by Kimbro West
“They saved me as well — I was pretty much done exploring that dragon,” added Sila cheerfully. The sleeves on his borrowed shirt slipped past his fingers as he peered inside, playfully ensuring his hands were still there.
“And who is your new companion?” asked Raikonai. “He looks—”
“He is of the Airmoor,” replied Loka.
The young-looking boy resembled a human of about nine or ten years old. He was short and somewhat scrawny. Auren thought that Airmoor must be a city, but Ethan knew there was more to it than that.
“My name is Sila … from the Fountain,” he replied, pulling his sleeve up. He extended his now-visible hand, which Raikenai eagerly took in a gentle handshake.
“It is nice to meet you, Sila, from the Fountain. I am Raikonai Tattur, and you are welcome to anything that Losalfar has to offer.”
“What fountain are you from? Like a water fountain? And where is the city of Airmoor?” inquired Auren. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Availia was ready to punch Auren in the shoulder but restrained herself by issuing a verbal warning instead. “Auren … don’t be rude.”
Ethan had a puzzled look and quickly backed Auren. “I have to agree with Auren — I’ve never heard of Airmoor. Where is that? And what do you mean, you were exploring inside that dragon? You looked as if you were trapped inside the Lake Hunter’s tongue, yet history shows you acted as bait while the Lake Hunter attacked its prey. Why were you working with that creature anyways?” he snipped. “I think you have a lot to answer for.”
“That’s a lot of questions. You sure you’re not of Airmoor as well? I think you’re as curious as I am,” replied Sila.
“Airmoor is not a place,” answered Loka. “It is a race of people … not of this world.”
“Wait a minute! You’re not from this world?!” exclaimed Auren with his mouth hanging agape.
“Auren…,” mumbled Availia, “we’re not from this world, either,” she sighed.
“Oh … I mean, yeah, well … I know,” said Auren, scratching his head. “Forgot for a second — still, pretty impressive though.”
They reached the infirmary and walked through a small arched entrance with no doors. A cot was offered to Loka, which he gladly accepted.
“The Airmoor are from Athani. At a very young age, they leave their home and spend the first part of their life in exploration.”
“When you say young — how young are you, Sila?” asked Stanley.
“I am five-thousand eight-hundred and ninety … two.”
“You’re what?” asked Availia in shock. “But that would make you—”
“Old,” interrupted Stanley quietly.
“How can you possibly be a little boy still? I mean … you’re older than anyone I’ve ever met, even Loka,” argued Auren. He was not fast enough to defend against the smack to the back of his head that came from Availia’s precise swing.
“Ow! What?!” complained Auren, rubbing the back of his head.
“He’s right,” answered Sila quietly. “And so is Ethan — I have a lot of explaining to do.” Sila rolled up both his sleeves and took in a deep breath. “My people live upwards of fifty thousand years. Because of this, I am considered … well, just a child. Like all children of the Airmoor, we are sent off to explore — the more interesting things we explore, the more highly regarded we are when we do return,” he added. He put his head down in shame. “I … thought I could handle the dragon — no one else from the Fountain had ever experienced such a creature. I thought … I could be the first — but this dragon was stronger than I thought. He captured me and before I knew it, I was inside the creature’s tongue. I felt him absorbing my life away … like he was slowly taking years from me and adding them to his own. And the longer I was trapped, the more power he had in controlling my actions, until….”
“Until what?” asked Stanley.
“Until I saw Ethan Wright. I knew he would free me. He gave me strength to defy the dragon. Only an Orobori can kill another Orobori, so I had confidence that Ethan would not lose when facing the dragon — it’s part of the Game. And now, I can use my gift for something else.” Sila slowly approached Loka Tattur, who was lying exhausted in his cot.
“What gift is he talking about?” whispered Availia to Ethan.
“Dunno,” answered Ethan quietly.
Sila reached over to Loka and took his hand.
“You are a healer, aren’t you?” asked Loka with a weak smile.
