by Jon Monson
To the east, the ocean stretched out for what looked like an eternity, the waves drinking in the last remnants of twilight. To the south, far beyond their view, lie Palmas and the rest of Genodra. If he were to walk around to the other side of the crown, he would see the entirety of Maradon to the west.
“I think some people may be upset about what just happened,” Aydiin said, looking down at the tiny figures below. Guards and soldiers scurried through the harbor, making their way for the entrance at the base of the statue.
“How long do we have?” Byanca asked. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Probably about an hour,” Aydiin said. “Just depends on how well conditioned those soldiers are.”
“Well let’s not waste any time,” Byanca said. “I don’t want them to get here while you’re in the middle of your vision. We need you recovered and ready to get us out of here before those men show up.”
Nodding, Aydiin turned away from the balcony’s edge. He’d never been to the top of the statue before – it had never felt important. Yet he found himself wanting to just enjoy the moment instead of rushing to finish.
His footsteps pounded on the iron walkway delicately disguised among the statue’s crown. The forehead seemed like nothing but a wall, but the occasional wrinkle spoke of the detail carved into the copper. Then they came upon the Stone.
Embedded in the copper, the fiery red ruby seemed to glow in the near darkness. A river of molten flame danced within the Stone, the various hues of red and orange fighting for dominance. It seemed like only a thin layer of glass separated them from the raging inferno within.
It was so unlike the Stone of Katala that he absorbed at Mount Pietra. Where the icy blue Stone had felt cold and soothing, this felt fiery and unforgiving. It emanated a power that threatened to destroy more than anything else.
Well, I’m here, he thought to himself.
He reached out his hand, his fingers trembling. The flames within grew more violent, their churning becoming agitated. It was almost as if the Stone knew what was about to happen.
“Aydiin, it’s okay,” Byanca said, grabbing his trembling fingers. “We’ll do it together.”
Aydiin smiled at his wife and turned back to the Stone. His heart pounded in his chest. His hand continued to shake despite the warmth of Byanca’s delicate fingers.
Last time he’d touched a Great Stone, he’d seen too much. He didn’t know what would happen this time. The uncertainty scared him more than anything.
Yet he also knew this couldn’t wait. He knew that whatever awaited him would still be there no matter how long he let his hand waiver over the Stone. It had to be done.
Aydiin clenched his teeth and pushed his hand forward, not letting the fear slow him down. Byanca yelped at the sudden motion, but kept her hand firmly clasped around Aydiin’s. His fingers made contact with the Stone.
It was as smooth as it looked, only the heat was absent. It felt like glass, only impossibly perfect. There were no blemishes, no rough spots. Only perfection.
The flames inside began to churn like an erupting volcano. The glass grew warm, and then blisteringly hot. Aydiin screamed as his hand began to be consumed by the flames.
The Stone began melting, dissipating. It began melding with his skin, seeping into his veins. The pain grew more intense, and Aydiin’s field of vision began to constrict.
Then the darkness took him entirely
◆◆◆
Festival music filled Aydiin’s soul. The jangling of flutes and the tapping of a drum danced through the air. The music mixed with hundreds of voices – men and women singing, children squealing in delight.
Aydiin breathed in the smell. Rich vegetation mixed with roasted meats and vegetables greeted his nostrils, and he breathed in even deeper. It was the smell of a summer’s evening filled with merriment.
He opened his eyes to see a crowd of children surrounding him, their wide eyes looking onward expectantly. There must have been at least a dozen of them. They sat attentively, as if Aydiin had been in the middle of a most interesting tale.
“Please, can you make an elephant now?” a girl with bright blue eyes and curly blonde hair asked.
Aydiin didn’t know what she was talking about. How could he make an elephant? The question didn’t make any sense.
As if part of him understood the request, Aydiin felt at the well of power within his chest. It was vast, like an entire ocean of churning, molten flames. He summoned the smallest fraction of the reservoir, allowing the tiniest portion to be free.
