Equilibrium: Episode 1

by CS Sealey

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM: EPISODE 1

  The Spirits’ ancient equilibrium is brought into being when the twelfth mage is finally found. But Angora is unlike those who have come before her and she refuses to blindly accept her fate.

  The Ayons have mysteriously retreated from a far-reaching southern offensive, ordered back by their newly crowned king.

  In the aftermath of this battle, Angora is washed up on the shore of a foreign land, bruised and battered, determined to keep her past a secret from all. Rescued from slavers, yet immediately falling prey to others, she is thrust into a war not her own.

  Proclaimed one of twelve legendary mages, Angora is charged with protecting the innocent with magic beyond her imagination.

  But a dark future awaits her and her friends as the Ayon threat begins to swell once more in the north.

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM: EPISODE 1

  EPIGRAPH

  MAPS

  PROLOGUE

  EPISODE ONE: 364 Third Era

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM (THE COMPLETE EDITION)

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM: EPISODE 2

  ABOUT CS SEALEY

  COPYRIGHT

  To my invaluable family and friends who helped me get here.

  All religions declare that their own account of man’s creation is the truest. Some claims are wildly absurd, others vague and impossible. One element, however, seems common in all: the Spirits, though they have been called many things – gods, guardians, divines, the immortal creators. Some cultures even claim the ancient elves created us, something the elves flatly deny, if ever you ask.

  Only one book speaks the truth, for it was written by one such Spirit – Thraine vor Enereng. In his book, The Eddermath, he recounts his life from his own creation, his initiation into the Peacekeepers, his career protecting the mortal plane, his violent expulsion, and the incredible events that led to the formation of the Twelve.

  Scholars have debated for centuries whether this book is real or mere myth, but as I sit here with the volume itself in my hands, Lord Enereng’s ancient words swim before my eyes and his knowledge of magic seeps into my very soul. I hear his voice in my mind and I know that it is real.

  Throughout history, many mortals have claimed to possess powers gifted to them by the Spirits. While some of these individuals have been nothing more than frauds or madmen, the Twelve have been widely acknowledged as true magi. Our nature is bound to the Spirits’ equilibrium, forever striving to uphold that ancient balance – light and darkness, force and counterforce. We have lived that way generation after generation.

  However, when the Spirits themselves wish to break that balance, who are we but pawns in their schemes?

  Introduction to Thraine’s Legacy, Lord Archis Varren, c. 378 TE

  PROLOGUE

  A girl walked along the shadowed sand, caring very little that the driving rain soaked through her dress nor that the wind chilled her to the bone. The storms were upon them at last; thunder boomed overhead and blinding flashes of lightning lit up the dark sky. The air was rich with the smell of the surging sea and the scent of the damp forest bordering the beach. The night chorus was interrupted by a loud crack. The girl stopped dead on the rain-battered sand and listened. At first, she thought the storm had claimed its first elder tree, tearing it from the soil, roots and all. But she quickly realized that the sound had come from the water. She peered into the darkness beyond the breaking waves but saw nothing.

  She waited a moment, her ears straining over the sound of the sea. There came another crack, the smashing and shattering of wood, yet there was nothing to see. The sea was churning in the natural inlet, breaking against the rocks and exploding into the air. She could hardly make out where the beach ended and the water began.

  But then she saw it, a small wreck caught on the rocks. The sea was playing a malicious game with its prey, tossing the boat over and over, flinging it against the rocks only to pick it up once more. It was like watching a curious child pulling off the wings of a beetle. She hurried along the sand toward the rock shelf beneath the high cliffs.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted in the mainland tongue from the darkness. “You there! Hey!”

  Thunder reverberated through the air and a flash of lightning illuminated the inlet. For a fraction of a second, she saw him – a figure on one of the jagged rocks, waving his arms frantically. Her eyes widened.

  “Hey! Girl!”

  She hastened to the rocks and began to clamber over them. The rocks had once been a single shelf but, over the years, the violent storms had eroded it away. Now there was a series of ledges separated by narrow strips of water, clogged with seaweed and oyster beds. She had crossed them before but never in the middle of a storm, nor at night.

  “Help!”

  “Stay where you are!” she shouted back in the island tongue. “I am coming to get you!”

  She moved forward slowly, half seeing, half feeling her way to the frantic man.

  “How can I get to shore?” he cried.

  “See if you can grab my hand! Can you reach this shelf?”

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying!”

  She groaned. Her grasp of the mainland tongue was only passable at best. “Just…My hand!” she shouted back in his language, extending her hand as far as she dared. “Here!”

  “I can’t reach you!”

  “Jump!”

  “No, you’re crazy!”

  “Stay here and drown, then, you miserable fool!” she shouted back angrily in her own language.

  There was another flash of lightning and she saw the man looking terrified at the sea around him. He leaped. Grasping her own rock, she leaned down as close to the water as she could, her other hand outstretched. She strained her eyes, peering into the night, and saw a white shape beneath the water’s surface. She plunged her arm into the surging waves, grabbed a handful of torn shirt and pulled. The man’s head broke the surface and he gave a spluttering cough.

