“So how did you find me?” She leaned back in her chair. Although Lakif sank comfortably in the plush cushion, her friend looked ungainly large in the opposing seat.
“You haven’t changed a gerah. I knew you right away, the moment you entered the Goblin Knight. But I had a little help.” A smirk washed across his face. “If you want to find an Acaanan, only follow the chaos.”
Lakif winced. Bael was quoting a common belief that an Acaanan’s trek was marked by a wave of evils.
As Bael sampled the appetizer, Lakif could at last study the Kulthean thoroughly. She was shocked by how mature Bael had become and how much he had grown! No less commanding than his stature were his lordly features. A neat mane of jet-black hair, lanced with silver, was slicked back. His jaw line was so sharp as to invite disaster with any razor. Prominent cheekbones pushed high to support deep-set eyes. They were narrow, solid red orbs that settled comfortably into the Acaanan. If not for those eyes, Lakif would have been challenged to identify her old friend. Those traitorous orbs alone had tattled on his identity in the gallows. Bael’s eyebrows were strongly arched roofs that covered the twin rubies below. In all, his features blended to paint a strikingly regal portrait.
Lakif shrunk as much before Bael’s handsome presence as she would before a fierce beast. Bael’s face was flawless—annoyingly flawless. The Acaanan had seen many Kultheans in her travels. But Bael stood out even among that distinguished company. No doubt about it, Bael was the quintessential example of his kind. It was no surprise the Kulthean could track her down in the teeming metropolis. His princely presence would be enough to entice anyone to bend over backward to help with his mission.
“All that to trap an Acaanan, but why? Most people run from us!” Lakif snorted.
“Not an Acaanan. You,” Bael clarified. Lakif could not help but feel flattered by the Kulthean’s exhaustive efforts to hunt her down. As she took another sip, she was briefly reminded of her vow to foreswear liquor for a period. But to enforce abstinence at this point would only taint the reunion.
“Why me?” She flicked her tongue at the drink’s potent flavor.
Bael reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a rolled up handkerchief bound by a leather strap. Lakif regarded him with immediate suspicion. As the Kulthean set it on the table, he freed the strap with a slight tug. The cloth parted open, and a sharp glare lanced out to jolt the Acaanan.
Lakif was bewildered before the dazzling show. She reached out and touched the Stone, convincing herself that it was real and not some prop. The High-man possessed a Rare Earth Stone as well! Or did he? Had he taken Lakif’s? Lakif instinctively reached down to ascertain if her own Stone was still safe in her pocket. Its outline eased her fears.
Lakif could only blink in amazement before the twin Stone. She noticed that there were subtle differences between the two. Although the inner light was seemingly identical, the Stone’s physical shape was distinct from her own, whose form she had memorized down to the atom. It was markedly more oblong. There was no error and Lakif was not hallucinating. It was a bona fide Rare Earth Stone! That two such mythical relics would be assembled together here seemed unimaginable.
A bizarre thought leapt into her mind. A warped premonition that the two Stones so closely quartered could erupt into unbridled warfare. Each could unleash its magical arsenal in an attempt to subdue its competitor, in the process hurling calamities on the two helpless mortals. Lakif inwardly chuckled at the doomsday thought. Her mind excelled at birthing vivid fantasies. It was her undisputed forte.
She snapped back from the wild imagery to face the Kulthean—incredulous. The other was shining as much as his possession.
“How? Where?” Lakif stammered, but Bael again placed his finger before his lips, silencing her.
“We both have much to divulge.” Bael looked down to his own Stone. His hands hovered around it like he was holding down a larger presence. “We are fascinated by the aura, but what truly hypnotizes us is the promise of the power within.”
He ran his hand over the Stone as if he were a clairvoyant reading a crystal ball. “Buried deep within these Stones lays unbridled, raw power, Lakif. Arcanum: a piece of primal magic, frozen pure and unchanging throughout time. It is the beating heart of the warlocks, the source of all our might. It is eternal, for Arcanum is the true amaranth; the unfading flower that adorns the lapel on the suits of our destiny. Its outer light, that our base eyes can perceive, is but the shadow of that incalculable power projected into our crude world. Its soft glow is the somnolent lure that whisks us off to some sleepy realm.”