Sila nodded and closed his eyes. The veins that ran down the boy’s arm started to glow, a soft blue color identical to that which marked the face of the old Losalfarian. Loka closed his eyes, wincing every so often as the bruises and other ailments started to fade. The boy went as long as he could, until he started to struggle with the task. His veins abruptly stopped glowing and his eyes snapped open. “I need to sleep,” he said as he lay down on the empty cot next to Loka. Before anyone could assist him, he closed his eyes and passed out.
Loka sat up and looked over at the Airmoor boy. “Thank you … Sila,” he said, even though the boy was already fast asleep.
Ethan could not contain himself any longer. His anxiety grew as he fidgeted with his jacket. “But if what he says is true, that an Orobori can only be killed by another, then Xivon’s brother is still alive!” he blurted.
A calm look remained on the elder’s face. “If I cut you down with a sword just now, would you die?”
Ethan thought for a moment. He did not feel invincible to injury. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d fare too well,” answered Ethan quietly.
The room fell silent. Loka gave Ethan a moment to think about his answer and then gave a soft smile. “I am feeling quite a bit better, everyone. If you would all permit … I would like a moment alone with Ethan,” ordered Loka.
Raikenai nodded and herded everyone out of the infirmary.
“What happened to Dregfin, Loka?”
The old man looked beyond Ethan, as if he was looking into the past. “I don’t know. I had never contemplated that he could have survived. There wasn’t anything left, other than his sword … your sword. Although it is extremely unlikely he was willing to give this sword up if the trap were to fail, we should consider it a possibility. What I can tell you is … I have never seen nor heard from Dregfin since that day,” stated Loka. “I know that Sila and his people have their beliefs, but I am confident — and to my dismay, I struck him down with my own hand,” he added with regret in his eyes.
“So you think he’s dead?”
Loka nodded. “I treasure life, Ethan. I am not proud … but I’m sure of it.” Loka motioned for Ethan to sit next to him. “But this topic isn’t why I sent your friends from the room.”
Ethan sat down on the cot next to Loka. He looked down at the sword he carried as he waited for news worthy of the privacy demanded.
“Sometimes terrible things happen to good people, Ethan. I want you to know that no matter how terrible things become, you will always have a place here in Losalfar. Understand?”
Ethan nodded, unsure of what Loka was talking about.
“My ancestors believe that when humans die, the exceptional ones are reborn into the Mitan race, and exceptional Mitans are reborn to the Airmoor — it is the natural progression of things. I don’t say this because I believe that one is more exceptional than the other. I only say this because … if my ancestors’ beliefs are true, you, my friend, have a lot to look forward to,” said Loka, smiling.
Ethan laughed. “Well, there is a human, a Mitan, and … an Airmoor all in the same room. How often does that happen?”
“Not often at all — in fact, I cannot remember the last time I’ve heard of such a thing,” chuckled Loka. He raised his hand to signal out the doorway and gave a nod to Ventu.
Ventu escorted a hooded figure into the room. He wore a long black cloak and his face was hidden. Ethan’s heart skipped a beat as he had a sudden flashback of Xivon slowly pulling his hood back to reveal his
grey, devilish eyes that had enshrouded Ethan with fear. He instinctively went for his sword, but his arm was held in place by the steady hand of Loka.
“Who are you?!” demanded Ethan. “SHOW YOURSELF!”
The figure reached pale hands up and slowly pulled back the cowl to reveal the beady eyes of an old familiar face.
Ethan’s sword arm relaxed. His mouth stood agape as tears streamed from his eyes. “Wegnel!” he shouted as he rushed up and hugged the old alchemist. “Or … MacArthur? But how?!”
Wegnel squeezed Ethan tight and backed up to get a better look at the Orobori. “It’s so good to see you too, Ethan. It’s just Wegnel now … well, Wegnel MacArthur, to be more accurate. I have rejoined with my other self … mostly, anyways.”
“But how is this possible? I thought you were dead … and Edison is in prison for killing you!” exclaimed Ethan.
