A Kingdom in Chaos (A Kingdom Divided Book 3)

by S. C. Stokes

  “What brought you here?” Syrion asked.

  “Your arrival. Or at least, the opening of the portal that brought you here. I sensed that it was Empyrean magic, so I decided to investigate why one of our people would be here, wandering the ruins of the Astral Palace. Come to think of it, how did you open the portal? The Astarii are not known for their prowess in those arts. Who taught you?”

  “No one taught me—”

  “—Then how did you manage to accomplish such a feat?” Kalifae asked, cutting off the young mage mid-sentence.

  “I didn’t,” Syrion replied. Something about the woman’s lack of faith in his abilities bothered him, but wounded pride aside, Syrion saw no merit in withholding the truth from her. “I was investigating a race of beings who had appeared on my world. When I approached their city I was attacked by a spellweaver of great power. In the course of the battle he cast me through a portal and I ended up here. It was not my doing.”

  “That does not explain the trace of magic I sensed here. The portal was Empyrean—of that I am sure.”

  “Well, the being who cast it looked nothing like you or me, Kalifae. In spite of his age he was lean and graceful, sharp-featured with long, pointed ears. His mastery of the arcane was unlike anything I have ever experienced. When I first approached him he was shaping a wall from the earth itself. It was incredible.” His voice carried a mixture of admiration and disdain for the foe who had thwarted him so easily.

  Kalifae was speechless. Syrion continued: “What is wrong? Have you met such a being before?”

  “No, Syrion, no one now living has. The being you have just described is an Adal. No one has seen or heard from them for more than five centuries. In our time they are no more than a tale used to scare children who won’t behave.”

  “How can you be sure, if you’ve never met one?” Syrion asked.

  “Because while my people may be the first children of Apollos, we were not the favored children. My people are human, short-lived but numerous—we made for fitting subjects. As more worlds came into his fold and his own sons rose in power Apollos himself grew in power and then formed the Adal and gave them life.

  “Where we could be taught to use magic they were formed from it—it was woven into their very being. The Adal were timeless—they aged but time did not slay them as it does us. They were lithe and graceful, masters of the blade and bow, both beautiful and deadly.”

  “You use the word ‘were,’” Syrion said. “If they were so formidable, what happened to them?”

  “They were slaughtered.” Kalifae answered simply.

  “Why—what happened?”

  “When Apollos fell his sons divided his domain, each gathering worlds to his banner in a bid to claim supremacy among the stars. Apollos, Mythos, Alphaeus—to the common man it made no difference. They were beings of power without measure, so most did not care which of them ruled in the heavens and were happy to bend a knee before whichever god claimed their world.

  “The Adal, on the other hand, cared greatly. They were fanatically loyal to the memory of Apollos. When news of his sons treachery reached them they went mad and in their vengeance purged entire planets. The response of Mythos and Alphaeus was brutal and bloody. They stirred up their followers against the Adal, sowing fear and mistrust. When the gods went to war against the Adal, their armies were innumerable, and one by one the worlds fell that were held by the faithful followers of Apollos. The annihilation of the Adal was a dark and bloody time—no quarter was asked and none was given. They were slaughtered until it seemed not a single soul remained.” Kalifae stopped, almost breathless at her recounting.

  “Somehow they survived,” Syrion said. “The man I faced matched your description perfectly. I have encountered spellweavers in battle before, and I have always prevailed. Yet this Adal brushed me aside as if I were a child, my presence a mere hindrance to his day.”

  “Indeed,” she said, “your description of events certainly sounds like the work of the Adal. You said he was building a wall?”

  “Yes, it was amazing to watch—the wall simply seemed to rise out of the ground in great sheets of stone. The gatehouse itself was formed from a purple substance like glass. Even at night it was incredible, and I am sure in the daylight it would look spectacular. If their gatehouse is representative of their architecture, their city will be incredible.”

  “City? How many Adal were there?” Kalifae asked in alarm.