It responded easily, as if he’d done it his entire life. Faint memories came to his mind that told him he had indeed used these powers for a long time. Something within told him that those were not his memories.
Flames snaked out of his hands, forming in the middle of the circle created by the children. Orange and red, the raw power began to form into a shape. A smile spread across his face as Aydiin realized it was indeed an elephant.
Using his fingers, he pinched off the flame. The power within him began to settle, as if sensing it was no longer needed. The amount of power he could feel was awe inspiring – powerful enough to destroy an entire city yet gentle enough to create works of art.
The flame creature lifted its trunk as if to trumpet like a real elephant. The motion was greeted with squeals of delight from the children. There also seemed to be the smallest amount of fear in those shouts – after all, an elephant made of pure fire stood only a few spans away.
Aydiin’s attention was drawn to the gardens that surrounded him. They were filled with such creatures – monkeys, deer, birds, and even some animals he didn’t recognize flitted among the trees and hedges. He wondered how the flames didn’t affect the vegetation.
The gardens were also filled with people – his people. Some danced to the music played by a small band. Others consumed food and drink while laughing and talking boisterously with friends. It was a perfect moment, a pause from the hard work that filled these mortals’ lives.
“My lord,” a voice stammered from behind.
Aydiin turned to find a pleasantly round servant with red cheeks and a head filled with wispy hair. The man looked to be in his middle years – how these mortals’ lives were so fast. Yet behind the nervousness in the man’s face, there was much joy. There seemed to be a laughter in the man’s eyes that Aydiin couldn’t quite understand.
“Yes, Samuel?” Aydiin responded, unsure of how he knew the man’s name. The words simply came out.
“Alarun is here,” Samuel continued, his smiling eyes looked toward the ground. “He insists on seeing you.”
“I have no desire to see him,” he responded.
Aydiin couldn’t remember why, but he was very angry with Alarun, which felt odd. The god had done something terrible – unforgiveable even - and Aydiin wanted nothing to do with him.
“Are you quite sure, my lord?” Samuel said, his eyes refusing to make contact with Aydiin’s.
“Yes, send him away,” Aydiin said, waving Samuel away. “This is a night for celebration, and I won’t have him ruining it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Samuel replied, giving a deep bow before turning away.
Aydiin grabbed a goblet from a passing servant and began to sip its contents. It was sweet – almost too sweet. It did little to take his mind off the injustice that Aydiin couldn’t quite remember.
A hush seemed to spread across the party, and Aydiin wondered if Alarun had decided to make his way in, invitation or no. Then he heard shouts coming from the forest. Alarun would be coming from the manor house, not the dense expanse of trees that extended for leagues.
He spotted a group of young boys running towards the gardens, the shouts coming from their lips. The crowd of mortals – their merriment put on hold in the silence - parted for the group. Aydiin’s stomach began to churn at the sight.
His heart sank as the boys grew closer. There were five of them, each dressed in the colorful garb common to the morta
ls under his care. There seemed to be little to marvel at, but the expression on their faces made his heart quicken.
Between them, they carried an unconscious figure. He looked to be smaller than the others, the kind of child who was always trying to be part of the older group. Aydiin didn’t have to even see the boy’s face to know who it was.
“Valandil,” he whispered, running towards to boys.
“What’s happened to my son?” Aydiin exclaimed as he reached the group.
The sensation was strange. Aydiin felt confident that he had no children, let alone a son named Valandil. Yet he somehow knew this boy was his.
Memories of the boy rushed into his mind. He’d spent days at a time trouncing through the forest with Valandil. He’d taught him to care for the plants and animals and how to find the best mangoes. Each memory was sweeter than the last.
Yet here he lie, unconscious. That skin was impossibly pale, as if it were completely devoid of blood. There was also a peace that had settled in on that angelic face.
“We were playing down by the lake,” one boy began, tears close to the surface. “And he fell out of an old oak tree.”