“I was … well … dead, sort of. You see, it’s rather hard to explain. I had been brutally attacked, and if it hadn’t been for Ghislain moving my body far from the Oroborus, I wouldn’t have been able to merge with myself — a very painful experience, I might add … both physically and mentally. You try and combine two lifetimes, into one mind — all at once. And as far as Edison — when I showed up, they could no longer deem it necessary to hold him, as you cannot murder a person that isn’t dead.” A serious look came over Wegnel’s face. “I lost a bit … up here,” he said, pointing at his head. “There’s always a cost, you see — but, unfortunately … this is not why I’m here.”
“Cost? What do you mean, Wegnel, what kind of cost?”
Wegnel looked rather uncomfortable. “Never mind about the cost, Ethan.” His hand trembled as it rested on Ethan’s shoulder. He looked worried about the words he had in store for the young alchemist. Wegnel took a deep breath and calmed himself. “It’s your father. He’s back in Tirguard.”
Ethan’s face lit up. “That’s great, Wegnel! When did he get ba—”
“He’s dying, Ethan. I am terribly sorry,” said Wegnel gently.
Isaac’s chance of still being alive hung by the narrowest thread and now this terrible news. Ethan’s entire world fell into shambles at Wegnel’s words. Tears streamed from his eyes as he stared blankly, waiting for an explanation. “He’s what?”
“He doesn’t have much time left,” insisted Wegnel, his beady eyes telling of a seriousness that demanded haste.
Loka, now standing up, put his hand on Ethan’s other shoulder. “Your friends are waiting for you on the airship, Ethan. I had Ventu instruct Stanley to prepare it for immediate departure. I am truly sorry.”
Chapter 21
Thomas Wright
The standard procedures and courtesies of arrival were set aside, as Ethan disregarded the process of unfolding the stairs and anchoring the airship. Edison, waiting at the landing, gave a nod to his student and immediately began to lead him toward Nurse Helga’s infirmary. Ethan numbly followed his professor. He thought of all the things he had wanted to say to his father for the past four years. They reeled through his mind as gate guards were pushed aside by Edison. As they passed the gate they were met by Keavy, who joined in on removing any obstacle that lay between Ethan and his father.
“And where have you been, Keavy? Thought you would have at least come for a visit while I was in prison,” jested Edison quietly.
“Sorry, Edison … ah dornt loch prisons much. Anyhaw, ah got caught up in city pish — ended up leavin’ quick tae gimmie things. Figured ah shood start early … ye aw ur in worse shape than ah thought,” laughed Keavy, shoving a guard from their path as they entered the hallway that led to the infirmary.
As they walked their pace quickened. Ethan could not help but notice the claw marks etched in the walls from earlier in the year. He did not know what terrified him more, his encounter with the Stonewolf or the idea of seeing his father for the last time. As they reached the infirmary doors, Edison and Keavy halted just outside. Ethan looked at them both as they stood aside. Edison put his hand on Ethan’s shoulder.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” said the alchemy professor with a soft smile. Ethan was incredibly nervous as a tear fell from his eye. Edison wiped Ethan’s face and lifted his chin up. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m scared, Edison. I don’t know what to say,” stammered Ethan.
“It doesn’t matter what you say — all that matters is that you’re here.” Edison gave an encouraging smile and patted Ethan’s back.
Ethan turned and gently pushed open the door. With uncertainty, he approached the figure lying on a cot positioned by the window. It was the same one Ethan had lie on when he had burned his hand and was prescribed the glass container of green goop. He quietly sat down next to an unexpectedly old man, who appeared to be sleeping. His crusty eyelids labored open to reveal a hazed-over stare that was having difficulty focusing on Ethan.
“Is that you, Ethan?” asked Thomas woefully. “Is that my son … my boy?” he rasped.
Ethan thought his father looked much older than he had remembered. The wrinkles of a defeated man outlined his pale face. “You look different. Where have you been?” asked Ethan solemnly.
“It is you, son. I am so glad to see your face again.” Thomas tried to sit up but moaned and collapsed back to the confines of the cot. “I don’t have much time, Ethan … my son … my son, I am so sorry.”
