “Knowledge of the Chest of Sorrows is common, and has been recorded and copied in numerous tomes, though I have never before heard it described in such a way. What makes you believe that it has been opened?”

  “The Hounds and their Master have been seen around Tyroc ... or so I have heard,” Morganne said carefully. “Alazoth’s release was also revealed in visions given to my former teacher and a group of monks in his order. They left their monastery seeking answers and guidance, but I do not know where they went, only that their travels took them westward. More I dare not say. I have many more reasons to think that the beasts gathering just beyond Minhaven are not here by chance, but that they are connected with the opening of the chest.”

  Jadon nodded, absorbed in thought as he leafed slowly through the pages of the tome, his eye finally resting on the image of the chest. He stared at it for a while, mesmerized as Morganne had been, before quietly closing the book and giving it back to Morganne.

  “What should we do?” Morganne finally asked.

  “Nothing,” Jadon said softly.

  “Nothing?” Morganne could hardly believe his response.

  “Does the tome give instruction on how to defeat the beasts?”

  “No. It does not mention them at all. Mainly it warns that the chest and the Rift will be opened, releasing Alazoth and his armies into the world. It describes the Deep Woods, the Crevasse, and the Rift in frightening detail. The monk who wrote the tome said that Alazoth’s release will usher in a time of great trial for humanity that could very well be the end of days.”

  “What would you have me do?” Jadon asked.

  “I don't know,” Morganne said in a flustered tone. “Tell your superiors and the rest of your order, tell the people, the Kinship...tell everyone so that they might prepare for what is coming.”

  “Certainly I must tell my superiors,” Jadon said in his usual understated way. “The Kinship and the people already know of the beasts and are preparing for Minhaven’s defense should the worst befall us. The heavy snows will protect us for now, but many are frightened by what may await us when spring thaws the mountain passes. Should I bring more terror upon them with no offering of hope to see them through it? What can one do against a prophecy already fulfilled? Nothing more than pray for strength and wisdom, and hope that Aviad will give us instruction at the proper time.”

  Morganne gaped in disbelief at the way he seemed to calmly accept this fate without feeling the need to do anything but pray.

  “Perhaps there is something more in the remaining tomes that could be of help to us,” Jadon said encouragingly, noting Morganne’s despondent expression. He handed her a new tome just as the bells began to ring.

  “Now that you have a fair understanding of the old language, there is no need to meet every day. Take whatever time you need with these tomes. Do not only translate them. Study them. Lift their message to Aviad in prayer and see what other insights He reveals to you. When you have questions or have finished a tome, you know how to find me.” Jadon then quickly ushered her out through the gate.

  Morganne’s sewing tasks bore the brunt of her frustration as she tried to put the tomes out of her mind and catch
up on the work she had left unfinished the previous day. The pressure bearing down on her heart to act was becoming unbearable, yet she had no clear direction for that pressure to vent itself. She kept asking herself if it was Aviad trying to direct her as He had before in Evensong, or was it her own fear getting the better of her? Perhaps she could not fault Jadon, for he had not come face-to-face with Braeden, or felt the threat of conjured storms lashing out at his roof. Until now, he had remained secure, insulated from the steady march of the Hounds that were now descending upon the southern shores of the Sovereign’s realm. He seemed content to wait for some divine instruction before entering into the looming battle.