by Daniel White
Télia turned to him. There were tears in her emerald eyes.
“Télia, I’m—”
“My family are dead, Aldrick.”
He stared at her. “They… no, no you don’t know that.”
“You don’t understand.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “They died many years ago, when I was nine. Bandits attacked us on the road to Galdrem.”
Aldrick took her into his arms. She buried her face in his shirt and wept. His heart was shattered for her. “Télia, I’m…” There were no fitting words. He held on and let her tears flow.
After a time, Télia withdrew her body, looked despairingly into his eyes, then left him upon the roof.
The three of them sat at the base of the tower. It was too hot in the sun and too gloomy in the fort. Aldrick did have half a mind to explore the place but the scent of rotting flesh wafting from one of the passages had dissuaded him. Much of the fort’s interior had been cleared out anyway. Malath and Selayna hadn’t planned on returning any time soon.
Kaal was busy sharpening a knife—something he often did when he was feeling stressed or uneasy. Télia sat in silence, as did Aldrick, though he was anything but calm. Again, he was attempting to weigh what the wisest course of action to take next was. He kept trying to justify venturing to Galdrem and attacking Malath, but every time he played out the confrontation, it ended with him as a bloody corpse and the others no better off. Heading south was looking to be the better option. He only wished Jon wasn’t in Galdrem, set upon defending the lands from Malath. It would surely end dismally for him.
Aldrick wondered what his parents might have done all those years ago, had they not possessed the Halfstone. Would they still have gone up against Malath, or would they have chosen to shelter those they could? He wished that they were here now—here to show him the way.
Suddenly he remembered something that brought with it a small sense of comfort. He rummaged in his travel bag and pulled out the journal Jon had given him before they left the ranges—his father’s journal. He carefully opened it at the beginning. Flaky pieces of charred paper fell into his lap. The first pages had been completely ruined by the fire. He continued through until their content became somewhat discernible. They were filled with faded sketches of peculiar plants and objects, many of which were accompanied by lengthy annotations that Aldrick was unable to read. A few, he could, though many words were unknown to him. He didn’t mind. It was calming enough just looking at his father’s work.
On a page only a little beyond the one he had first opened to in Jon’s home was what appeared to be a map. There was a location marked on it, and a single word: ‘Cave’. This wouldn’t have captured Aldrick’s attention, had it not been accompanied by another sketch of a small stone. The stone had lines around it, as if to show that it was emitting something. Light perhaps? It brought to mind Jon’s first description of the Halfstone: “A peculiar luminous stone”. This must be his father’s record of finding it! Underneath the sketch were two more small words that made Aldrick’s excitement escalate: ‘Green stones’. He jumped to his feet.
“What is it?” Télia asked, standing also.
Aldrick handed her the journal and pointed to the sketch. “Look. My father found more than one of those stones. There must be more, he just never told anyone.” Télia put a hand across her mouth. He looked at her directly. “Télia. The map. Do you know where that place is?”
She studied it for a moment. “Yes, I know that area. It is at the feet of the Mountains Nemduran, to the north.”
Kaal came to them. “What’s going on? Are we off somewhere?”
Aldrick grinned. “Yes we are.” He took Télia by the arms. “Can you show us the way?”
She grinned back at him. “Of course I can.”
13
THE SYNOD’S SANCTUARY
The outer wall of the city loomed forebodingly. He had long remembered it as a wondrous spectacle, but now he felt only dread for what might lie beyond. How ruthless had Malath and his followers been?
After having travelled along Old Capital Road for the entirety of the way here, Jon now veered off. He did not wish to be seen approaching the main gate. Though there was no sign that it was guarded, he couldn’t take any chances. Aeras could be stationed there, or lurking nearby. He had to enter the city different way. He dismounted at a farmer’s stables then continued on foot across fields to the base of the wall, a few hundred paces from the gate. After a quick glance to ensure no one was about, he drew his staff and touched it against the rough stone. He closed his eyes and summoned his storm. It coursed within him and began to flow with ease. He felt wafts of heat as the stone began to melt before him. Slowly, it ran like honey to the ground. Soon a dark street came into view.