The Kulthean’s description struck the Acaanan as odd.
“I tend to cover my Stone at night. I would not dare to fall asleep under its light, lest it char my already blackened skin.”
Bael looked puzzled. He pointed to his object of devotion. “Tell me, what do you see within?”
“It’s identical to my Stone. The emerald light waxes and wanes, beating like a pulse. Sometimes I am reluctant to hold it for too long, fearing that charge would electrocute me.”
“Curious,” Bael replied, rubbing his dimpled chin.
“How so?”
“To me it seems a constant, drowsy midnight blue. As does your Stone.”
Lakif nodded, although she didn’t know what significance to place on the revelation. Perhaps it was natural that two aspiring warlocks would perceive a Rare Earth Stone’s inner Arcanum differently.
During the ascent to her room, Lakif’s ever inventive mind had focused on how to explain her possession to her erstwhile friend. Her intuition suggested she remain as tight-lipped as possible concerning any details of the find. Perhaps, because she had not seen the Kulthean for so long, free and unchained honesty seemed ill-advised. But any reservations Lakif had harbored promptly melted away before the twin Stone. Now, she had no reason to be evasive or deceptive. Thus, circumstance salvaged her conscience, and she decided to speak frankly.
“Bael, I have suffered indigestion longer than this Stone has weighed down my pocket. Five suns have elapsed. But it had been a preoccupation of mine for many, many months, a tenacious fixation. My mind spun around it like the globe around the sun.”
Bael leaned back in his chair, eager to hear the Acaanan’s tale.
“To label my quest as an ordeal would be an understatement,” she explained, looking to her ankle. “I had always assumed that finding a Stone was the crucial task. I assumed that once in hand the ordeal would be over, its daunting power mine to command.”
“Lakif, you of all should know that possession is only the first step. Custody in and of itself isn’t sufficient to harvest the Arcanum.”
“Of course. The Stone is a treasure vault. Has a coin any use when locked within a chest? Only when the chest is opened can the weight of the coin be levied.” Lakif tapped her chest, patting the form of her Stone through her cloak. She was reminded of the abbot. “I know the power locked within this chest must be freed, if it is to be accessible. I know I have to destroy the Stone. I don’t know how it came to me. It was like a distant whispering in the night. At first, the idea seemed utterly absurd, given the odyssey to acquire it. But trusting in the premonition, I bore it to the forges of the Vulcan this very morning. It warmed itself in the molten pits and came out golden like a dinner biscuit. So now I face a mile-high wall. The Stone snubs all my efforts to release its might. Its fickle power mocks my will.”
As usual, Lakif had voiced a mouthful. She should have stopped herself, but the rant had been a cathartic release of bottled-up angst. But she felt that her vent must have come across as a whine. What could the Kulthean be thinking?
Bael placed his elbows on the table and gave Lakif a penetrating look. After a moment, his expression was replaced by that characteristic grin that haloed his divine face. Lakif knew she was in for a revelation; Bael’s much perfected smile always heralded import.
“Lakif, every child knows the answer to that.”
“How so?
”
The Kulthean picked up his Stone, which erupted into a dazzling array of greenery at his mere touch. He then leaned forward to speak in hushed tones as if, even in the confines of the chamber, others still threatened the sanctity of their conversation. He began:
“There lived a witch in a rotten old shack
Toothy and broken, fit for the rack.
Tired of a face that mirrors did break
Cast her a spell of wild ancient make.
The oven was charged, its flames rightly stoked
In went the ingredients—tandem and rote.
A posy of bones never warmed by the sun
Bound with contrary vine and hair of a nun.
Basted with toad spit and oil of teal
Fed spleen of goat, and allowed to keel.
Sprinkled with scorpions all jittery and black
Well feasted on spiders and stored in a sack.
A shower of laen was added in rote
The oven rang with a bang and burped out smoke.
From a bough, a shiny apple she plucked
Then in her oven it snugly she tucked.