  “It is impossible to say, as it was quite dark, but judging by what I could see and the number of buildings under construction, there must be ten thousand of them at least to fill them.”

  “You must warn your people, Syrion—they are in grave danger. Even before their annihilation—or what we thought was their annihilation—the Adal had no love for humans. They will not have forgotten their fall nor the atrocities heaped upon them by the sons of Apollos and the humans who served them. They look on our kind as we do on animals, and one day they will decide you are a threat and will kill you all. Only Apollos held them in check—without him they are free to do as they please.”

  “Well, at least that is one potential piece of good news . . .” Syrion replied grimly.

  “What is the good news? I’m afraid I don’t see any.”

  “Apollos . . .” Syrion began before stopping, unsure if he should share what he knew of the fallen god’s freedom. He had no way of knowing how the sorceress would respond to such information. It was clear that Empyrea had suffered greatly in his absence, but whether or not he would ever return to Empyrea remained to be seen.

  “What about him, Syrion?”

  Syrion scratched his head. He was unsure exactly how to share the news that the being Empyreans had worshiped for thousands of years was alive and well, and planning to plunge the cosmos into war, just to satisfy his need for revenge. Would such news pit Kalifae against him once more? With Meldinar falling inside the Allfather’s domain, such a day would surely come as Apollos sought revenge against his firstborn.

  “What is it you aren’t telling me, Syrion?” she pressed. “Spill it or I’ll leave you here to starve to death.”

  Syrion shared what he knew: “Well, you see, Apollos . . . he may not be as dead as everyone has supposed him to be.”

  Kalifae’s jaw fell open in amazement. After a few seconds of silence she shook her head as she tried to come to terms with Syrion’s statement. “What do you mean, not dead? You stand in the very place he perished. This crater is all that is left of the Astral Palace. The betrayal of both his sons took him by surprise and he died here—his coward sons had fled before Apollos’s wrath devastated our world.”

  “I mean you all believe him to be dead, but he is not. When his sons combined against him, he, too, fled this place. They thought he perished in a blast of energy but instead he was able to flee through a portal and escape. With both of his sons believing him to be dead he has been nursing his wounds and regaining his strength.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Kalifae said flatly. “If he were alive we would be the first to know. For years our people searched for any sign that he might have survived. Was he hiding among these Adal who have invaded your world? Is that how they remained hidden while most of their kind were hunted to extinction?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Syrion replied. “I don’t know how these Adal survived the death of their race but I do not think Apollos had anything to do with it. It seems the Adal were able to conceal themselves—they likely used their magic to hide their presence from prying eyes. Apollos, on the other hand, fled to a place few mortals have ever visited.”

  “Where will I find him?” the sorceress asked insistently.

  “It is not a world, Kalifae. It is a place. It is known as the Soul Forge. It is the place where spirits pass from this life and plane of existence to the next. In a sense it is a gateway. Apollos has been masquerading as the gatekeeper since his fall. Sustained by the power of the forge, he was able to gain the time he needed to recover f
rom his wounds. He has been subtly manipulating others to aid him in gaining the freedom he desired. Slowly but surely he has been recovering his strength so that he might leave the forge and retake his place among the stars.”

  “How can you know such things, Syrion?”

  “Because it was my mother who gave him the final thing he needed for his freedom,” Syrion answered heavily. He was unsure whether the news of his family’s part in Apollos’s freedom would be received well by the Empyrean.

  “The Mousillion—that is what your mother needed it for!” Kalifae exclaimed.

  “Indeed. In exchange for my mother curing the poison that was coursing through his veins, Apollos restored my father to life. Once his body was healed of its afflictions, Apollos cut the tether linking him to the forge and departed. To where, we do not know. What we do know is that he is free, and that he has sworn revenge on those responsible for his fall and incarceration in the Soul Forge.”

  Kalifae was stunned. “If what you are saying is true, you and your family have great reason to fear.”

