"And this is the relic?" He gestured to the ironwood staff.
"By all accounts, yes."
"It looks so ordinary." A weighted silence hung between them, an acknowledgement of the risk. "May the Lords of Light guide you."
"May the Light guide us all." Chafing at the delay, Master Rizel took his leave.
Guards rushed to open the outer gates, admitting a frosty breath of cold. Snow crested the mountains, locked in winter's last embrace. His gaze flicked to the sun, hovering at its zenith. Drawing strength from the sunlight, he passed beyond the warmth of the monastery into the mountain vastness.
The great gates emblazoned with Seeing Eyes closed behind him with a deep thud. He felt their stare at his back. The silence of the mountains weighed on him. Alone, he made his way down the ice-slick path, bracing himself on the quarterstaff.
The trail disappeared into a wall of white.
A dense white fog encircled the monastery like a moat of magic, but there was no bridge across this moat, no easy way to pass. An ensorcelled protection from a bygone Age, the Guardian Mist blocked his path, a trial of magic mingled with intent. Master Rizel hesitated at the edge, for he well knew the perils. He'd traversed the sentient fog hundreds of time, but never with such risk, and never with such dire need. Gripping the staff, he sent a heartfelt prayer to Lords of Light, beseeching their favor...but he knew the gods were a fickle lot, helping those who helped themselves. Casting a sharp-eyed stare towards the heavens, he hoped for a sign, but his gaze found naught but the red comet searing the pale blue sky, the symbol of the Mordant. "So be it."
Gathering his resolve, he gripped the staff and stepped into the Mist.
Bright sunlight was instantly shuttered to a murky dimness. The chilly fog strangled him like choking hands. Sounds became muted and smothered, severing his last ties to the outside world. Even the ground disappeared beneath his boots, hidden by the swirling white. Thick, potent, and laden with menace, the Guardian Mist enveloped him, lapping at his face. Resisting the urge to hold his breath, he strode into the white void. A sixth sense warned him to shuffle his feet and test his footing, but he refused to be cowed by fear. Walking boldly, he strode into the Mist, keeping his head held high and his hand locked on the staff, an illusion of confidence.
His gaze sought to pierce the Mist, but he saw nothing but cold white in every direction. The farther he walked, the greater the risk. A shiver raced down his back. Tightening his grip on the ironshod staff, he willed it to waken. The relic proved stubborn, appearing like nothing more than a lowly quarterstaff. Doubts assailed him. Perhaps he'd misread the text, missing some subtle clue. Perhaps Ambrose was right and the true relic was long lost, leaving him holding nothing but an ordinary stick. Or perhaps the tome he found was a lie, the brilliant illumination painted amongst the calligraphy merely a scribe's fantasy. Yet, if a sixteen-year-old girl could invoke a blue steel sword, then surely he could find a way to wield the relic. He clung to his belief, putting his faith in the staff.
Something flitted ahead.
He caught a bright glimpse of golden-yellow, the color of an acolyte's robes, yet he knew it could not be. Tightening his grip on the staff, he plowed a path through the mist, ignoring the illusion.
The flash of golden-yellow came again.
Surrounded by dense fog, his gaze leaped to any color, like a drowning man grasping for a floating log, yet he knew it was false. The Mist toyed with him. Annoyed, he shouted. "I'll not be fooled by your tricks, I've come with solemn purpose."
"What purpose?"
The Mist answered with a boy's voice, full of youthful exuberance. The choice of voice puzzled Rizel, yet he answered. "I've come for knowledge long lost."
"Knowledge...knowledge...knowledge..." the refrain echoed around him, a chorus of many voices coming from all directions.
He shouted above them. "I seek knowledge to defeat the Dark!"
"Seek...seek...seek..." the refrain came like a chant...or a taunt.
Tiring of the ruse, he bellowed, "Show yourself!"
A dead, flat silence was the only reply.
He felt watched, surrounded, the hairs prickling at the back of his neck.
The boy's voice came again. "What will you risk? What will you dare? What price will you pay?"
He grasped at the boy's voice, seeking an ally among enemies. "Anything!"
"What knowledge do you seek?"
"I seek the riddle of mage-stone. Can it be broken? Can it be healed?"
"Your Order protects knowledge. Have the monks failed their charge?"
