by S. C. Stokes
“Indeed it was, but it was not the Andarans driving the aggression, and you know it. They were being manipulated by the Disciples of Mythos who have turned their attentions to this world, your world! You should have challenged them, Tanith—they sought to undermine the Allfather and convert his subjects. You have neglected your duty.”
“Nonsense. I could see you had the matter firmly in hand.” The Guardian turned up his nose in a feeble bid for his integrity.
“Now an entire race materializes beneath your nose and establishes a city in the name of Apollos in direct opposition to the one whom you serve. Just how much of an incursion must there be before you report the goings on here to the assembly? Or, better yet, carry word to the Allfather himself. Are you waiting for the world to be lost entirely?”
“Do not lecture me on duty, Elaina. You were exiled for forgetting yours.”
“I may have been—nonetheless I remained here, and I continue to watch over this world. These Glaciadal pose a more dangerous threat than this world has ever faced. You mentioned that you did not understand the magic at work behind their portals because it was new to you. It may be new to you, but the magic itself is very old. It was taught to them by their master, Apollos.”
“How could you know such a thing, Elaina?” Tanith asked skeptically.
“All in due time, Tanith. If these Glaciadal serve Apollos then they will eventually turn against the other peoples of this world. It is only a matter of time. They used their magic to conceal their presence here for a millennia. Does it not concern you that they have revealed themselves now?”
“Why now, Elaina? If they have lived here peacefully for more than a thousand years, why do you think they would suddenly turn hostile now?”
“Because their master Apollos has returned,” Elaina answered with finality.
“I thought you said he was dead,” Tanith answered, stroking his beard.
“The Allfather believes him to be.”
“And I suppose you know better.”
“I do, because I met him.” Elaina answered plainly. “Marcus and I have seen him.”
“I think I’ve heard enough, Elaina. Clearly you have gone mad with grief. If you would stop wasting my time I would greatly appreciate it.”
“She is not mad, you imbecile,” Marcus said through gritted teeth as his patience expired. With two swift steps, before the Astarii knew what was occurring, Marcus had grabbed him by his elaborate tunic and hoisted him into the air. “I was dead, you moron. If you were paying attention you would have noticed the anarchy in Valaar that followed my death. The entire island slipped into civil war. If you could stop talking and use that tiny head of yours for just a minute, you might understand. How are you currently being hurled about by a dead man?
“Elaina found Apollos hiding in a place known as the Soul Forge,” Marcus continued, “and it was he who restored me to life. Who else but a god could have done this?”
Tanith looked over at Elaina, then turned his attention back to Marcus, who held him at eye level. “I see your point. Now put me down, before I make you put me down.”
Marcus released Tanith and he staggered as he tried to regain his footing. He made a fuss about restoring his appearance—re-tucking his tunic into his trousers before continuing. “Let’s say I believe you. You want me to go before the Allfather and say what? ‘Hi—guess what? Your father is alive and he’s quite upset with you. You might want to watch out for him at the next family reunion.’ Is that what I should say?”
“Very cute, Tanith,” Elaina replied. “Before he departed the Soul Forge I asked Apollos what he intended. His answer was that he planned to paint the stars red with the blood of those who had betrayed him. The timing of his return and the coming of the Glaciadal is not a coincidence. The events are linked and we need the Allfather’s aid before it is too late.
“We barely survived our first encounter with Mythos’s servants. I doubt we will fare nearly as well against an army of the Glaciadal. It is time for the Allfather to leave the Celestial City and aid his subjects—without his aid we will all perish.”
“Oh,” said Tanith in a sarcastic tone, “so I’m to tell him to get off his exalted behind and help us. You’re right, Elaina, that will certainly receive a much better reception.” Tanith shook his head in disbelief.
“You may dress it up any way you like, Tanith, but it must be done. For all our sakes. If you don’t, there will not be a Meldinar left for you to guard.”