Ethan leaned in to hear the words his father was struggling to mumble. “There’s no need to say—”
“Yes, there is,” insisted Thomas. “I cannot excuse myself. No matter what they say, Ethan — they will call me a hero … they will say I did honorable things … they will say I’m a saint. No matter what they say, I’m nothing more than a coward. I let you down … your mother, too,” he moaned as he reached his trembling hand out, which Ethan readily took. “You look so much like your mother.” He glanced down at his hand which he was struggling to turn over. Ethan turned over his father’s hand to reveal an alchemy symbol on his palm.
“You’re … an alchemist?” exclaimed Ethan in shock. “But … when? How?”
“I have kept far too many secrets from you. I tried to forget it all….”
“Forget what … Father?”
Thomas coughed as his body convulsed. He tried to contain the cough, but a small dribble of blood stuck to the corner of his mouth. Ethan carefully wiped the blood from his father’s face.
“No time … Ethan. You will hear things about me. Know that I failed as a father — my only chance for redemption was getting the map. Do you have it?”
Ethan nodded, but realized that his father may not be able to see his nod. “Yes, Father … I have it. But I don’t understand what it does.”
“It’s the key, Ethan … keep the map hidden — it’s the only reason I became a mapmaker,” he chuckled with a rasp, “and I didn’t even make the damn thing.” His breaths became shorter as fluid built up in his lungs.
Ethan could see his father struggling for every breath. “Father…,” He put his hand on the old man’s chest to try and hold him still while he continued to cough. Ethan felt a wet spot through the sheets. He found blood seeping through a large bandage and an obvious attempt at fixing the wound with green paste. He lifted the sheets further and found strange markings ingrained on the exposed skin. It looked like ashes, speckling the tarry dead flesh surrounding the bandage. Ethan peeled back the bandage to reveal a festering sword wound that reached inexorably far into his father’s body.
“Who did this to you?” demanded Ethan angrily.
“It doesn’t matter,” wheezed Thomas. “I wish there was time to make things right, son — I love you and your brother so much.” His chest heaved outward as he stared blindly at the ceiling. “Damn you, Dimon! You … wretched crea—”
Thomas’ eyes widened as his body went limp. His grip on Ethan’s hand loosened.
“Father! Wait … don’t leave me! You’re the only family I have left!” begged Ethan desperately.
&
nbsp; Thomas smiled softly as he rolled his eyes toward his son. He squeezed Ethan’s hand and gave every ounce of strength he had left to take in one last breath.
“Your brother … is … alive….”
Chapter 22
The Unexpected Funeral
“It’s easy!” shouted Edison angrily. “The funeral procession that was planned for Wegnel MacArthur will now be held for a different great man — for Thomas Wright, one of the greatest men of our time.”
“I’m the Castellan — do remember that when addressing me! I will decide who retires a Saint of Tirguard and who does not,” spat the Castellan in a rage.
Edison removed his glasses and shoved them forcefully into his pocket. As he stood in front of Castellan Magnus the Sixteenth’s desk, he remembered the last time he was in the study; he had confessed to murdering a man he had not killed to protect his students. Edison leaned forward slightly on his fingertips which he had placed on the Castellan’s desk. The veins in the history teacher’s face pulsed as he turned beet red. “Listen here, you … DAFT … NAÏVE … LITTLE TOAD,” he exclaimed, jowls twitching as spittle flew from his lips.
The Castellan, in shock and at a loss for words, backed down.
“Whether you know it or not, Thomas Wright has saved the city of Tirguard on more than one occasion. THIS IS HOW IT WILL GO. Thomas will be put to rest as a hero … as a Saint of Tirguard, or so help me—”
Suddenly the door burst open and King Basileus entered. “Or so help you what?” asked the King with a wink. “Getting rather serious in here, are we?” The King smiled and had a seat in an empty chair to Edison’s left.
“No … Sire,” answered the Castellan. “Merely having a discussion with a newly restored Captain, that is looking to give up his position yet again!”
“You threw me in prison!” snarled Edison.