Having no answer, he waited, hoping, his heart thumping loud in his chest. The pause was interminable.
"Swear on your life that you seek answers to this one riddle and nothing else."
Answers to one riddle, it seemed such an odd thing to swear. Rizel hesitated. One did not swear lightly to the Guardian of the Mist, yet he saw no other way. "You have my word. I so swear."
The Mist swirled around him, dense and impenetrable, as if the Guardian considered his reply.
The flash of golden-yellow came again, but this time it moved toward him. A boy stepped from the Mist, a fresh-faced acolyte of twelve years, a youth on the verge of manhood. A mop of unruly soot-dark hair threatened to hide his jewel-blue eyes. Pushing the hair from his face, the lad quirked an impish smile.
Master Rizel staggered backwards, recognizing his younger self. "How?"
"All things are possible in the Mist."
"Why you?"
The lad grinned. "Whom would you trust more?"
Another odd reply, yet before he could frame an answer, the lad said, "Come if you want answers." The boy darted into the Mist, yet he did not disappear, his golden robes shining bright like a beacon in the fog.
Master Rizel hesitated. Following illusions in the Mist was ill-advised, a ploy to lead the unwary to a deadly drop, yet what choice did he have? Gripping the staff, he hurried to follow his younger self.
The boy quickened his pace. Master Rizel rushed to keep up. Wary of a trap, he strained to see through the swirling white, but he saw nothing save the boy.
The lad came to a sudden stop. Turning, he wore a solemn look on his youthful face. "This is where we part."
Confused, Master Rizel looked around, but he saw nothing but white.
The lad's voice dropped to an earnest whisper. "Remember our vows, the vows we took when we gained the blue. Hold to them." His voice dropped to a hush. "And beware, for illusions are real in the Mist. They can hurt you, even kill you." The boy cocked his head, as if listening to another voice. "Hold to your vows!" Turning, he faded into the white.
"Wait!" But the boy was already gone. Master Rizel peered into the white, seeing nothing but fog in every direction...but then the mist began to thin, like a curtain pulled away by a giant hand. A towering cliff face appeared, a vertical wall of granite. Carved into the mountainside were four enormous columns, like the entrance to an ancient temple. An eight pointed star was chiseled into the lintel. Embedded lichen lent the symbol a golden hue. "The Star Knights!" The words whispered out of him. The temple was old, the features smoothed and blunted by time and weather, yet the daunting scale was awe inspiring. He'd never seen its like...and he'd never heard a whisper of its existence. Another illusion! Yet the Mist must have brought him here for a reason. Intrigued, he strode towards the temple.
Massive columns stood like sculpted guardians, carved from ancient granite. He touched the column's base, surprised to find it stone-firm beneath his hand. If this was an illusion, it was well done. Passing beneath the shaded portico, he saw a door. On closer inspection, it was more of a gate. Battle axes, spears, swords, halberds and maces, the trophies of some long-forgotten war were forged together to form a gate. Rusted weapons of every make and description formed the patchwork barrier. A metal plate with a keyhole bound the two halves together. Impressed above the keyhole was the image of a hand, a Seeing Eye emblazoned on the palm. Rust encrusted the ancient weapon
s, yet their edges seemed sharp, still thirsting for blood. Peering between the patch-worked weapons, he saw a passageway slanting down, another mystery. He rattled the gate, pushing and tugging, careful to avoid the edged blades, yet the lock held firm. Searching around the columns, he found no key.
"I wonder." Returning to the gate, he set his naked palm against the plate. His hand was a perfect fit. A shiver slid down his back, yet the gate remained locked. Remember your vows, the boy's words echoed in his mind. "Seek Knowledge, Protect Knowledge, Share Knowledge."
A chime sounded and the gate clicked open.
A rough-hewn passageway slanted down, tunneling into the mountainside.
In the depths a light glowed sapphire-blue.