The Guardian slowly nodded his head, reluctantly acknowledging the wisdom in her words. Straightening up, Tanith battled to reclaim his dignity. “I will do as you have asked, Elaina, but first I will report to the Council of the Five. At least if the Allfather slaughters me for my impudence the Council will be in possession of the information you have shared this night.
“While I am there I will make inquiries about your son. If anyone has seen or heard word of him I will endeavor to see him restored to you. After I have done so I will make for the Celestial City. You will have to watch over Meldinar while I am gone.”
“I will do so,” Elaina answered solemnly.
“Very well—ensure that there is a world here for me to return to.” Tanith smiled, his cheery disposition returning, albeit more forced than at his first appearance. The Guardian began to chant and the golden gateway rematerialized.
“Oh, Tanith, one more thing . . .” Elaina began.
The Guardian turned back and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I’ll survive one more of your requests, Elaina.”
“Oh, don’t fret—this one is simple for you. It’s an awfully long way back to Valaar on foot—I don’t suppose . . .”
Tanith sighed audibly. “Very well. The throne room at King’s Court, I suppose?”
“We’d be most grateful,” Elaina replied, trying to suppress a grin. “Also, if you wouldn’t mind seeing our horses back to the royal stables in Andara it would be most appreciated. I couldn’t bear to leave them here for the Kairon.”
Tanith let out another exasperated sigh. “I’m not your stable boy, Elaina, I’m a Guardian, for heaven’s sake.”
“Have a heart, Tanith—don’t do it for me, but think of the poor horses,” Elaina answered.
“Very well,” Tanith replied, “You will owe me, Elaina.”
“Something I have no doubt you’ll remember.”
“Indeed I will,” Tanith replied before he resumed his chanting. A second gateway materialized beside the first. “Hurry now, you two,” he warned. “As desperate as Syrion’s need might be, your eldest son is in a far more immediate danger.”
Elaina’s smile faded as she and Marcus looked at each other in worry at the unexpected mention of Tristan. Exhausted as she was, she grabbed Marcus by the hand and charged through the portal.
Chapter 15
The skies above Empyrea.
Syrion burst from the portal, still howling in anger against his foe. He banked sharply, his large golden wings aiding him to turn and face the portal. Anger turned to surprise as Syrion realized the gateway had vanished entirely. Clearly the being had closed the portal the moment Syrion passed through it.
For the first time Syrion registered the sun beating down on his golden scales and realized he had no idea where he was. On Sevalorn it was long before dawn, but here the morning sun was blazing brightly over a landscape he did not recognize. The air itself hummed with an energy unlike anything Syrion had felt before.
His heart sank as the truth dawned on him: I’m no longer on Meldinar.
With no knowledge of the magic required to open a portal he was stuck. Worse still, he had no idea where he was. Panic began to set in as he realized his parents would soon wake to find him gone and might, in their search for him, stumble into the same formidable spellweaver Syrion had interrupted at the wall. His panic over his current circumstances shifted to concern for his parents, who were now deep in what was clearly hostile territory and entirely without his aid.
Syrion’s mind raced while he paid little heed to the landscape he was soaring over in his golden dragon form. With his mind in chaos Syrion closed his eyes and attempted to re-gather his thoughts.
What is my biggest problem? Syrion asked himself. I don’t know where I am and I don’t know how to get home. I have no supplies and I haven’t slept. At that last thought regret welled up inside Syrion as he realized that if he’d listened to his mother at least he would have had a full night’s sleep. After the day’s journey and the battle with the strange spellweaver, he was exhausted.
Dwelling on the issues he faced, Syrion settled on a course of action. I need to find food and shelter. First I must survive, and then I will find a way home. Syrion turned his attentions to the landscape beneath him. The verdant fields he had first seen upon leaving the portal had faded. Now the ground beneath had turned black like charcoal. It seemed a fire had swept the countryside, consuming everything in its path. As far as his enhanced dragon sight could reach, there was not a tree or shrub or blade of grass visible anywhere.