  The sea rose as a wave rolled past on its way to shore and she hauled him up beside her. He gripped her wrist desperately.

  “Look out!” she cried.

  A larger wave crashed over the top of them and, for a moment, all she could hear was water. It almost dragged her off the rocks entirely, but she managed to steady herself as the wave passed and eventually broke with a great boom and hiss upon the beach.

  “Follow,” she said, gesturing to the man.

  “I can’t…I’m so tired.”

  “Rest later.”

  She edged her way back across the rocks agonizingly slowly, stopping now and then to let waves pass before moving forward once more. Despite his weariness, the stranger managed to traverse the rocks well enough.

  When they reached the beach, however, he collapsed onto the sand, his back bowing as he retched. His fingers had not released her wrist, so she sat beside him and looked down at his pathetic form. His clothes were ripped to tatters and his soaked, short hair was plastered to his forehead. He was younger than she had first thought – perhaps only in his mid twenties. He was tall and lean and his face was drawn. A sense of unease began to wash over her. On the rocks, she had dismissed his use of the mainland language, concentrating only on his desperate pleas for help. Now, however, the realization that he was not one of her people hit her. She inched away, tugging her arm out of his grip.

  The young man looked at her somewhat suspiciously, his eyes w
atering. “What?” he rasped.

  “You…Where did you come from?” she asked in her own tongue, her eyes wide.

  “What?”

  “Where…you?” she asked, first pointing at him and then at the sea. “Not from here. Where?”

  The stranger coughed again and attempted to sit up. “I can’t remember. Where am I? Gods, I’m not in Kirofirth, am I?” He groaned and closed his eyes.

  “No,” she said. “Teronia.”

  “Thank the Spirits,” he murmured, turning his face skyward.

  “You speak…” She pointed out to the sea, beyond which was the mainland. She hoped her pitiful attempt at speaking his language was making a little sense to him. “You Ronnesian?”

  “No!” he exclaimed, and then began to talk quickly and animatedly for a long time. She tried to understand what he was saying but she only picked up a few words and none of them made much sense to her.

  She shook her head and put her hand up, silencing him. “Where?”

  The stranger calmed himself and thought for a moment. “I came from an island up north,” he said. “They speak the mainland tongue. Islander too, see. I’m from Wrensol. Do you know it?”

  “Wrensol?”

  “It’s off the coast of Cainei. North of here.”

  “North…Then why you here?”

  “I was on a ship,” the man said vaguely. He was speaking slower now, evidently having understood that her knowledge of his language was limited. “We were going back home, back to Wrensol, see? But then we hit the storms and the ship was torn to pieces. Broken.” He began to draw pictures on the sand. “We all got into the rowboats but most of my crew were washed overboard. My crew! Have you seen anyone else?” He stood, his legs a little unsteady beneath him.

  “No.”

  He swore anxiously and ran his hands through his hair.

  “Your name?”

  “Give me yours first,” the young man replied.

  “Lalean,” the girl said after a pause. “Yours?”

  “Sam.”

  “Really?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?” He sounded almost angry but then his face softened. “Well, thank you for saving my life…Lalean.”

  He managed a smile but then began to cough again and more seawater splattered onto the sand. Lalean patted him on the back.

  “My father is a rich lord,” he said once his coughs had subsided. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him. I was returning home. He’s not been very well lately. He told me not to stay away for long.”

  “I wish my father was ill…” Lalean muttered in her own tongue.

  “What was that?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re very young…” Sam mused. “Can I trust you to, you know, keep a secret?”

  “Secret?”

  Sam mumbled to himself for a moment and then brightened up. He put a finger to his lips and grinned, something that made him look even younger. “On the way here,” he said, trying to act out his words once more, “my ship was attacked by pirates! We were taken prisoner and the ship was looted. You know – they took all our money. But then the storm hit and we managed to escape the hold when they were distracted with the sails. We forced them off the ship but ran aground somewhere. I hope my crew are all right.”

  He fell silent. Lalean tried to take in all he had said but was sure she had only gleaned half of his meaning. His boat had been destroyed on the shore of her island and she felt pity for him, for, if it had drifted this far south and his crew had not also found boats, then they were surely dead.

  “You…cold?” She imitated a shiver.

  Sam looked down at his drenched rags and nodded.

  “Come! Give you new, uh…” She grabbed the front of his torn shirt. “And food. Warm. I take you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Morning, look for men.”

  “We’ll never find them,” he said dismally.

  Lalean touched his arm softly and did not look away when the young man met her eyes. Finding no words of comfort in the mainland tongue, she spoke instead in her own. “If they have lost their lives, they rest now in the embrace of the Goddess. She will take care of them. They will never again suffer in this world.”

  Though he could not possibly understand her words, he seemed to appreciate her tone and managed a grim smile. “Thank you.”