Aydiin’s heart pounded as he got down on his knees, looking for a sign of life on the boy. His fingers trembled as they felt his pulse. It was weak, and slowing.
“Go fetch Ninazu,” he shouted to a nearby servant. “Let’s get him to his bed - he has to survive until she gets here.”
“Sir, it will take days for her to get here,” the servant responded hesitantly.
“Don’t tell me what I already know,” Aydiin yelled, his face growing red, his panic growing.
It couldn’t be Valandil’s time yet. The boy was still so young, still a few years away from coming into his manhood. They had so much life to live together still.
“Surion,” a deep voice sounded from behind. Aydiin refused to turn, to see the face that he knew accompanied the voice.
A firm hand grabbed his shoulder. The grip was warm and familiar, yet Aydiin still refused to turn. This man barely deserved the title of Divine.
“Let me heal the boy,” Alarun’s voice sounded again.
“We have no need of you,” Aydiin responded. “I’ve already sent for Ninazu. Her healing powers will be sufficient.”
“Surion,” Alarun chided. “You know she won’t get here in time. Let me save the boy.”
Tears began flowing down Aydiin’s cheeks, even as he refused to turn and face the man he had once followed. The anger raged through his heart stopping him from forgiving the man, even now. Yet that anger was being battled by something else, something stronger.
“Alright,” Aydiin finally said. He found himself unable to add to that singular word.
Alarun lifted his hand off Aydiin’s shoulder and moved towards the boy. Even in his anger, he had to admit the God of Gods certainly looked the part.
That long blonde hair bounced as Alarun crouched near the unconscious Valandil. The Divine scooped up the boy in his arms, holding him close. Placing his hands over the boy’s face, Alarun muttered a few quick words.
A warm, white light enveloped the two. Aydiin sat watching in amazement. Even if he didn’t know what it meant, that light was breath taking all on its own.
The light faded, growing weaker until it was gone. Alarun loosened his grip on Valandil, almost slumping to the ground. Aydiin gave a small, choked laugh as Valandil’s eyes fluttered open.
◆◆◆
Panting, Aydiin collapsed to the floor. His muscles were exhausted, his strength completely spent. He couldn’t remember if the vision atop Mount Pietra had been this draining.
The cold iron balcony pressed against his cheek. His waterlogged clothing felt heavy, the cotton wrapping itself around him. Despite it all, he couldn’t bring himself to move into a more comfortable position.
I need to get up, the thought came into his mind. He remembered the guards far below scurrying toward the statue. There couldn’t be much time until he was surrounded by angry soldiers and Jandarm.
A soft, metallic click sounded in his ear, and Aydiin’s stomach fell. The sound seemed to echo in his mind, reverberating through his skull. It was the sound of his failure.
He moved his head to the side, enough to be looking down the massive barrel of a Potens Model 4 - the largest hand gun in existence. The beast was about as accurate as an intoxicated child throwing rocks, but at that range accuracy didn’t matter. It would likely leave only the smallest parts of his face for the Jandarm to identify when they found his body.
“On your feet, lover boy,” a thick voice growled.
Aydiin tried to comply, using his arms to lift himself off the ground. With a grunt, he fell back to the cold iron floor. He was too exhausted from absorbing the Stone.
“That’s no way to treat such an illustrious guest, mate. Help him up,” a familiar voice said.
The exhaustion racking his body wasn’t enough to cloud Aydiin’s mind. He would recognize that voice anywhere. He’d spent the past weeks waiting to hear it again so he could finally get some answers.
“Barrick, please!” Aydiin called out, his voice hoarse and week.
Two sets of rough hands grabbed him from under the arms. With what seemed to be little effort, Aydiin was lifted to his feet. He still lacked the strength to stand, and found himself leaning on his captors.
With a monumental effort, Aydiin lifted his head to make eye contact with his old friend. He wanted to see that face again. He needed to look into the eyes that had betrayed him.
