by B. A. Scott
“I was ambushed on the road by Primen and Blessed,” said the Skaelar. “I wouldn’t recommend this as the best place to camp.”
“And why do you keep in the company of these young men, when you outright refused to travel with us?” Ralindur inquired.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Dareic asked. “I just saved his life.”
“Oh I see,” spoke the ambassador, clearly understanding something Dareic did not. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”
“What do you mean?” Dareic asked.
“He hasn’t told you?” asked Ralindur. “Treäbu Skael’adar doesn’t particularly care for the company of Humans. I do believe he wants nothing more right now than to leave you behind in a cloud of dust.”
“Then why hasn’t he?” Gabrel asked.
“Because he can’t,” said Ralindur. “You saved his life. Treäbu is bound by a debt of honor to remain with you until that debt is repaid. Look at him. Can’t you see his blood boiling?”
“I thought I was doing him a favor,” said Dareic.
“Let’s just hope something tries to kill you soon,” Treäbu spoke, “so I can save your life and be rid of you.”
“Wow!” Dareic exclaimed. “That’s really mean.”
Treäbu responded with a stone-faced scowl.
“And who are you three, if I may ask?” Torren addressed the brothers as he and his companions dismounted. “I saw three riders bearing striking resemblance to yourselves bolting past my company as we left Caleton. Would you, by any chance, be those three?”
“Aye,” said Gabrel.
“And with all your haste, look what you’ve accomplished!” Torren said. “Farther down the road by minutes, with your farm horses clearly run ragged. Tell me, my impetuous fellows, what drives you to ride at so foolish a pace?”
“My wife and unborn child need the Tears of Life,” Gabrel spoke, frankly. “We’re headed to Allestron to get it. I’m Gabrel Caladen, and these are my brothers, Kaven and Dareic.”
“Caladen?” Torren asked with surprise. The name caught several of the soldiers’ attentions as well. “All three of you?” he said, shaking his head. “Well, we should share the road then. Our destinations are one and the same.”
“You’re going to Allestron as well?” Dareic asked.
“Yes,” said Torren. “Though my company will divide at the town of Trendell. Ralindur will take the east road to Skaelwood. I, myself, must speak with the lords and nobles in every Human town from Trendell to Allestron.”
“I’m sorry, but that will only slow us down,” Gabrel said.
“Then press on without us when the time comes,” said Torren. “Until then, you’d do well to accept my invitation, especially for the added protection we can offer.”
“What a smart idea,” Dareic said, eyeing Gabrel, reminding him he’d proposed the exact same notion as they passed the group outside Caleton.
“Or by all means, ride ahead, and see how long it takes us to catch you up again,” Torren suggested, to which Dareic snorted in amusement.
“Why are you going to Allestron?” Kaven asked.
“I have the distinct privilege of convincing the Erygians to send an army our way,” said Torren. “King Mercer believes a war is coming. We’ll need the Erygian armies if we hope to survive it, but they’ll be difficult to sway. As for Ralindur there, the Skaelar will be even harder to persuade.” Torren paused a moment, then looked to Gabrel. “My heart goes out to you, Gabrel Caladen,” he said. “It truly does. But understand, your wife’s not the only life at stake in this. Every soul in Caleton depends on our success. And tell me this, what good are the Tears of Life if Lord Daro burns Caleton to the ground?”
Gabrel hadn’t considered it. If he saved his wife’s life, how long would she live if Caleton fell? He quickly shoved the thought out of his mind.
“I don’t want to think about that,” he said.
“Well like it or not, those are the facts. That said, I do wish you the best of luck in your venture.” Torren found a seat on a fallen log beside his fellow ambassador. “So, you’re traveling to the Erygians. Have you been to Allestron before? Have you any idea what to expect?”
“No,” Dareic answered for them.
“Your father journeyed there countless times,” Torren said, suddenly concerned. “Has he not told you anything of their world?”
“You know our father?” Gabrel asked.
“Oh yes,” said Torren. “We served together in the army, before our days as emissaries.”