To the fruit, the weight of her hand was laid
Then the hag was gone, replaced by a maid.”
“That’s just a nursery rhyme. Every child knows it,” Lakif scoffed. For some reason, she knew the words to the children’s rhyme exquisitely well. In fact, she had silently mouthed the words along with the Kulthean. She couldn’t imagine why that would be. She hadn’t heard the doggerel since the dawn of her adolescence.
“And where did you learn it?” Bael asked.
“I don’t know.” Lakif shrugged her shoulders.
“Rhoan Oak?”
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t…Anyway it’s simply a meaningless nursery rhyme.”
“All such chants have roots in a dark legacy,” Bael suggested.
“Then what does it mean?”
“The rhyme speaks of a profound transformation. It is the recipe to become a warlock. The Rare Earth Stones, the apple in the rhyme, can only be destroyed under quite extraordinary flames. The pyre must be kindled by several rare ingredients, all following a ritualized process.”
“How can you be sure?” Lakif was hunting for any reason to discredit the Kulthean, although a tiny voice within her heart assured her that Bael was on the right track. In fact, she seemed to recall dreaming about several elements of the nursery rhyme lately—the witch, the scorpions, and the goat’s spleen. Was it a stupendous coincidence? Or had Lakif indeed been egged on by an inner voice, one lost to her waking consciousness but heeded in her dreams?
“Can we ever be sure of anything?”
“What of this ritual then?”
“The ingredients themselves are unusual but obtainable with some effort. I have collected several of them already: the contrary vine, nun’s hair, goat spleen, toad saliva, and the scorpions.”
Lakif looked at her friend incredulously. Indeed, the organic components could be obtained from any number of apothecary shops. But she was curious where the Kulthean had snared a lock of nun’s hair.
“You have been traveling around armed with a bag of scorpions?”
Bael nodded. He had certainly placed a lot of fidelity in the nursery rhyme to maintain his cargo.
“Then what lack you?” Lakif couldn’t remember all the elements of the farrago.
“The bones, the duck juice, and the laen.”
“Laen!” Lakif voiced out loud. It was a mysterious metal only alluded to in folklore. “Where on earth will we find that?”
“The most challenging element will not be the ingredients, but the witch’s oven,” Bael corrected her.
“I don’t know any witches.” Lakif said, reflecting on Lucretia. “But the forge of a blacksmith should do nicely.”
“No, a smithy works common metals to produce the arms of the warrior. It is foreign to the arms of a warlock, namely Arcanum. It’s not just a question of heat, but of quality. No ordinary furnace will suffice.”
“Ordinary furnace?” Lakif questioned.
“The nub is this—we must find a specialized forge—that of an alchemist.” Bael disabused Lakif.
“Alchemist?” Lakif chortled. She had always considered those scientists the beating heart of folklore.
Bael nodded.
“You can’t be serious!” She challenged her companion.
“It is the only forge suited to such a magical milieu.”
“Alchemists don’t really exist!” Lakif laughed.
“You may be right.” The Kulthean nodded in agreement. “But the nursery rhyme holds the key; only an alchemist would possess laen powder. And an alchemist’s forge is accustomed to containing wondrous substances.”
“In all my days, I have never crossed paths with one of those scientists. Where on earth could we find one?” Lakif knew well enough that alchemists had earned the anathema of the citizenry, but knew nothing more specific.
Bael leaned back in his chair and frowned. “That’s the rub. I don’t know. That’s why I sought you out. Perhaps together, pooling our efforts, we can find one. Have no doubt, Lakif. Alchemists are the custodians of the door to our future kingdom.” He held up his Stone. “Only through their touch can this base rock be converted to gold, our gilded future. When we find one, we will have our power.”
Lakif mulled over the Kulthean’s words. At first, she was skeptical of the revelation. But gradually, she came to agree. She should have known that the Stones, enshrined in mystery and magic, couldn’t be destroyed by so ordinary a device as a blacksmith’s forge, no matter how potent.