  “Why us?” Syrion countered defensively. “My mother did nothing to harm Apollos, and, more importantly, she aided him in regaining his freedom.”

  “Syrion, what you must understand is that to Apollos you are dust. Your existence, your life and death, does not matter at all. He is not concerned with a single life—he is concerned about life by the thousands and millions. It is from his believers that he draws his power, and to that end one believer is just as good as another to him.

  “Take it from me,” she continued. “Empyrea worshiped Apollos for as long as we can remember. In return for our reverence we were given great gifts of knowledge and power. But even so we were merely pawns used to bring other worlds into his fold. If our people died doing so it was immaterial to Apollos, provided new followers were brought into the fold.

  “But it was not Apollos that I was referring to,” she added. “Apollos will likely focus his attentions against Mythos and Alphaeus—your Allfather. I don’t believe he poses an immediate threat to your world. The Adal, on the other hand . . . if they have left their hiding place to venture into your world, and are brazen enough to raise a city, then they know Apollos is free. They will seek to win his attention and his favor. Whatever they have planned for your world, it will end poorly for your people.”

  “I see your point,” Syrion replied. “My people must be warned. They need to understand the threat these Adal pose and be ready to answer it, but I am no use to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m stuck here, Kalifae. I was sent here against my will and do not possess the power or understanding to return home.”

  “Oh, you possess the power, Syrion—of that I have no doubt. It is understanding you lack. I can teach you that, but it will take time. I’ll leave the choice to you.”

  “What choice?” Syrion asked.

  His question fell on deaf ears as Kalifae began to chant. Before his eyes, silver strands appeared in the air, dancing gracefully as they wove themselves into a tapestry of silver. The tapestry grew until it was the size of a wall mirror before it went still, and its surface changed from that of a silver dish to a scene of a shack sitting in a forest clearing. It was as if Syrion were staring at the scene through a glass window.

  Without pause Kalifae continued to chant and a second portal materialized before him. When the surface cleared Syrion was gazing into the throne room at King’s Court—he recognized the sight immediately. With the portals formed, Kalifae addressed Syrion: “The portal on the left leads to my home. If you wish you may stay here on Empyrea with me and I’ll teach you what you wish to know. The portal on the right will return you to King’s Court. If you feel you must return home you may do so. I will not keep you here against your will.” As she spoke Kalifae began to walk towards the portal on the left.

  “Where are you going?” Syrion asked.

  “Home—I’m tired and hungry, and I need to eat and rest. You may come with me if you wish.”

  “What of the stone?” Syrion asked, pointing towards the prism lying beside him.

  “Take it or leave it—I don’t care. It’s as dangerous as it is powerful; keep it away from me.” Kalifae instructed as she stepped through the portal.

  Syrion glanced back and forth between the portals for a moment, weighing his options. Urgent as he felt his warning message to be, Syrion knew he could not afford to find himself in this situation again. Reaching down to pick up the cloth-wrapped stone, he clutched it under his arm as he ran through the portal, eager to catch the sorceress before she disappeared.

  Chapter 16

  Syrion stepped through the portal and found himself standing in the middle of a jungle. He had mistaken the lush foliage for a forest such as he had become accustomed to on Valaar. But the dense foliage of a tropical jungle surrounded him and the black lifeless crater he’d been standing in only moments before was gone. Now life buzzed all around him and it was difficult to believe he was even on the same planet. The dry heat of the plains had been replaced with a blanket of moisture in the air unlike anything Syrion had experienced in his life.

  “Took you long enough—I was about to close the portal,” Kalifae chided, and Syrion turned to find her tapping her foot in mock protest.

  “Long enough? I barely hesitated,” Syrion protested.

  “Ah, but you did hesitate, my young Astarii.” The sorceress replied shaking her head playfully.

  “My mother always warned me about walking women home,” Syrion replied, matching her cheeky tone.

