by T. A. Miles
There was a brief look of censure on the patriarch’s face at the sight of two of his priests, two horses, and an injured young man appearing beneath the garden arches. But Ashwin’s foremost talent was empathy, and it took him no time at all to not only know that something was wrong, but to feel it as well. Korsten watched the realization capture the ageless loveliness of the ancient, and could not help that, for at least that moment, his own depression over the loss behind them was compounded.
It was Merran who put the report into words. “Feidor’s Crest is gone. The worst of it happened in a span of hours.”
Ashwin gave a pragmatic nod, because he had already digested the initial shock, and he would undoubtedly shed tears for the victims later. In a voice that was among the fairer Korsten had ever listened to, the patriarch said, “There appears to have been at least one survivor.”
“The governor’s son,” Korsten explained. “He’s had a Release performed on him.”
Ashwin looked from one of his priests to the other, and stepped away from the threshold of a dense bed of crimson lilies—the blood lilies. While he walked, the elder of some height and a slender build, was trailed by the lightly textured lengths of his white-gold hair, and by the hem of a heavily embroidered cassock detailed in subtly contrasting shades of white.
Even decades after meeting the patriarch, who had also become his life-mentor, Korsten struggled to contend with the fact that Ashwin was a present part of the waking world, and not strayed from a lingering dream of the gods. Even knowing that consumption and use of the blood lilies tended to, over time, set ethereal grace onto many of the priests at Vassenleigh, Korsten was convinced that Ashwin had begun with a surplus. Some would say the same of Korsten, even so early into his service, but Korsten knew well that his mother had been responsible for his exotic attributes and that otherwise he had inherited more than his share of Sethaniel Brierly’s scholarly leanness.
Oddly enough, it was Merran—after three centuries at Vassenleigh and as a part of its system—who had taken on no extra layers of otherworldliness. He was simply handsome, in a way that had taken time growing on Korsten, and in a way that Korsten had no desire to see intruded upon, now that he’d grown both accustomed to it and fond of it.
As to the young man presently in Merran’s arms, he was helplessly a mess after his ordeal. Still, there was an innocence left to him, visible yet through the marring of stress and illness.
Ashwin observed the boy, undoubtedly aware of Merran’s previous efforts to recover him from any immediate danger. The ancient very delicately touched the youth’s hair, but otherwise let him be. “He should be taken to Eisleth at once.”
Merran gave a nod and set off across the gardens.
Korsten held onto the reins of both Onyx and Erschal, who he would take to the stables at the earliest convenience, and possibly by way of an apology for landing them in the garden. He understood that, by Reaching to Ashwin, he could just as easily have landed them in the Council Chamber. Focusing on an individual was not typical, but it was, for some reason, reflexive for Korsten. He could choose to Reach to a destination, but he tended to have to choose it very deliberately when he did. Individuals seemed always near at hand when his mind went searching; Ashwin, in particular. It was a theory shared between them that an initial spell-touch the elder had performed in order to monitor Korsten’s early emotional progress had something to do with it.
“As to Feidor’s Crest,” Ashwin continued, making no mention of Reaches for the time being. “The town is well south of the Borderlands, for now. At least, there’s no threat of Morenne absorbing it quite yet, despite the Vadryn’s assistance.”
“No,” Korsten inserted, feeling himself begin to settle internally, now that he was back within the walls of Vassenleigh. “But it can offer no support to other towns in the northern reaches. And it’s likely that it can never be reclaimed, any more than Haddowyn.”
“We’ll have to send an ambassador to spread the word in the area,” Ashwin decided, “and to encourage other regional leaders to heighten their defenses and to support one another, whether they’re loyal to the Old Kingdom, or not. In the meantime, you and Merran will be returning to the hunt, but further north.”
Korsten was not surprised to hear that. Still, he wondered, “What’s further north, besides a hair’s breadth between Edrinor and Morenne?”
Ashwin held up a hand in summoning Korsten to leave the garden with him, a familiar green dragonfly trailing the motion. “It isn’t what’s there,” the patriarch said, “but what isn’t.”
•—•
The interior halls of the citadel were vast. They stood stories high and extended for tremendous lengths. The seminary, residences, temple, and offices all were held within the main body of Vassenleigh’s elevated structure. In recent decades, it seemed too much space for the number of priests left to them since the Siege. Still, Merran did pass more than one body during the relatively brief trek from the gardens to the chambers of the Superiors. Assistance was offered by an apprentice who happened to have had duties in the area. The gray-clad youngster wasn’t tall enough to assist with carrying the other youth and wound up walking ahead of Merran and ensuring that the doors to Eisleth’s chambers were opened for him. His assistance was appreciated.
Merran’s arms were exhausted by the time he reached the front room after the effort made in Feidor’s Crest, and he was glad to be able to lay the boy down upon the first bench he came to. Afterward, he remained standing, as though Eisleth might simply enter, but his experience with the patriarch was that he only ever came in his own time, and typically precisely when it had been long enough.
