by Jeff Wheeler
Without a look back, Thealos entered the archway.
XXXIV
A stone doorway, beveled and hewn by expert craftsmen, opened at the end of the portal. The Otsquare was behind Thealos now, its blue light nothing but a mirror-like face. Wrapped in comforting folds of magic, he entered the chamber. The stillness was perfect, soothing and calm. The magic greeted him as its son. There were no torch racks on the walls, only small inlets with blue stones that gave off a tranquil glow. Not even a mote of dust swirled in the air. The chamber felt…clean. Thealos was aware of his boots and soiled clothes and every crumb of mud. The sweat cooled on his forehead and back and he found himself shivering.
It only took a moment to look over the chamber, for it was small. It was octagonal in shape and one stone inlet of light glowed from each facet of the wall. The domed ceiling was too a little too tall to reach, and the entire chamber seemed carved out of some fine-grained gray rock he did not recognize. Its texture and feel was similar to the granite temple of Keasorn in Avisahn, except the stone was smoother, more like marble. Behind him, the gryphon arches led back to the tunnels. The wall opposite the arches also had an opening, and he saw a thin stairwell leading down and away. That surprised him – he hadn’t been expecting another way out.
Thealos stared at the center of the chamber and folded his arms. There were no shadows in the room. Not one. The room was level all around, but it dipped bowl-like in the center, a very gentle grade. He noticed a pattern on the floor. From opposite walls, the pattern took shape. Thealos cocked his head to examine it. Two thin slats of stone met in the center of the chamber. He nodded, recognizing it. An octagon with a cross-mark inside. It was the symbol on Jaerod’s amulet and sword-pommel.
–Claim me–
The voice whispered to him from the center of the rotunda. At the junction of the cross in the center of the room was a thinly carved symbol – two offset squares. It was larger than his hand and nearly indistinguishable. Thealos walked towards it. But as he stepped into the gently sloping bowl, a stream of light came from the ceiling, startling him. The pillar of white fire joined the center of the dome to the Otsquare etched in the floor.
“Son of Quicksilver, welcome.”
It was a different voice, Silvan in tongue and style. A man’s voice, gentle yet firm. He hesitated, listening to it.
“We created the Silverkin to challenge the danger of Firekin. We are the Mages of Safehome and thus have we always done.”
Thealos swallowed, feeling gooseflesh prickle down his arms. The voice sounded...almost familiar. He hesitated, listening as it continued.
“The Crystal was forged and laid within a bed of Hothstone so that none could disturb it. Until now. You are here because you have never touched or tasted that which is Forbidden us. Before you can claim the magic, you must receive a Foretelling. Look into the light and see what was, what is, and what may be. Have courage, Son of Quicksilver. The future has yet to be tamed.”
Thealos shivered. The words sent chills through his body. The Mages of Safehome. Who were they? He remembered Jaerod and Justin speaking about them. Both seemed to know what they were. But he knew nothing of their order or what they represented, except a constant struggle against the Sorian. Wishing he had asked more questions, Thealos stared at the chamber walls. One way in. Another way out. The Silverkin Crystal in the crossroads. His heart calmed but his legs felt weak. He had come too far to quit now.
Walking down the thin slope of the bowl, he approached the shaft of light going ceiling to floor. Streamers of light rose and fell. He reached out and touched it, bathing his hand in the brilliance. It was like touching a cloud. The smell of the room was peaceful and inviting. He felt safe, for the first time since he had left Avisahn. He was among his people. Protected and sheltered.
Taking a deep breath, he stood before the pillar of light. Leaning forward, he looked into it.
* * *
The rush and shock of magic was so strong Thealos gasped. It was like dunking his head into an iced over pond. He couldn’t move or twitch. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t blink to water them. He stood frozen, helpless, and felt a surge of panic rise up in his throat. The glowing pillar held him fast, swirling with color and light. He could not see the rest of the chamber, only the blinding light. He felt eddies of Silvan magic swirl up in the rotunda around him, bulging and burgeoning until it filled the rock with fury. It was like a thousand -Wolfsmen blades singing in his veins at once. He felt something inside him rip loose. Drowning in the magic, he struggled to keep sense of who he was and what he was.