When the fissure was large enough to fit through, Jon cooled the stone, stooped and cautiously made his way to the other side. He peered around. This street he remembered well. An old friend had once resided in the lodging ahead of him. He looked for signs of occupancy but there was no light beyond the windows. A number of the surrounding dwelling’s windows were lit but fewer than was comforting. People feared that promoting their presence would provoke invasion. The city was grasped by a silent unease. With his staff at the ready, Jon proceeded up the street.
Before he reached the grand marketplace, he made a right turn onto a narrow walkway which led between stores to the sprawling Nobelia district. Its prim streets would see him to the steps of the Synod’s tower. Sinin had said that last he knew, Devéna and fellow members of the Synod were taking refuge in the sanctuary of the tower’s tallest turret. He must reach it. He needed to know that they were safe, that they were strong and ready to confront Malath.
Jon arrived at the tower in due course, having passed only two citizens on his way, both of whom had eyed his staff warily and let him go by without words. No doubt they feared he was one of Malath’s cowardly followers. This was good—it meant that they would be less inclined to pronounce his presence. His anonymity was invaluable.
The tower stood as tall and magnificent as ever it had, though its prestige was marred by the corpses of two sentries outside the entrance. They must have lain there for days; a foul whiff hung in the air. Squinting up, Jon saw light emanating from a window somewhere at the summit of the tower. He was cautiously hopeful. Somebody was up there.
As his gaze fell, an ever-so-slight movement in the darkness of a nearby street seized his attention. He froze. The beast’s eyes gave it away. It was a ka-zchen. He turned, as calmly as he could, to face it. It was crouched low, slinking silently toward him—a shadow in the shadows. In the instant Jon lifted his staff, the beast leaped at him. Though it came down upon him with tremendous speed and strength, the beast’s claws fell short of their target. His warding wall was unyielding. It reeled back, scowling. Jon seized this brief moment of reprieve to wield a shard of ice at the head of his staff. While the beast braced itself for a second attack he sent the shard hurtling through its thick skull.
The ka-zchen collapsed to the ground, dead. Jon stooped and took a succession of deep breaths. As brief as the battle was, it had almost been too much for him. Many years had passed since he last strayed upon one of those vile creatures. Its presence in this city he recalled as vibrant and peaceable was most unsettling.
After lingering a moment to be sure the confrontation hadn’t alerted any other nearby enemies to his presence, Jon proceeded up the steps into the tower. The golden antechamber was dim and deserted, as was the stairwell. The many candles that lined the circular walls were unlit. Signs of disruption were all around. Large book cases and parchment cabinets had been toppled. Various ornaments lay strewn across the ground. The most prominent wall paintings had been either slashed or burnt where they hung.
With his staff before him, Jon cautiously began to climb the twisting maroon stairs. It would be foolish to presume no one skulked in the shadows above, waiting to strike. This proved not to be the case, however. Soon enough he had re
ached the Chamber of Deliberation. He paused and took several more deep breaths. The stairs had almost bested him too. His back ached terribly.
The door to the chamber was slightly ajar. After healing himself, Jon pushed it open from afar. It creaked loudly. He froze, fearing he had compromised his position. Nothing stirred. He kindled a flame and went forth. In front of him, the lelylan-wood chairs of the elder wielders’ stood empty. Upon the carpet at their feet, bodies lay. There were three, all of them wrapped in drapery from the wall. Jon felt fury take him. Malath was to pay for this villainy!
It was a small comfort knowing some caring soul had sought to rest the bodies in what respectable way they could.
He had to go on. The sanctuary was one level higher. He made toward a small stairwell which led to it but found a warding enchantment blocking his way. This was an encouraging sign.
“Devéna, are you up there?” he called out.