“He’s never spoken of us?” Ralindur asked as he took the time to sharpen his sword. “Not once?”
“He keeps most of what he did under service of the King in secret,” said Gabrel. “It was always pointless to press him on the matter.”
The ambassadors gave each other a look that neither of the brothers could decipher, though it was clear to them that it held great meaning.
“Where you’re going,” Torren said, “is not like Caleton. I’d have you hold even an inkling of knowledge about the Erygians before stepping through their gates. I imagine you stopped here to rest as we did, but this is far more important to your success than even the pace you set, for there is one thing the Erygians loathe more than their enemies. And that is ignorance. You’re like blind men walking into a lion’s den. It astonishes me that your father would let you leave so unprepared.”
“He probably never thought we’d have reason for leaving our home,” said Gabrel. “And there wasn’t time before we left for a lecture.”
“Has he at least taught you to defend yourselves?” Torren asked. “Has he at least taught you the sword? Doniel Caladen was one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”
“Aye, we can fight,” said Gabrel.
“And your trades?”
“I’m a farmer,” Gabrel answered.
“Craftsman,” said Kaven. “I own a shop—I owned a shop—in Genton. I weaved baskets, threw vases and pots, carved spoons and bowls—not quite a carpenter though.”
“And you?” Torren asked Dareic.
“Candle maker?” Dareic responded, as though he was mildly ashamed of it. “I’m apprenticing under Master Tennison.”
“The best in Caleton,” said Torren. “Do you three know any languages besides the common tongue?”
“I know a few Skalen swear words,” Dareic said. “Prit’ku. Fecha marik—”
“You needn’t prove it, lad,” Torren interrupted. “Your etiquette is lacking as well. Good heavens, I’m having words with Doniel Caladen if ever I see him again. Until then, I’ll do my best to educate you.”
Gabrel considered the man, looking to his brothers, who both appeared eager to hear what the ambassador had to say.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked Torren. “Why would you go out of your way to help us?”
“Call it a favor to an old friend,” said the ambassador. “But more than that, you’re Caladens. And I think you might not fully realize what that means—how truly great your name is, and what honor it carries. I would not chance you three sullying the name of your ancestors. Not when I have the power to help you.”
“Right,” said Gabrel. “Well you certainly have our attention, Torren Spark.”
“Lord Spark,” Torren corrected him, “if you please.”
“Lord Spark,” Gabrel spoke with an apologetic nod. “What more would you tell us?”
“Much, much more.”
Table of Contents
Chapter 5: Erygians
“I suppose it’s wise to start at the beginning,” Torren began, tearing a loaf of bread for him and Ralindur. “Have any of you ever heard of Avenalora?” The brothers shook their heads. “Glory,” said the ambassador, rubbing his temple. “Avenalora was the first Erygian city. It was where their civilization began—nestled in the Fadenward Mountains. Which is why it’s commonly referred to as ‘the Guarded Heart of Adoran.’ There, the Erygians prospered, some would say, due to their advantages.”
&
nbsp; “What advantages?” Gabrel asked.
“They have a select few among them who, like Sages, are capable of wielding magic. They are called Enchanters. Alongside the Erygian Sage, they govern their cities as a council. When you reach Allestron, it is the Enchanters you will deal with, for it is they who forge the Tears of Life. No mere shop in the market will carry it.”
“How hard can dealing with them be?” Dareic asked. “They name a price, and we pay it, right?”
“Essentially, yes,” said Torren. “But their price will be contingent on many things. Among which will be their assessment of your character.”
“Why would that matter?” Gabrel asked.
“It matters to them,” said Torren.
“So,” Dareic said, “we bow our heads, smile, compliment their clothes and we’re in, yeah? I mean, we’re good people.”
“If only it were that easy,” said Torren.
“And how many Enchanters are there in Allestron?” Gabrel asked.
“Five,” said Torren, then he corrected himself. “No, six. They had a spirisortium since I was there last.”
“A spira-what?” Dareic asked.