Then he saw it.
A whisper of stillness cracked over the room, taming the surging tide of Silvan magic. He could see again, but he was no longer in the chamber. He was in a foamy-blue sky, soaring like a hawk. The magic buoyed him, easing him gently in its arms. He descended over a lush and beautiful valley, teeming with bishop pine and cedar. Groves of green maple with acres of orchards and grasslands in between stretched for miles and miles. His heart melted at the sight, at the vastness and immensity of it. Then he recognized what he was seeing. The Trident River! There were the granite cliffs of the Ravenstone! Looking to the side, he saw the sprawling city of Avisahn nestled against a bend in the river, parapets and towers lost in a dizzying sprawl of manors, parks, terraced walks, and fountains. It was not the Avisahn that he knew. The forest was too thick and vast, stretching from the Ravenstone to the Kingshadow. It was the land before the humans came. Before Sol-don-Orai was destroyed. The pang of longing filled him with such power that he started to weep. But the magic carried him away, following the twists and bends of the river until it flung him out over a huge bastion at the river’s end, spilling roughly into the ocean. It was Sol, but glittering! Thealos saw a Silvan fleet, dozens of ships hugging the coast all the way to Jan Lee. There were hundreds of them!
He wanted to stop and take it all in, but the magic carried him on its wings, making him soar over the foam and waves, reaching across the broad expanse of it. There were ships heading south, braving the tides and crosswinds. Looking ahead, he saw the continent rushing towards him. A tangle of jungle and mountains with snow-capped peaks met him first. The distant coast of the Shoreland. Thealos had never been there, for the Shae did not control that far south. Over the windy peaks he traveled, slipping through gorges that shouldered higher than the Kingshadow mountains. When he reached the top, he swore with amazement.
Hunkered down beyond the mountains was a valley so vast it could have swallowed Dos-Aralon and Avisahn together. Emerald fields flanked by towering redwood and alder stretched out for miles filled with pastures feeding thousands of ox, horse, and sheep. Mines rich with veins of iron, gold, and silver exploded with wealth and promise. He could not see the end of the valley, so distant and vast. There had to be a million humans living there in the homelands and farmlands stretching along the nape of the mountains all the way to the sea. It was a vast and rich country. Cities dotted the land, hundreds of them. Towers yearning to touch the sky wrestled with domed assemblies, all glimmering with gold paving. The magic eased him down slowly, gently, through a pink rainsquall at sunset – closer to the earth, closer to the rich dark soil that drank in the rain from the skies. And there, feeding the land with its magic, Thealos saw the Everoot. Flecks of blue and violet danced in fields acres wide. The Earth magic sang with glory.
Darkness fell across his vision and when the sun rose, the smell of smoke and char stung his nose. The magic hoisted him again, zooming across the sky. He twisted around, seeing the veil of smoke and haze lingering over the dark valley. Homesteads were ruined and abandoned. Fires burned constantly from shattered palaces and desolate parks. He saw two armies marching in the valley, marching from destruction to destruction. Their minions spread death and havoc. Thealos saw the struggle, looping low so that he could see their faces. Faces full of hate and fury with drops of juice trickling down their chins. It was Everoot again. The two armies clashed fiercely, leaving fields of
blood and the dead. But the dead rose and continued to fight, death begetting life over and over. Endlessly. The hot fires burned and ravaged the earth, but men would not die. They fought over the Everoot, to dig out the last remnants of it. To control it all.
Thealos watched with disgust as the scene changed, growing darker and darker. He did not understand the magic of the vision and how it worked, but he did understand the mood of the land and was not just seeing the inhabitants with his eyes. The Earth magic whispered its secrets to him. The dead were in piles now, in furrows that stretched like grain rows. He watched arrows hailing down from the skies, dropping men to agonizing ends as the Deathbane-coated tips robbed their lives. The armies were more cautious now, the warriors dwindling fewer and fewer in number. The entire land was desolate, save a few cloistered cities that barred either side from entering. Thealos watched in horror as the armies struck again, hammering at each other viciously, dwindling fewer and fewer.