  EPISODE ONE

  364 Third Era

  CHAPTER 1

  Archis Varren was sitting in a high-backed chair, lost in thought – as he had been for hours. The only light came from the single thin candle on the table in front of him. An open window high on the far wall showed a clear, starry night and a crescent moon that was dipping toward the east. A gust of wind swept in and dislodged one of the shutters, causing it to bang back against the open windowpane. The loud noise caused the man to flinch and then groan as his flame was extinguished.

  In the silence that followed, Varren raised his head, turned his eyes to the candle and blew at the smoking wick. Immediately, the dim flame spluttered back into life. He produced a fresh piece of parchment from a drawer in his writing desk and grasped his long white quill. Varren dipped it into the inkwell, then began to write. His neat script covered the page quickly and, after a moment, he read it over.

  My dear son Tarik,

  Circumstances have arisen that make it impossible for me to stay here for a day longer. Understand this is a matter of grave importance and I wouldn’t leave for any other reason. Galenros has recalled me on the king’s orders and I must return at once.

  He sighed and continued to write.

  I imagine I will be gone for some time. Ensure that Whisper gets her treatment every evening until the wound heals – she ought to trust you by now. I know you will be sensible and continue with your studies. Arrange the supply orders in accordance with my own and you will be well provided for. I look forward to seeing you again soon. Father.

  He blew on the parchment and gazed out the open window as he waited for the ink to dry. Varren rarely saw his seven-year-old son, as his duties to the king demanded so much of his time. It was such a nuisance. He longed to teach Tarik everything he knew, but taking extended leave from court was impossible. Hardly ever at home, he entrusted his son’s schooling and safety to hired academics, traders, historians, hunters and retired swordmasters; island mercenaries, though well-paid ones. And, of course, there was the beralynx, Whisper. It was a sad fact that Varren spent more of his time fathering the king than his own son. Varren was only home now because King Samian had ordered him to take leave from court after their latest heated disagreement.

  Varren stood wearily, blowing out the candle as he did so, and folded the dried parchment in his long fingers. He left his study and moved through the silent corridors of his home. Stopping in the doorway of his son’s bedroom, Varren looked into the shadows. He could just make out the bed and the shape beneath the covers that was the pride of his life. Some nights, he would stand where he was now, watching as Tarik drew in slow, peaceful breaths, wondering how he could have created something so tranquil when he, himself, was constantly churning with anger.

  A dark form stirred in the room and moved from a shadowy corner. The soft silver moonlight outlined the gray fur of its back and the powerful structure of its feline body.

  “Whisper,” Varren murmured and caressed the large beralynx’s head. “You must look after him for me.”

  There was a glimmer in the darkness as two yellow eyes looked up at him. Where are you going?

  “The king professes to need me, though I doubt it’s for any great motive. He grows ever more demanding and irksome by the day.”

  When will you return?

  “Not for a while, I fear.”

  Tarik will be safe with me.

  Varren nodded and placed the folded letter on the boy’s bedside table. His son murmured in his sleep and moved slightly beneath the covers. Varren rearranged Tarik’s blanket and sighed.

  “I must go
.”

  He turned, crossed the corridor and pushed open the door to his own shadowed quarters. Once inside, he opened his wardrobe and set a heavy cloak about his shoulders. Delseroy would be cold. Fixing the cloak at his throat, he left his room and continued down the corridor. He passed under a crumbling archway at the end and emerged into a moonlit courtyard that was showing its years. He heard a light padding of paws and turned to see the large wildcat limping toward him. She stopped beneath the archway and tilted her head slightly to one side.

  I will await your return in earnest, Archis.

  Varren raised his hand in farewell, then pressed it to his chest.

  “Farewell, Whisper.”

  The wildcat bowed her head.

  Drawing his cloak tightly about him, he pictured the forecourt outside the gates of Delseroy castle, moonlight filtering down onto the cobblestones and garden beds. A flurry of mist consumed him, swirling around him in a vortex of white and gray. Then, with a great crack, which reverberated through the otherwise peaceful night air, he was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  Te’Roek was situated at the head of the River Mír, where its many tributaries flowed down from the mountains. It was a vast city protected on the west, north and east by the Kirofirth Mountains. In its center, at the top of the hill, was a magnificent castle. It had been built centuries ago but showed few signs of decay. It had four proud towers, one facing in each direction, a large courtyard and garden, and a wide terraced forecourt in front of the main gates. The capital was the most fortified city in the Ronnesian Empire, with three encircling walls, separating each district and providing ample protection against any invasion force. It was an attractive city and the beating heart of the Ronnesian Empire. People swarmed there every year for festivals and markets. It was a prosperous realm but lived within the shadow of its northern rival, the Ayon Empire. The two had been at war for generations, jostling against each other, clashing violently and then falling into periods of uneasy peace. It was midday and the sun was shining bright and warm. Markets lined the thoroughfare along the lower end of the main street and it was hard for any traveler not intending to buy to make their way through. There were, however, two men who were attempting to do just that, and the mass of bodies that choked the street was proving quite a challenge. The men were weary from riding but the sight and smells of home lifted their spirits.