There was a moment of silence before a stern male voice replied. “Who approaches?”
“My name is Jon. I have come to assist the Synod.”
There was another pause, then shuffling. Jon found he was now free to proceed. Smears of blood stained the indigo stairs, diminishing his optimism.
“That is quite far enough.” A tall, willowy wielder stood at the head of the stairs, brandishing a staff.
Jon stopped and coolly lay down his own. “Peace, friend. I am on your side. I am no follower of Malath the Wicked’s.”
The wielder cautiously lowered his staff and stepped aside. “Very well. You may enter our sanctuary… unarmed.”
“So be it.” Jon left his staff on the stairs and continued.
As he walked through the doorway, Jon was glowered at through large, round spectacles. He recognised the face from many years ago but could not recall a name.
The sanctuary appeared before him as a lord’s living quarters. To the left was a roaring fire, set in a wall of polished marble. Before this was a spacious seating area of the most eloquent armchairs and daybeds. The pelt of a ka-zchen lay sprawled on the ground at their feet. Ahead of him was a grand dining table, upon which were many empty wine bottles and platters of half-consumed roast meals.
Jon’s eyes fell upon two figures at the far end of the table. One of them was Devéna. She was safe. He felt a heavy weight lift from his chest.
“Devéna, dearest.” He strode to her with open arms.
Her companion swiftly stood and blocked his way. “Who are you?”
“It is all right, Frade,” said Devéna, rising. “Jon here is a long lost friend to us all.” She looked upon Jon warmly and opened her own arms. “Oh Jon, how many years has it been?”
They embraced.
“Many more than too many,” he replied, holding her close. Her body felt frailer than he remembered. Of course, it would have been foolish to expect otherwise; her hair was greying when last he saw her, all those years ago.
“Are you well?” he queried. “I saw blood on the stairs and feared the worst.”
“I am fine.” Devéna gestured to the tall wielder who remained by the door, watching him. “Ferven was wounded when Malath visited last week but is healed now.”
“Malath.” Jon gritted his teeth. “What he has done is unspeakable. I travelled here with haste.”
Devéna smiled.
“We are thankful,” she said, gazing upon him. “It seems news does not escape you, even far south in your remote dwelling.”
“Aeras brought with them a first-hand account of his presence in Galdrem.”
Devéna looked puzzled. “Aeras?”
“Yes—come for young Aldrick.”
Her eyes brightened. “Isobel and Gilthred’s child! It is splendid to hear he is guarded. I had feared the aeras would not find him.”
“Am I to suppose you have news of this wielder, then?” inquired Ferven. “Has he accompanied you here?”
“No, he…” Jon paused. Not everyone here he knew, or trusted. “Young Aldrick is attending to matters,” he said tersely. “He may come or he may not. I would not pressure him.”
Ferven glared at him. “Are you mad?! You should not have offered him choice when his ability is paramount for any hope of victory. This should have been overseen by one more competent than yourself.”
Now Jon was mad. “You speak as if you stand in Devéna’s stead. You speak as if you are the Reverend Wielder!”
Ferven’s glare turned into an acutely smug smile. “Actually, I am.”
Jon turned to Devéna in disbelief. “What? Him? He is the Reverend now?!”
Devéna nodded. “Yes, I have long since given up the title. Ferven was my obvious replacement. He is a most distinguished member of the Synod.”
Jon rounded on Ferven. “Much of this makes sense to me now. It was your decision to barricade yourselves in this sanctuary. Tell me, how many days have you been here, letting evil skulk through your city? You should be ashamed!”
“It was hardly my decision,” Ferven retorted. “It is written in the old scripture that the elder wielders are to remain here in the event of such ruinous circumstance…”
“And do nothing?! Would you stand idle and see the world collapse around you?”
“No, I would not. I have been spending time diligently considering the most appropriate course of action.”