Then the wind started to blow.
Thealos felt the eddies of magic shift with the jerking motion of the winds. It was blowing eastwards, towards the sea. He watched in moments as the fields turned brown, and the earth became pockmarked and cracked. The armies continued to fight for control of the Everoot, but then men were dying of thirst. There was no water, nothing to feed the plant, to keep it alive and whole. He listened to the screams of the dying and shuddered in his soul from the total destruction. It collapsed, crumbling like a castle made of blasted sand. The magic pulled him away, dragging him from the terrible scene. He wanted to weep again at the destruction of so many. Dust blew over the land, clouds of thick black dust and ash. It choked the life out of everything.
Thealos turned over and saw the sea, zipping across the eddies of water that separated them. He was ashore immediately. Groves of trees stretched all the way to the sea, but he saw the moors and a lone hill. In the moors, he saw a citadel, a watchpost that huddled in the midst of the trees. It was Silvan with the banners of House Silverborne flapping on the poles. It was a different crest, though similar to the one he remembered. The rising sun of Silverborne was garnished with green oak leaves and settled on a field of black – the color of war. Cradled in the arms of the magic, Thealos could see the details clearly, burning in his mind. He swooped low before he saw the Mages.
There were three, tall Silvan men with green cloaks and tassels. Each one was flanked by a Sleepwalker bearing a medallion on their chest and a long sword at their hip. Thealos watched intently. The Mages were speaking to a remnant of Shae around the watchpost. He watched the Mages raise their hands and one tilted his head back, singing. The earth opened beneath them, unfolding like a rose. There was a light in the sky, stabbing down like the sun and then a shadow smothered them. Looking up, Thealos saw a city emerge from the clouds, wider than the watchpost, nearly as wide as Avisahn itself. It descended from the heavens and hovered there, an obelisk in the sky. Thealos waited, watching in amazement. The city was enormous, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. He had heard of the city of Safehome. He was certain Keasorn himself belonged there.
A rotunda gradually descended from the floating city, carved out of living rock. It went into the open earth where the Mages waited. The low rumble of thunder sounded and the huge city was gone. It was happening so quickly, Thealos longed to learn more. Who were the Mages? Why did only one of them sing? Where did the Sleepwalkers come from? Why were they speaking to the Shae near the watchpost and not in it? The magic pulled him again, drifting across the forest a short way. In the darkest, thickest portion of the forest, he watched another set of Mages at a pond planting clumps of Everoot at the base of a beautiful, secluded waterfall. Justin was there, his arms folded imperiously. One of the Mages touched the Warder Shae’s forehead and there was a flash of light.
Darkness washed over Thealos. He was back in the rotunda, his legs wobbling. Then the magic swept him up again, easing him back into the sky. He looked down across and saw that the forest had receded to a tangle of crooked cedar and vine maple. He watched as scores and scores of Bandit soldiers scraped the last of the Everoot from the trees and boulders, tossing the clumps into barrows and baskets. They were destroying the peaceful glen, turning the pond and forest into a filthy network of sluices and gutters. This was not the past. It was happening at that moment. Thealos could hear their grunts, he could see the flexing muscles of their shoulders as they worked. The Sorian who had faced Jaerod stood nearby, her dark eyes smiling. She wanted the Everoot used, she wanted the Deathbane to murder. To cause havoc in the valley. To destroy what she could not control. Yes, she wanted to see Ballinaire destroyed too, waiting quietly to place another in his stead. Slowly, Thealos felt himself drawn away from the glen, away from the harvesting. He wanted to know more. He had to learn more!