“Spirisortium,” Torren repeated. “Enchanters aren’t born with their magic, Dareic. They acquire it through a rare phenomenon called the spirisortium. I’ve witnessed two, myself, in my travels. This is what I’ve come to understand: When an Erygian’s destiny of Enchantment is upon him, he bursts into flames of a brilliant blue—usually at the accumulation of a most intense emotion. The spirisortium is the burning away of who an Erygian used to be, into the new, magically capable being that he or she was destined to become. Think of it like a flower, waiting years to bloom, until the right conditions—the right moment.”
“But instead of showing pretty little petals, it bursts into flame,” Dareic said.
“It sounds dreadfully painful,” Kaven remarked, shocked that such a thing was commonplace in the lives of the Erygians.
“I’m told it is,” the ambassador said. “The fires burn the very core of whoever experiences the phenomenon, changing them—changing the extent of their consciousness, the boundaries of their potential—forging an Enchanter out of even the most common of souls. Know that every Enchanter you meet has endured this fire.”
“How is that possible?” Kaven asked. “I’d think it would sear a man to death in seconds!”
“That’s the interesting part,” said Torren. “As I understand it, the flames of the spirisortium do not harm flesh. They’re a catalyst for magical transformation, burning differently than any common fire.”
“Still, if I was being burned like that, I’d hurl myself into the nearest river,” Dareic said.
“It would do no good,” Torren replied. “You see, only when the wielder learns to control and subdue the power they’ve tapped is the fire extinguished.”
“You seem to know a good deal about it,” said Gabrel.
Torren mused. “For Ralindur and I, it’s been our duty to study the other nations in great detail,” he said. “Knowing every facet of their ways, their customs, their beliefs—it’s necessary knowledge for an ambassador. Though I admit, the spirisortium has always captured my fascination.”
“So you said Enchanters can wield magic,” Gabrel said. “Does that mean they can drink from the fountains of Adoran?”
“Indeed they can,” said Torren. “Though they’re not as potent in their abilities as Sages.”
“I thought anyone could drink from the fountains,” Dareic said, perplexed.
“Anyone can drink,” Torren assured him, “but only wielders of magic can be affected. Only they can receive the gift of magic each sacred fountain bestows. You might find it interesting to know that originally, according to the Goddesses, the purpose of the fountains was to promote interaction between the nations. News and trade would travel with those who sought their powers.”
“And the Erygian fountain,” Gabrel said, “What power does it give?”
At the question, Torren seemed disheartened. “The Fountain of the Avenflame, located in the very heart of Avenalora, grants perhaps the most precious of powers in all of Adoran,” he said. “The Celestial Blaze—a divine light of purification—wielded to rid the world of contamination, impurities, and in cases of rare selection, the plagues of the land—diseases which the Fountain of Sae Lenar’s power of Revival cannot touch.”
“That sounds like it could save my wife!” Gabrel said.
“It very well could,” Torren told him. “If only…”
“If only what?” Gabrel asked.
“It has been a long time since anyone has tasted the waters of the Avenflame,” the ambassador spoke sadly. “Many ages ago, Avenalora vanished from the face of Adoran.”
“That seems impossible,” Gabrel thought out loud.
“It does,” Torren agreed. “But it happened. The last battles of the War of Ages were fought at Avenalora. Little is known of what catastrophic events must have taken place, but scholars believe the city’s disappearance was the cause of one man.”
“And who was that?” asked Kaven.
“His name was Idonitus. Idonitus Caspirus Kale—the first great leader of the Erygian people, blessed with an incredible insight into the powers of magic. The last anyone ever saw of him, he was walking alone back toward Avenalora—his own capital, from which he’d been forced to escape. After that, we can only guess what happened. The Incinian and Marinean armies that captured the city vanished along with it. The truth of Avenalora’s disappearance has remained a mystery to this very day.”
“Was Idonitus the Erygian Sage?” Dareic asked.
“Yes. But before that, he was an Enchanter. When the Sage of his time passed away, the power was transferred to him.”