Jon flung his hands in the air. “Oh, so that’s what you’ve been doing all this time—considering things! Do you not realise that the only reason you still breathe is because Malath hopes you will align yourselves with him?” He pointed a finger at Ferven’s staff. “Your little warding enchantment would not have stopped him entering this sanctuary had he wished you dead.” He heaved a sigh. “I am afraid Malath is playing a very devious trick on you, and you are playing straight back into his hands.”
Ferven didn’t offer a reply. His jaw was firm, his nostrils flared. Jon didn’t care for what the fool was thinking, so long as he had absorbed some small sum of reason.
“What is it you think we should do?” Devéna asked Jon calmly.
“I think we must face Malath—gather whatever strength we have and storm Delthendra. We must use this time for retaliation, before it is too late.”
Ferven began to laugh.
“Face Malath!” he exclaimed. “You wish death to befall us all, don’t you wielder?!”
“No, I simply wish for those who have the power to do something, to do so.” Jon strolled to the window and looked down at the city below. Death and despair would soak its streets if nothing was done soon. Truthfully, he hoped Aldrick would abandon all plans to confront Malath, whether he had found the Halfstone or not. It wasn’t his responsibility. It was the Synod’s… it was his own.
Jon turned. “I am going to Delthendra tonight, with or without your aid.”
“Jon.” Devéna came to him and seized his hand.
He looked upon her with affection. “What else is there to do?”
She stared into his eyes for a moment, then sighed and rested her forehead against him.
“I will accompany you,” said Frade, rising from an armchair. “I have been held up here too long, and not for any good reason.”
Jon nodded. “I appreciate it.”
Ferven was fuming.
“Fine!” he snapped. “Go with this wayward wielder if you wish, but you won’t be welcome back. This sanctuary is for those who want to live.”
Jon ignored Ferven’s words.
“What will you do?” he asked Devéna. “If you wish it, you should flee this city and take with you those you hold dear.”
She shook her head. “No, I will follow you, Jon. You were always wise and I think you are quite right—we should use the time we have to fight back, not hide. Tonight may well be our last opportunity to do so.”
“Very well,” said Jon. “We must leave right away. Do not forget your staffs.”
Ferven watched them with a deadly frown as they walked past him. There were no words of farewell. It was apparent th
at Devéna and Frade had also resented the Reverend Wielder’s handling of this calamity, though they had refrained from expressing it. They were relieved to now be turning their backs to him. There was no rejoicing as they made their way down the tower, however. Devéna shed tears over the bodies which lay in the chamber. It was she who had covered them. One was her younger brother. Ferven had declined a traditional burial as it would have required them to leave the tower.
They exited from the main entrance guardedly. The body of the ka-zchen lay in a heap where Jon had slain it. Black blood oozed from its head and crept between cobblestones down the slope of the street. Thankfully, it appeared that no more of the beasts had been drawn to its scent.
The city was silent. Even fewer windows were lit than before. Midnight had come and gone. Jon could hear himself breathing as they made their way along the dim and deserted streets.
Soon they had passed through the gateway to Akimr Gully. It would offer them a sheltered passage between the sharp roots of the mountains to the very doors of Delthendra. The lelylan trees which grew on either side of the path stood much taller than Jon recalled. Hundreds of dazzling yellow fireflies danced around their clumps of strap leaves as the wielders stole beneath.
Before one final corner which hid the lyceum from view, Jon signalled to halt and turned to his companions.
“Well, this is it,” he said. “We must tread as half-moon shadows. If we are outnumbered, which is likely the case, catching the enemy unprepared is our sole advantage. We can only pray that no aeras sense us approaching.”
They continued on. The great courtyard came into view. It was cold and still. Upon the ground, dark shapes lay scattered in the pale light—bodies, many of them. With aching hearts the trio meandered between them. They were the lyceum’s aera staff, but also, a number of young wielders lay amongst them, dressed in their novice robes. Jon fought to stow his fury. Devéna’s hand covered her mouth. She looked close to losing her balance.
“I cannot believe it,” uttered Frade in a broken voice.