Gripping the quarterstaff, he strode down the passage, a gullet descending into the netherworld. He stretched his senses, hearing nothing save his own footsteps. The air was tomblike and cold, smelling of damp stone and sulfur. He dared the descent, a thousand footsteps, yet he seemed to make little progress toward the blue light. Turning, he stared back up the passage, but he saw nothing, the gates swallowed by the gloom. Below, the blue glow never wavered, calling him forward. The cold intensified. With just enough light to see by, he continued downward, ever downward...and then the passage opened into a low-ceilinged cave. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Not stalactites, but massive icicles, as tall as a man. Radiating cold, the icicles were the source of the strange blue light, giving the cavern an otherworldly glow. He drew close to the nearest icicle...and then he saw it. Entrapped in the crystal-clear ice was a leather scroll case. A brass plate on the case held a single word. He craned to read it.
Mage-glass.
A gasp escaped him, a long-lost secret of the Order.
He moved deeper into the cavern, peering into each icicle. Scroll cases were embedded in every one, knowledge preserved in ice. He stopped to read the words. Arcane armor!
Stunned, he staggered backwards, gasping in wonder. Arcane armor was thought be a myth! He moved among the icicles, reading the names, a litany of lost magic. Lightning Wand, Amulet of Rain, Ice Bolts, Helm of Destiny, Wand of Healing...he'd stumbled into a treasure trove of magic, a fabled archive of lost knowledge. Any one of these scrolls could turn the tide of the Battle Immortal. Laughter bubbled from his lips. Giddy with hope, his gaze roved across the feast of possibilities. And then he saw a scroll case entitled Orb of Prophecy. He stood frozen to the ground, not believing his eyes. The greatest treasure of the Kiralynn Order, long thought to be lost, was within his reach. The thought staggered him. The Orb was knowledge incarnate. Circling the icicle, he wondered if it truly held the secret of prophecy.
A pulsing light intruded.
Deeper in the cavern, on the edge of darkness, a single icicle pulsed with light.
The distraction annoyed him, yet what if that icicle held an even greater power? Marking the location of the Orb in his mind, he walked towards the pulsing icicle. Blue light spilled across him riddled with freezing cold. He stepped close to the icicle and peered inside.
Mage-stone!
This was the secret he'd come for. Yet compared to the others, mage-stone was a lesser magic.
Shaking his head, he backed away. "You taunt me! You trick me! How can you do this when our need is so great?"
"Great...great...great," his words echoed in the depths.
"Do you want us to lose the Battle Immortal?"
"Immortal...immortal...immortal."
Something stirred in the darkness, a rasping sound.
Master Rizel froze, a premonition of danger slithering down his back.
Time was running short. He needed to decide. He burned for the Orb, for knowledge incarnate...but the words of the boy echoed in his mind. Remember your vows! He'd sworn to seek one answer, the riddle of mage-stone. Anger smoldered within him, realizing he'd been tricked by the Mist...yet he'd given his word. His stare roved across the treasure trove, hungry for all the lost knowledge, feeling as if victory was within his reach...yet his word was his bond. A sigh escaped him. Despite the temptation, he would not break his vow...but how to release the scroll from the ice? He circled the icicle, a riddle trapped in a pillar of cold. Tightening his grip on the quarterstaff, he struck a ringing blow. Nothing. Four more blows followed in quick succession. Searching for cracks, he found none. If he could not break it, then he'd have to melt it. He searched the ground but found nothing to serve as tinder. Returning to the icicle, he mulled the puzzle. And then he understood...although he did not like it.
Carefully setting the ironwood staff on the ground, he drew near the icicle. Cold beat against him, yet he set both hands on the ice. A chill shivered through him, so cold it seemed to suck all the warmth from his body, yet he persevered. Running his hands up and down the ice, he slowly caused it to melt. Breathing upon it, his breath frosted to white. Setting his cheek against the dead-cold ice, he willed it to hurry. So cold, his teeth began to chatter, stealing the heat from his body, yet he would not give up.
Water ran in rivulets down the ice.
He grew dizzy, depleted of heat, depleted of life...and then he realized the true price. The ice drew more from him than just warmth. Tapping into his life-force, it drained years from him, yet he refused to pull away. In mute defiance, he hugged the ice close.
A crack echoed through the cavern.
Chilled to the bone, he staggered backwards.
The great icicle broke in half. The point fell to the stony floor, shattering into a thousand shards of glittering ice.