After a time the blackened landscape he soared over began to take shape. Instead of rolling hills and valleys it began to slope gently downward. Syrion descended to take a better look. The surface of the world was no longer rough-hewn but polished and flat, almost as if it were a sea of black glass.
The strange flat featureless landscape continued to descend gradually before him until its shape resolved in his mind to resemble an immense dish that had been carved out of the surface of the world. By whom or by what remained unclear. Curiosity nagged at the young Astarii, driving him onward with the steady beat of his mighty wings.
The energy in the air intensified as he hurtled toward the center of the pit. Whatever its source, Syrion had little doubt it was arcane. He could feel the power of this place coursing through his being.
The steady tingle of energy grew stronger. Now Syrion could feel it clearly, a tether pulling him in, drawing him closer to the ground. Towards what, he could not fathom, but he recalled the sensation he had experienced as he grasped the Disciple’s staff in Khashish. His entire body had felt renewed as the arcane energy of the staff had flowed through him.
Even the Disciple’s staff had done nothing until he was actually holding it in his hand, but Syrion felt this more powerful energy build again through the air. Now it seemed to weigh him down like an anchor.
Yielding to the impulse, Syrion landed and resumed his human form. Straightening his robes and satchel, he was surprised to feel the ground firm underfoot. The smooth, almost glasslike appearance of the surface had led him to believe it might be fragile, but the ground beneath his feet was a hardened black stone. There was no hint of an edge or crack in its surface. The young Astarii was determined to exercise caution as he approached the source of the energy now flowing freely through his being.
Syrion began to understand that the unnatural landscape was likely formed of that same arcane energy he had felt since arriving on this world, a power that had somehow altered or shaped the very nature of the land itself.
Syrion began to walk. He didn’t need to think about the direction—he could feel it within. Slowly, purposefully, he made his way cautiously toward the source, and at last at his feet lay a perfectly formed prism of black stone, about the size of a fist resting atop another fist.
Syrion knew this was what he sought. He could feel it more powerfully than before—the stone was drawing energy from the world around it. What seemed to the naked eye little more than a well-formed stone was in fact an artifact of tremendous power. Syrion could feel the prism beckon him to reach out and touch it.
He felt as if he were stuck in a strong river current dragging him inexorably towards some terrible destination. Syrion crouched down for a better look. The stone’s craftsmanship was remarkable. Each of its six sides were perfectly smooth, each fine edge smoothly finished to an almost sharp point. There was not a blemish or defect anywhere on the stone.
Gingerly Syrion reached out a hand to touch the stone and immediately felt his hand yanked forward until his palm was pressed flat against the stone and pain coursed through the body of the young mage, drawing the very life force out of him.
Grimacing through the pain, Syrion focused his mind and channeled his power outward in a wave of concussive force. The black prism was blasted free of his grasp and now lay on its side several paces away. Syrion shook his hand feverishly—it felt as if it were on fire, and his palm was bright red and tender. Syrion dreaded to think what might have occurred if he had not been able to separate himself from the stone and chided himself for not having been more careful.
Sweeping his remaining good palm over his injured hand, Syrion mouthed an incantation. After the battle of King’s Court he’d insisted his mother teach him how to heal. It was a branch of magic that bored him terribly, but out of self-interest and on account of his curiosity repeatedly leading him into danger, he had applied himself to her lessons.
As the spell took effect a yellow glow enveloped his injured hand. It was a strange sensation to feel the magic at work, subtly repairing the damaged flesh. After a few moments the light faded and his damaged hand had returned to its normal complexion. It was still tender to the touch, suggesting damage below the skin’s surface he could not yet treat with magic. His body would have to attend to that in its natural course.
With the pain subsiding, Syrion drew near to the black prism again without touching it. And he was stunned. It was clear the stone had grown in size—it was now the length of Syrion’s forearm and slightly broader. Somehow the stone had grown, perhaps feeding off the energy it had taken from him.