The magic took him to the road that sliced through the forest where the Bandit army waited just beyond the screen of trees. In the morning, it would come into the city as the fog shielded it from the eyes of the bastion walkers. The doors would be opened to let them in, and the war with Dos-Aralon would begin. There would be no siege. It would fall in a day, just as Jaerod had said. Again the magic was pulling him back, drawing him across the moors to the fortress. He fought against it, tried to stop himself, but the magic tethered him. There was so much to learn! The intents and thoughts of the Bandits were made plain to him. He saw everything, if but for a moment. He turned and saw Landmoor rising up from the mist. He watched Allavin Devers and Ticastasy scramble out of the mouth of the ruined shrine, followed by Bandits and Kiran Thall. They were worried about him. Allavin was praying Thealos would make it through, but the woodsman felt his duty to protect Ticastasy. She was worrying even more and grieving for Flent. Her heart was breaking. Tears stung his eyes and he yearned to reach out to her, to let her know he was safe and to comfort her because of Flent’s death. But the magic would not let him. It whisked Thealos down the halls, past a screaming Secrist who thrashed against the blue light, trying to shove himself through the Otsquare. The man’s thoughts were all madness, placed there by the Sorian woman. With one intent – to kill Thealos. The blue light snared Thealos, bringing him back inside with a violent jerk.
Darkness.
The vision opened a third time and Thealos saw himself kneeling in a pool of light in the middle of the rotunda. He watched his actions, saw the look of determination on his own face. Reaching into the Otsquare embedded in the floor, he withdrew a silver amulet and chain with a blue sapphire. The jewel was the size of an egg, garnished with Silvan runes. In his mind, he watched as the blue lights in the rotunda winked out, leaving only himself and the glowing Silverkin Crystal. He was alone, but only for a moment. Secrist came into the rotunda, his eyes mad and hateful. Thealos watched himself scramble backwards before the magic surged to life on its own, flaring brilliantly in the darkness. It ripped the motes of Deathbane from the dagger and wrapped the Kiran Thall in folds of blue fire. The fire spread throughout the tunnels, stealing Forbidden magic from every nook and corner. The fire burned fast and quick, slamming into the aged Sorian with its full intensity, dropping the man to his knees. Ballinaire staggered and choked, appearing to age years in moments. Every shard of darkness and filth was licked up by the flames before rushing back. Thealos could see it all.
The fire rushed back, gathering like a storm and capturing the magic within the blue sapphire. No, there was something else too. Thealos watched the Forbidden magic course through his body and into the Crystal. Yes, the Firekin was swallowed by the Crystal’s power, but it passed through him first! The evil went through his body like water, sickening him. And he watched as he collapsed in a heap on the floor, helpless as the Crystal winked out. He understood. He finally understood! The magic of the Silverkin required a terrible price. Thealos winced as the Kiran Thall lunged forward and kicked him in the ribs. He flinched as he watched Secrist pummel him again, ripping the Silvan magic from his hand. He understood it too clearly. The Crystal searched and trapped
Forbidden magic. But whoever wielded it could feel the Firekin as it was captured. The artifact did not stop men of flesh and blood. It would not stop the Bandit Army. Secrist held the magic triumphantly in his hand, staring at its weight and power. The madness was gone. Looking down at the crumpled Shae, Secrist dropped low and slit his throat.
The vision started to fade, snapping him back to the present. In the distance, he heard the Sorian woman’s voice welcome Secrist back and demand he give the Silverkin to her.
And Thealos knew that he would.
* * *
No! Thealos blinked awake. He lay on his back on the floor of the rotunda, soaked with sweat. The light in the center of the octagonal room was gone, but the blue stones from the eight walls shone, leaving no shadows on the floor. Thealos’ hand was near the Otsquare etched at the bottom. Waiting for him.
—Son of Quicksilver—
The magic beckoned to him, insistent, like Shae barters whispering through the rock to wake him to his needs and offer their wares. It felt the presence of Forbidden magic near, it hungered to lash out at it with its power. Thealos recoiled, scrambling to get away from the center of the chamber.
—Claim me—
Thealos panted heavily. The images of the light were so vivid, he felt he had lived them. He saw himself dead on the floor, over and over again. It wasn’t the fear of dying that filled his stomach with snakes. If he knew that both Sorian would be harmed by the Silverkin, that the war would not continue – he would gladly give his life. He had seen what happened in Sol-don-Orai. He couldn’t let that happen to his people. His mind felt like it would burst like a melon. But he also knew that the Everoot still being harvested out in the moors would not be banished by the Silverkin. The Bandits would still be able to turn it into Deathbane. And there would be nothing left to stop them if the Silverkin belonged to the Sorian.