“Transferred?” Gabrel asked. “Who—or what—chooses the next Sage?”
“Ahhh, but isn’t that the oldest question?!” Torren answered. “Some say the Goddesses. Some say the Creator himself. And others, that the power within a Sage bears a consciousness of its own, and acts of its own accord whilst transferring to a new host. But regardless of who—or what—does the choosing, destiny is no stranger to whatever force, be it sentient or supernatural, that decides who will receive the gift next, for it simply selects whoever can do the greatest good for the world at that time.”
“So, say a Sage drinks from a few fountains, then dies,” Dareic began. “Do the powers from the fountains transfer to the next Sage?”
“No,” answered Torren. “Only the ability to attain them. Good question.”
“The Transference,” Gabrel said with a huff. “Enchanters, sacred fountains, the spirisortium—not to mention Idonitus and the disappearing city of Avenalora. It’s a lot to swallow all at once.”
“Better you learn it now than never,” said Torren.
“What happened after the war?” Gabrel inquired. “After Avenalora disappeared?”
“Each side withdrew their forces,” said Torren, “not because of any term met, or objective achieved, but because the losses on all sides were so catastrophic. When the War of Ages ended, and the lives of the great men and women of the age had been utterly spent, a time of rebuilding began. Though, while the falling sands healed the natural world of its battle scars, the nations suffered from much deeper wounds.
Since then, the seeds of mistrust, intolerance and hatred have remained embedded in our hearts. It is evident in every corner of the land—even in Caleton. Generation has passed unto generation the hatred of the last, and while some of the races still hold their bonds with the others, most are too set in their ways to ever seek a greater peace than what exists today.”
“Well, at least the nations aren’t still at war,” Gabrel said.
“Not with each other,” said Torren. “It will be interesting to see how this plays out. Daro’s War could very well unite us all, or bury us in our dissidence.”
“Torren—Lord Spark,” Gabrel addressed the ambassador. “I know it’s a bit off topic,
but why is Daro invading Adoran? King Mercer said he wants to drink from the Fountain of Evindar, but to what purpose? Does he seek vengeance for his banishment to the Wastelands? Is it bloodlust? Or is he simply mad?”
“It’s less off-topic than you think,” Torren said. “We each have our own desires, Gabrel. Who is to say what spark is placed within our hearts that forges who we are, and shapes our souls? Daro longs for a world of his own, purged of the ‘faithless,’ as he calls us.”
“Why the ‘faithless?’” asked Dareic.
“We do not believe as he does,” said Torren. “What we call ‘evil,’ he sees as discovery. What we call ‘death,’ he calls ‘progress.’ Daro seeks to create a world where morality has no bounds to be tested, and all his demons are vindicated.”
“It’s delusion,” Kaven said.
“Yes,” agreed Torren. “But delusion that has brought upon the events we endure today. And they are very real. You understand now, what makes him so dangerous. Daro’s ideals proved disastrous to his fellow man, and for this, he was exiled. How he survived—well, there are theories. There’s no way he could have endured without help. Most believe the demons saved him from death.”
“Wait, what?” Dareic asked. “You mean Primen, Blessed and Fated were already in the Wastelands?”
“Left over from the Great Purge,” said Torren, recognizing that the brothers required further insight. “Before Adoran as we know it existed, the Creator sent our Goddesses to seize this world from a trinity bent on carnage and war. A trinity of Chaos, Shadow and Fate—so named the Infernal Trine. Our Goddesses cast them back to the Creator, then set out to cleanse this world, reshaping the land, purging it of all their predecessors’ malevolent landscapes and heinous creations through famine, floods, and firestorm. They leveled cities, churned rock, boiled oceans and ignited the skies—wiping the slate clean, as it were.”
“But you’re saying some survived,” Kaven said.
“Yes. And not just Primen, Blessed and Fated. But a small number of terrible beasts—Zelvanyan—creatures of carnage, believed not to be races forged by the Infernal Trine, but offspring they bore by mating with their favored few.”