Studying its enlarged surface, Syrion caught a flicker of light almost imperceptible at first. On closer inspection, the young Astarii could make out tiny pinpricks of light blossoming and then vanishing abruptly, only to reappear elsewhere on the surface. At times the light was crimson, at other times a royal blue, and occasionally a purple hue would burst forth before vanishing.
It warrants further study, he thought, intrigued. He dropped his satchel to the ground, then removed his cloak and carefully wrapped it around the heavy stone, careful to avoid making contact with its dangerous surface.
“Put it back, thief!” a voice rang out, and Syrion whirled around. Before him stood a woman in an emerald dress, the garment echoing the color of her eyes. As he stared into those piercing spheres he realized he had seen them before . . . at King’s Court.
“You trespass on hallowed ground,” she continued. “You should not be here.” Then her eyes opened widely.
“You!” the woman exclaimed. “What are you doing here? First your mother and now you—Empyrea seems to have become a highway for the Astarii of late.”
“Empyrea?” Syrion asked, bewildered.
“Yes, Empyrea—this world. My world. Is your need for revenge so strong you would chase me across the stars to sate it?”
“I-I’m not here for revenge,” Syrion stammered, “and until a moment ago, I did not even know where ‘here’ was.”
“I don’t believe you,” the sorceress rejoined, her voice rising. “Only weeks ago your mother was here and now you show up? I don’t think it’s an accident. You have come to finish what you started at King’s Court!”
Syrion held two hands up with his palms out to reassure the woman before him. He could feel the energy building and the last thing he wanted was more conflict in his already-exhausted state. “King’s Court is over,” he said. “Gerwold the traitor is dead. Valaar is free, and I know now that the part you played in the battle was under duress. My mother told me of your conversation, and the aid you gave her while she was here. Because of your aid my father is alive. Believe me when I say, I harbor you no ill will whatsoever. In fact I owe you my gratitude.”
His earnest tone struck a chord with the sorceress and she seemed to relax visibly. “I am glad your mother was successful,” she said a little more calmly, “and that she spoke with you as she promised. I
wasn’t sure that she would keep her word.”
“Why would she not?” Syrion asked.
“Your kind think little of us. Normally the Astarii are content to ignore our existence. The glory of my people has faded and we lie forgotten here on Empyrea. I figured her promise would mean little once she was safely away from Empyrea.”
“My mother is not like other Astarii, Kalifae—she is in exile.”
“You remember my name?” The woman was taken aback.
“Of course. The list of women who have tried to kill me is shorter than you might think,” Syrion replied with a grin.
Kalifae laughed before replying: “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Oh, do you now?” Syrion asked with mock incredulity. “I’ll have you know on that list you stand alone. Men—there would be thousands who’d happily slit my throat and be done with me. But women—well I seem to have largely avoided their ire entirely until the day I met you.”
“If it’s any comfort, I’ll happily remove myself from the list. I don’t want to kill you, Syrion Stormborn. However, I would like to know why you are here, and what you are planning to do with that stone you are stealing.”
“I was planning to study it. Its power drew me here. This place looks deserted, so I didn’t think the stone belonged to anyone.”
“This place is deserted because it’s sacred ground to our people.”
“Was it always like this?” Syrion asked, gesturing to the sea of blackened stone that stretched in every direction.
“No. Where we stand was once the crown jewel of Empyrea—the Astral Palace. It was the center of the universe.”
“What happened?” Syrion asked, looking around as he tried to imagine what had been before.
“Our god was taken from us. The very place you stand is the same in which Apollos held court. It is also the place where his traitorous sons, Alphaeus and Mythos, killed him in cold blood. The devastation you see is the fallout from that conflict thousands of years ago. It has remained untouched ever since. Our people do not come here. Be it from fear, superstition or reverence for Apollos’s memory, they avoid this place.”