Barrick stood near the balcony’s edge. His sandy hair was long and disheveled, accompanied by a week’s worth of facial hair. Barrick looked neither happy nor victorious.
Beyond his disheveled appearance, it was the eyes that gave him away. Those powerful brown orbs conveyed a sorrow that Aydiin had never seen before. Yet there was also an air of satisfaction, as if he was merely relieved to finish an unpleasant task.
“After weeks of planning, I’m finally atop the statue of Oosman the Great,” Barrick said, his characteristic drawl suddenly absent. “Imagine my surprise to not only find the Stone of Surion missing, but to find you in its place.”
Muffled cries caught Aydiin’s attention, and he pulled his focus away from his betrayer. Unable to turn his head, he directed his eyes to the left to see Byanca held securely by a thick set man with dark hair and even darker eyes. The brute looked to be enjoying his position of power over the woman.
“Barrick, you don’t have to do this,” Aydiin said.
“This is bigger than both of us, Aydiin,” Barrick responded, his eyes finally growing focused and his drawl returning.
“I know how big this is,” Aydiin said. “I’m afraid you don’t understand what you’re doing. The entire world is at stake.”
“The Great Lord will return, and all will bow before him,” Barrick said. “Some of us just do it willingly, mate.”
“I think it’s time to get going,” the brute holding Byanca interjected. “Those soldiers will be here soon.”
“Then let’s not waste any time,” Barrick continued, turning his attention towards the other men. “Tonight is a big night.”
“What should we do with her?” The large man holding Byanca asked. Barrick looked thoughtful for a moment before pulling out a small dart. He played with it casually for a moment, admiring the small weapon before speaking again.
“The Order uses a curious little concoction to – well - for lack of a better word, ‘quiet’ our rivals when we want to avoid suspicion,” Barrick said, a smile on his face. “I don’t really know what’s in it – you know how little I understand chemistry. All I know is that it leaves a person dead in just moments without leaving a trace. When doctors open up the bodies, all they see is that the heart stopped working.”
Barrick approached Byanca, syringe in hand. Her muffled screams turned panicked as he calmly inserted the needle into her neck. Byanca screamed in pain, her gag doing little to stifle the sound.
Then Byanca’s screaming grew quieter, her motions lost strength. Her eyes – those celestial green orbs - made contact with Aydiin’s. There was panic in those eyes, mixed with sorrow and also love. At that moment, he knew that without a doubt, he loved this woman.
With one last whimper, she slumped in the man’s grip. The eyes closed. Her head slumped awkwardly to one side.
Aydiin stared in disbelief. Just like that, she was gone. His head began to spin, trying to comprehend what he had just seen.
Byanca hung from the brute’s arms like a rag doll, just like the boy he’d seen in the vision. As Surion, he’d felt the love of a father about to lose a beloved son. That feeling paled in comparison to the emotions raging through him at this moment.
A single scream erupted from his throat, which quickly turned into a wail. Tears sprang from his eyes, and Aydiin let himself collapse into his captor’s arms. He couldn’t think, only cry out in pain.
“Leave her,” Barrick called out to his men. “It will be a pleasant little mystery for the Jandarm when they finally get up all those stairs. An exiled Genodran princess - dead on Oosman’s Crown. Delicious.”
“You’re insane, Barrick,” Aydiin cried out, the sound of Barrick’s voice enough to bring him back to reality. “How could you do this? I hope there are dozens of the Jandarm waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs - I’ll see you hang.”
“Oh Aydiin,” Barrick replied. “Sweet, simple Aydiin. Who needs to go down the stairs?”
Barrick shot his revolver into the air three times and looked off to a group of far-off buildings. A pop sounded from a distance, and rope with a hook crashed into the head of the statue, embedding itself deep into the copper. Barrick took a hard tug on the rope, checking its hold.
“A gas powered grappling hook, just like the one yeh wanted to buy back in Oltu,” he said. “Thanks for the idea, mate. Pure genius, it is.”