With that in mind, Merran located an adjacent bench and seated himself on the plush cushion. The room around him was sparsely furnished and largely left to shadow. He tried not to think much in the silence and in the half-dark that Eisleth preferred throughout most of his private space, but there was little success in the venture. A lot had happened in the past several weeks since Merran and Korsten had last departed from the citadel, much of it discouraging.
There was no disputing that the Vassenleigh Order had fallen out of view and out of favor among many of the people of Edrinor. Though there had been attempts to reintroduce themselves among those who had gained distance from the Old Kingdom, few trusted the return of priests to their country. They also held little faith or interest in the resurrection of a unified kingdom. While the former was a far more present reality than the latter, occurrences like Feidor’s Crest could paint priests equally dark as the Vadryn.
It didn’t help that they survived well past normal lifetimes, on top of frequently avoiding destruction versus demons. To many, it may have seemed that priests defied death in all forms, including natural. To become a priest of Vassenleigh was to enter into a cycle of renewed vitality, of the transfer of energy spent and ultimately donated by their predecessors onto those still serving, or who would come to serve. For some, it may have proved that they were not so different from the Vadryn.
But the Vassenleigh Order had the blood lilies to sustain them beyond the natural reach of a human lifespan, and the Vadryn took directly from life. In doing so, the demons spread plague, like that which had come to Feidor’s Crest …like that which had taken Haddowyn decades before it.
It was largely resent people had formed, against the evil the very existence of priests insisted on. No one wanted to know, truly, that there were demons present and active in Edrinor. No one wanted to be left in the ruins of a confrontation between the Vadryn and those who hunted them. No one wanted to be in Elwain Dunlar’s position.
Leaning forward, Merran lowered his head, his arms resting on his legs. He let his hands rest limply for a moment, observing them. They hung steadily, in spite of how weary and strained he felt. He knew that within only a short while he would be prepared to leave again, physically unfazed, mentally alert, and emotionally …
“Merran,” a familiar voice greeted.
He raised his head, offering Eisleth a respectful greeting.
The patriarch stood within the high frame of an entry between rooms. In appearance, he was the darker reflection of Ashwin, donning black in precise contrast to Ashwin’s whites and golds with the exception being their shared pale complexion. His eyes were a darker brown than Korsten’s, nearly black, and in the elder’s presence a red butterfly with black tails hovered close at all times. Red was the color that had nearly decided that he would be Korsten’s life-mentor, but the manner in which Eisleth connected with red had more to do with the physical state of blood than the relationship between it and the soul. As well, black happened to be Eisleth’s focus—he was the unequivocal master—and it was that which assigned Merran to him over three centuries ago, as his lifelong student in the art of healing and also in hunting the Vadryn.
“A survivor from Feidor’s Crest?” Eisleth inquired, taking calm steps to the bench bearing Thaylen Dunlar’s son.
“Yes,” Merran answered.
“The only one?”
Merran gave a nod, watching Eisleth’s hand hover over the boy without touching him. “He’s the youngest son of Governor Thaylen Dunlar.”
Eisleth seemed little interested in the detail. A soft white light swelled beneath his hand, streaming gently off of his fingertips and brushing over the body lying before him. “He was possessed, for a time,” the ancient said.
“His father claimed that his illness started some months before we’d arrived.”
The information was accepted with a subtle incline of the patriarch’s head and Eisleth fell silent for a few moments longer. Eventually, he withdrew his spell and lowered his hand. “The Release was successful. The seal is well-laid. It would seem that, for all intents and purposes, you and Korsten were successful in saving his life.”
It was a small success, but Merran would accept it. He knew that Korsten would as well.
And now, for a time, Elwain Dunlar would be a guest at Vassenleigh. What else lay in his future was unknown. There were still the mental and emotional repercussions to be concerned with, but those would undoubtedly be attended to by Ashwin.
“What else went on at Feidor’s Crest?” Eisleth asked.
With the request officially made, Merran delivered all the details that he could remember. Those that were the most curious to him were the stakes mounted at two sites and the unusual manner in which one of the Vadryn were kept.
Eisleth appeared more interested in the cellar Vadryn than anything else, though, when Merran had finished presenting his report, the patriarch reserved further questions while he presented explanation on other points. “The stakes are an archaic means by which to augment magic. In this instance, I suspect that they were used to generate a surplus, cycling magic from one post to the next and creating a central collection. When the bodies were placed within the center, the remnant lifeforce was enhanced, becoming as effective, in its own way, as blood freshly taken. With the demon also located within the posts, it may have been that the Binding spell was also made stronger, thus holding it to the location. We will bring the matter before Ceth. Undoubtedly, he will have further insight.
“As to the peculiar rider, the nature of the magic you described was, of course, a wild derivation. Where the Vadryn are concerned, it’s more a deviated version. Nothing that the demons touch can remain unaffected by their poisonous nature, as you know.”
Merran’s gaze drifted helplessly to Elwain while the elder spoke. He understood, of course, that it was not only Elwain that may have been incidentally referred to with the statement. He and several other priests would also be included, since many of them had been—in one way or another—damaged by the Vadryn. It was always during these conversations that Merran wondered whether or not any of the Superiors were so affected. It was nothing that any of them had ever spoken of in Merran’s presence.