“I have a notion,” Lakif added. “Tomorrow we will see if it bears fruit. How is it you enjoy this pool of knowledge? I knew of the rhyme but never would have connected it.”
“It was passed along by another.”
“Another? You mean one from Rhoan Oak?”
Bael nodded.
“So you have seen some of the others?” Lakif barked excitedly.
“I have met only one, and it was a fleeting encounter.”
“Who?” Lakif’s voice trilled.
“Vassag.”
The name resonated with Lakif.
“While I searched for you our paths crossed.” Bael reflected.
“Vassag was an Istani, no?” Lakif asked. She now concretely placed the identity of the Istani that raced by her on the avenue and shortly thereafter met his violent death. She now remembered the youth as a good-natured kid, who liked to go treasure hunting.
Bael nodded. Lakif didn’t offer further details—she couldn’t bear to divulge their childhood friend’s ugly end.
“Have you met any of the others?” she asked, hoping to erase the bloody image from her mind.
“Sadly, no. Of them, who can say what happened? I would imagine they are scattered to the four corners of the globe. Perhaps I wouldn’t even recognize them now.”
That Bael had met up with two of the scions of Rhoan Oak was a crowning achievement. Lakif herself hadn’t knowingly met up with any in the past seven years since she left the place. She wanted to pick Bael’s brain over details of the meeting with Vassag, but as the Kulthean was reticent, she allowed the matter to drop. She counted on another opportunity to discuss it in the future.
But Lakif found the Kulthean’s brief acknowledgment of Rhoan Oak soothing. It was comforting to hear him speak of their shared, secret past. She had spent her formative years there, along with the other children. She affectionately referred to them as her brothers and sisters, although there were no filial ties. The bond uniting the coterie wasn’t of blood but stone—the abbey of Rhoan Oak. The specter of her old home was always present, hovering like a thin phantasm.
She hadn’t thought of Rhoan Oak for some time, as her waking thoughts were focused on getting the icon. Only in the wee hours of dawn did she sometimes revisit its solemn halls that now only lived in her dreams. She hadn’t openly spoken of it for years, perhaps dating back to her early apprenti
ceship. Even voicing the name of the abbey had proved difficult. She felt that she was speaking the name of a god, a word that was meant to be revered in silence.
Early in her apprenticeship she had learned to curtail chatter about the place. All her references to it were invariably answered with blank stares. The sad truth was that no one who wasn’t personally acquainted with the abbey could hope to appreciate what happened within. To the aspiring warlock, Rhoan Oak now seemed like the castle in a childhood fairy tale.
“Bael, why did you seek me out, really?” Lakif asked in earnest. “You could have kept this information private, and in time you would have uncovered an alchemist on your own.”
“The birth of a warlock deserves a grand parade. It is too rich a spectacle to witness alone. I wanted a companion.”
“But among all of us, why me?” Lakif fingered her chest.
“You are my sister. There is a special link between us. The chain was fashioned by the Unseen One, and then allowed to cool over the years. I would say among all of Rhoan Oak’s scions, the bond is strongest between us. Lakif, we are on the precipice of a grand vista, viewing a country few men could ever travel to. I wanted to go there together, as it was meant to be.”
Lakif’s ears flicked at the mention of the Unseen One. She had all but forgotten about him. He was the mysterious benefactor that had gathered all the children into the hallowed halls of Rhoan Oak. Some of the children referred to him as the Unseen One of the White Hand. Others had called him simply “The One,” a far less distended title. The vague name stemmed from the fact that none of the children had ever actually seen his face. In fact, Lakif recalled that the caretakers in charge of the abbey had never explicitly referred to their patron by name. Despite this mystery, no one doubted his role as the mastermind behind Rhoan Oak.
She scrutinized the Kulthean at length during his dialogue. His beautiful form, lordly mien, and compassionate words smote the Acaanan. If the High-men collectively elected their crown prince, it would surely be Bael. By any account he was the incarnation of Apollo, the ancient god of beauty and light. But it wasn’t simply his stellar features that debased the Acaanan. His equally impeccable character was all the more cruel. Bael’s brilliant face was a mirror to an equally brilliant inner light.
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