  “Oh, I see—you’ve spent so much time with women that your mother had to intervene? I best keep my eye on you just in case. Never know when a boy will try to take advantage of a proper lady such as myself.”

  “I would n-never!” Syrion stammered.

  “Of course not . . .” Kalifae paused briefly as Syrion attempted to regain his composure. “It would be a shame if I had to kill you.”

  Try as he might, Syrion struggled to answer the woman’s jests, and every time he felt he was regaining his footing in the conversation, the sorceress would change tack, knocking him off balance. Something in her nature caught him off-guard. The awkwardness was an uncomfortable sensation for the powerful Astarii. Syrion opted for silence.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Syrion—I’m only playing. If I truly thought that of you, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “If I knew it would be this hot here, I might have thought twice,” Syrion replied, taking off his heavy outer robe. The thick tropical clime was a far cry from the late autumn plains of Sevalorn that he had been plucked from.

  “Might?” Kalifae asked.

  “Mmm . . . might . . . Fortunately or unfortunately, it takes a little more than heat to deter my curiosity. Also, as pressing as my need is to return home, . . . I would hate for it to be a one-way trip. You, the disciples I came up against at the Everpeak—all of you move between worlds with ease. If I am to do more than merely gaze at the heavens I must be able to traverse them as you do.”

  “Such perspective in one so young,” she observed. “You are intriguing.”

  “Young? I’m twenty-three,” Syrion replied. As soon as the words had left his lips he felt foolish.

  “Twenty-three!” Kalifae laughed. When she regained her composure she continued. “I knew the Astarii were long-lived but I guess I simply assumed you were further along the journey of life—that is all.”

  “I may only be twenty-three years of age, but in my short lifetime, I’ve saved lives, dueled with a dragon, defended a Kingdom and defeated a crusade,” Syrion responded defiantly.

  “Don’t be so quick to presume the worst, Syrion. I am not mocking you, I merely thought you must be older to wield the arcane as you do. Your youthfulness only makes it all the more impressive, not less so.”

  “So if twenty-three is young, how old are you?” Syrion asked, pressing with his newfound confidence.

  “We’ll put that quest
ion down to youthful foolishness,” she said with an arch of her brow. “You must never ask a woman her age—it’s rude. . . If you must know, I’m twenty-one.”

  “Don’t lie to me—your own words betray you,” Syrion replied.

  “Twenty-one is my final answer, and I’m sticking with it,” Kalifae replied with a firm edge in her voice.

  Syrion nodded, happy to let the falsehood stand. “Of course you are—I’m a fool to have thought otherwise.”

  “You learn quickly, Syrion. That much is certain.”

  “What happens now?” Syrion asked.

  “Tell me more about that stone, and why you are so determined to fool about with it, even though it almost killed you on the plains. Even now it drains strength from us.”

  “The cloth will prevent us from touching it, so we should be safe,” Syrion answered.

  “That might be so, but even without touching it we are slowly being sapped of strength. I wasn’t sure until I stepped through the portal and was away from it, but now I am positive. When we were on the plains I felt fatigued, in spite of not having particularly exerted myself since waking this morning. As soon as I stepped back through the portal the feeling eased. When you brought the stone through with you, it returned. Whatever that stone is, it’s dangerous.”

  “It certainly is, but for it to have survived the devastation that consumed the plains and the Palace that once stood there, it must be powerful indeed. That alone merits further study.”

  “May I see it?” The sorceress asked.

  “Why? What are you going to do?” Syrion asked.

  “Test a theory.” Kalifae stated reaching for the stone.

  Reluctantly Syrion handed the stone over. Exercising great care not to touch the surface of the stone, Kalifae unwrapped it and placed it on the grass in the clearing.

  Immediately the grass surrounding the stone began to wilt. The previously healthy vegetation turned a sickly brown before shriveling into black muck. Slowly the circle began to widen as the stone drained the life out of an ever-widening radius of the stone.