“We already had some suspicion that Renmyr Camirey was, himself, a practitioner of wild magic,” Eisleth continued. “If that did happen to be a skill of his, it would have been adopted by the demon who has taken his body. It is quite possible that he has trained others in the aberrant form of spell-casting that he and the demon have created. In fact, the archdemons pairing with hosts inclined to magic has long been a concern. The strength of their age would render their castings singularly volatile, though we believe that the finer and varied uses would be lost to them with no formal system established. It would also require of them to consume more, and they could unknowingly destroy their vessel in the process.”
Merran took the information as it was given to him. The majority of it paired well with his existing knowledge or suspicions.
“As to the Vadryn that was mass-constructing under idealized conditions,” Eisleth said. “That is a considerable worry. It has long been feared that they would coagulate, so to speak, on the field of battle. And in that I mean that one or more demons would be present among the soldiers and begin to feed from those slain, building themselves larger at a rate that would be difficult for our warriors to contend with under melee conditions. Certainly, the ordinary soldiers would be overwhelmed by such an assailant on the battlefield. For every kill that it made after its initial construction, it would potentially grow even larger.”
The notion was entirely disturbing and not one Merran had fully considered.
As if detecting the internal alarm his words inspired, Eisleth said, “We have consoled ourselves with the fact that minor and newly formed Vadryn struggle to maintain a cohesive form for long, and they would likely dissipate before gaining too much strength or momentum, ultimately opting to possess a host among the soldiers.”
“But the conditions were idealized in that cellar,” Merran repeated the patriarch’s words. “Could it have maintained that form for long, once it left the augmenting circle?”
“By your account, it came apart with relative ease, even within the circle. It is my guess, therefore, that it could not have. Still, even a brief rampage by one so large and voracious would create a problem during a battle.”
“They’re trying to devise new strategies for war, then,” Merran concluded.
“Evidently,” Eisleth replied. “For obvious reasons, Morenne is in support of this experimentation happening on this side of the Borderlands, and so long as the Vadryn are able to move among the people of Edrinor with such ease, there’s no need for beasts such as Renmyr to decide on the expendability of their own.”
“But they will, in time.”
“Undoubtedly. Morenne is no safer in this than Edrinor. They have only arranged for their neighbor to be the first to fall. Of course, the question remains whether or not Edrinor will fall and if it does, whether or not it will be the first to have fallen.”
Merran understood, and he accepted the subtle manner in which Eisleth provided optimism. At times, it was easier to take than Ashwin’s more blatant delivery of hope.
The silence that concluded part of their conversation, led seamlessly into the next. Eisleth was not one to linger. He would stay in a conversation, only as long as it was relevant. “How did Korsten do?”
It was a question that Merran was expecting and he answered it as truthfully as he was able. “As far as I can tell, there’s been no change in his interaction with the Vadryn.”
Eisleth issued no response, but merely took the information. Of all of the Council, he was the only member connected to red, and his connection lent him to stronger comprehension of the physical existence of demons. Magic such as the seal that isolated the Vadryn toxin and such as the spells that enabled them to do damage to the blood and spirit forms of the demons were derived by him, and the weapons were designed by Ceth, often through collaboration with or consultation from Eisleth. It was Eisleth, better than any priest of Vassenleigh, who understood how to contend with the living aspects of the V
adryn. But Korsten’s relationship to red was not the same.
Apart from being qualified to operate as a hunter, Korsten’s contact with red made him an enthraller, the first to come to the Order in decades. What that meant, no one had fully learned, not after thirty years of observing Korsten since his Emergence.
He had no one to fully guide him, because there had only ever been one enthraller at a time serving at Vassenleigh, and each of them had been overtaken by war, or by the Vadryn before achieving the full potential of their talent. Korsten had narrowly escaped that fate, so his mentor held onto hope that he would continue to survive and to grow.
Patriarch Ashwin was an optimist at heart, and where hearts were concerned, Korsten was equally at risk of falling to disaster as he was at risk of being overcome by demons. Merran knew that very well, and he was among those who believed that Korsten had chosen white as his focus in order to strengthen his spirit and to provide balance for what had been given to him in red by his predecessor. The gods had selected brown for him, visible in the color of his eyes; a means by which to anchor himself, Merran believed.
These details were essential. The points of contact a priest made with the Spectrum were the foundation of the individual. Emergence mapped out the potential of their service and Korsten’s had been singular, occurring not only outside of Vassenleigh, but strongly enough to push back an archdemon in the midst of assault. It was Merran who brought Korsten back, covered in the symbols of his awakening. Merran’s own Emergence had been confined to one hand in its initial expression.
Only the Council of Superiors were privy to the details of any priest’s Emergence, but Merran knew enough to know that Korsten’s had suggested as much danger to himself as hope to the Order. He had witnessed the truth in that suggestion firsthand, and as Korsten’s partner, he was in a position to continue witnessing it, for as long as they worked together. While, at first, Merran might have found himself exhausted with the responsibility, it was a role he had come to cherish over time. Admittedly, it was a role he held some fear of losing.