The embedded scroll case emerged from its frozen tomb. Numbed by the cold, he tugged it from the ice. His hands shook so badly he fumbled with the latch. With trembling fingers, he opened the top. A scroll of rolled vellum nestled inside, knowledge long forgotten. Relief washed through him...but then he heard that rasping sound again, this time much closer, like rusty metal dragged over stone. Clutching the scroll case, he peered into the darkness. Something large moved in the depths.
A roar thundered through the cavern, a lick of bright flames scorching the ceiling.
A dragon uncurled in the shadows. Rusty scales and glowing eyes, the beast was a monster.
"Impossible!" the word whispered from him.
The great horned head swung his way, releasing a gout of flames that shot halfway across the cavern.
Master Rizel shook his head, refusing to believe...but then a blast of scorching heat hit him. Heat riddled with the smell of burnt carrion and sulfur, the blast singed his face like forge fire. He staggered backwards, clutching the scroll case. He needed to escape, to get back to the surface...but then he heard the pattering sound of drops. All around him, the icicles began to melt, releasing a rain of tears. Understanding struck, loosing a fresh horror. If the dragon gave chase, the icicles would be broken, melted, their precious scrolls smashed and burnt...all their knowledge forever lost...unless he saved them. A tempting thought shivered through his mind. If the ice melted he might be able to protect the scrolls, gathering them from the dragon's path, assuring the Order's victory over Darkness. A risky ploy, but the prize was tempting.
Remember our vows, the boy's words echoed through his mind.
He'd sworn to seek one answer, yet he could not let the dragon destroy the trove of knowledge.
The dragon roared again, releasing a fearsome belch of flames.
By the light of the flames, he glimpsed a second passageway on the far side...but he'd have to dare the dragon's reach.
Eyes bright as lamps stared at him.
Refusing to think, he snatched up the quarterstaff and ran towards the far passage. "Here!" He bellowed in defiance, drawing the dragon's stare away from all the knowledge enshrined in ice. "It's me you want!"
The dragon roared.
The sound blasted through the cavern, nearly knocking him to the floor. Clutching the scroll case in one hand, the staff in the other, he sprinted for the far passage. Fire belched close, singeing his hair. Darting behind a tumbled boulder, he ran for t
he passage.
The ground trembled beneath the dragon's weight, proof the beast gave chase.
He reached the passage and ducked inside. The floor slanted upwards, a distant light at the top.
A hot breath raced behind, foul with the smell of brimstone.
He dared a backward glance.
The beast's head snaked up the passage, great golden eyes glinting with malice.
Rizel ran faster.
The dragon roared. The force of the roar knocked him forward like the blow of a battering ram. Bruised and stunned, he hugged the ground, seeking to hide.
Flames roared over his head.
When the heat subsided, he scrambled to his feet and ran for his life.
The passage began to narrow. Behind him, the dragon bellowed, but this time the sound was only wind pushing at his back, not a battering ram. He kept running. The passage turned steep, narrowing to man-height. Ahead, the pinprick of light grew steadily larger. He reached the exit and staggered out into the cool mist. White fog lapped at his face, soothing his burns. Relief washed through him. Flushed with triumph, he lifted the scroll case to the heavens in thanks.
Something snagged his foot.
He stumbled and fell, hitting the stony ground hard.
The scroll case was knocked from his hand.
Horror-struck, he watched as it rolled forward, disappearing from sight.
"Noooo!" He lurched forward, lunging for the scroll...and found himself staring into a deep chasm, a bottomless abyss. Teetering on the edge, he fought to regain his balance, but the scroll was lost, plummeting to the depths. Outrage thundered through him. "No!" He shook the quarterstaff at the Mist in defiance. "How dare you! I kept my vow! I took only a single scroll, yet you deny me this one answer?" He roared his anger at the Mist, throwing down a gauntlet of words. "Whom do you serve, Darkness or the Light?"
Light flared bright, illuminating the ironwood staff.
Startled, he nearly dropped it.
The quarterstaff revealed its true form. Instead of a simple ironwood staff, he held a golden scepter etched with silver runes and crowned by blue flames. A true relic! Spellbound, he stared at it, shocked by the transformation. Regal and bright, the scepter was more beautiful and more commanding than any painting in the monastery. Crowned by blue flames, the scepter projected a nimbus of soft glowing light that surrounded him like a shield...or a beacon.
The Prince Deceiver (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 6) Page 18