by Colt, K. J.
When they were beyond the sight of people, trudging through the thickening cloud of dust stirred from the road, the Ilangien decided to break the silence. “You best take a moment to calm yourself,” he said, his voice cutting through the restless air. He stopped and watched as the mage continued a few paces without turning back.
Arythan, too, stopped, and at that moment, a forceful gust stole the hat from his head. He snapped. The foreign obscenity he shouted was snatched by the wind, following the hat’s direction as though it was trying to escape his wrath. Trembling, the mage shut his eyes and stopped restraining the pressure inside him. He could not, nor did he want to, bury the mounting frustration and the energy stirred with it.
The words of the Prophet that he had never forgotten now taunted him. “Y’ave other paths y’are fated to travel.”
And had his brother not said something similar? “You can’t live the way they do, but you’ll have a life destined for other things. Greater things, perhaps.”
It’s a lie! You both lied so that I would find hope. But there isn’t any hope—not for me. There never was. Look at me now—just like one of them, and still I have no place. The currents around him spiraled and howled in a growing frenzy, now beyond his control. He felt light-headed, his limbs tingling, and somehow he did not care.
“Durmorth, cease this storm immediately!” Eraekryst’s voice barged into Arythan’s thoughts.
I can’t, he knew, but there was no sense of panic. In fact, he wanted to challenge the Ilangien. Why should I care? What does it matter?
A force slammed into Arythan from behind, knocking him breathless to the ground. He opened his eyes, gasping, and found himself in the midst of an eddy of leaves and branches. He covered his head, expecting to be hit or skewered by a splintered spear from a tree, though in his central vortex, the air was calm. The debris rose as a moving wall around him, awaiting his command.
“Dismiss it,” Eraekryst’s voice ordered.
Without knowing why, Arythan reached out with his magic. In a strange moment of clarity, he found his control and took hold of the raging whirlwind. He confined it as though he was clenching his fist around it, and when his fingers loosened, the wind unraveled and rose into the sky as wispy threads. Then he was spent. His head thumped to the ground, and it was all he could do to remain conscious. He watched as Eraekryst’s boots appeared before his eyes.
“Here is your hat,” the Ilangien said, and the object fell in front of the mage. “’Twas a pathetic display, a sad tantrum. What did you hope to accomplish by it?”
Arythan lifted his head. He met the sharp silver-blue regard, unblinking. “Nothing,” he whispered hoarsely. “I was angry.” Though he was not angry anymore. He was only tired, tired in a deeper sense that included his thoughts and his heart.
Eraekryst sighed and sat down before him. “Is there not a better way to express such an emotion?”
“Not for me.” Arythan found it strange that the Ilangien did not look the slighted bit disheveled.
“Your anger will compromise what you hope to accomplish.” Eraekryst gazed into the distance and the empty road before them. “I had forgotten the prejudice against medori,” he admitted. “Though this guild-apprenticeship arrangement is ridiculous. How does an unaffiliated member of society choose a vocation? Surely not all occupations have such—”
“I ‘ave a job,” Arythan said, making an effort to rise to a sitting position. He did not bother to dust himself off.
“Most will not accept thieving as an occupation.”
“I don’t care. At least I can survive that way.” Arythan sighed. “If y’ get any good visions for my future, let me know. I’m waiting.”
“I do not—”
“Yeah, I know it doesn’t work that way.” Arythan looked absently at his injured palms. “Nothing ever goes right, else I’d still be with Em’ri. I’d still be m’self.”
Eraekryst studied him for a long while. “Would it not better serve your brother’s memory to shape your future for the better rather than lament a past that cannot be altered?”
“Y’ think I ‘aven’t thought o’ that?” Arythan said, irritated. “I don’t fit anywhere.”
“Then you have seen all angles of it. You quarreled with one opinionated blacksmith and decided to forsake your new future. After all, what more can you aspire to? There is naught for you to do but accept your fate as an outcast. A lone wanderer without a cause. A rogue, a vagabond.”
Arythan’s glare was dark, his grip tightening on the hat in his hands. “Y’ know nothing about it.”
“Do I not? Have I not journeyed with you, witnessed your insecurities, watched you slip into your comfortable obscurity?” Eraekryst stood. “Alas, you cannot hide anymore. You must walk among those you have avoided; ’tis your only chance at survival. What a grand change this can be, should you allow it.” He stared intently at the mage. “You have the freedom to shape your future!” he said in earnest. “You do not have to be a shadow anymore!”
Arythan wrenched the obsidian knife from where it rested tucked inside his shirt. Any ordinary cord would have snapped, so hard did he pull. The stone weapon burned in his grasp. “I am Shadow!”
His words fell like withered leaves in the following silence.
Eraekryst shook his head. “No longer, Durmorth,” he said quietly.
Arythan wiped away the hot tears that stung his eyes. His gaze fell to the knife, the fragmented image of his reflection in its glassy surface. He slid it back beneath his shirt. “Go back to y’r forest,” he said, his voice quiet but cold.
Eraekryst said nothing as he watched the mage sit motionless with an empty stare. At last he gave a nod and continued down the road alone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AN AWAITED REUNION
THE GIRL smiled sweetly at him and reached across the table to hold his hand. “You shouldn’t feel guilty.”
Eraekryst returned a weak smile. “Is that what I feel? Guilt for having granted him what he wished?” He met her gaze. “I resent this feeling. He is not my responsibility, and his company is difficult to keep.”
“Your friend doesn’t sound like much of a friend,” the girl said.
“Often he is not. But perhaps nor am I.” He finished the contents of his cup and sighed.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t say such a thing! I wouldn’t be talking to you if you were—”
“An arse’ole,” Eraekryst finished for her, using Arythan’s term.
“Your pardon?”
“’Tis what he called me upon occasion,” Eraekryst said. “I have yet to understand what it means.”
“Well, that’s a southern expression if I’ve ever heard one, and it isn’t very nice.” She leaned close to whisper an explanation.
An expression of disdain crossed the Ilangien’s face as the girl withdrew. “A crude insult.”
“Don’t let it bother you. As you said, you have your guests to think about. I’m sure they’ll be very happy to see you.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “But I have to get back to work before the barkeeper finds me here. Would you like another drink?”
“Might you bring three?”
“It would be my pleasure.” She winked at him and left his table.
Eraekryst had tried to find the most appealing tavern for his meeting, curious what his guests would think of the setting. Though he was eagerly expecting their company, his thoughts were consumed by other matters, one of which was his abandonment of the mage. Already a week had passed since he had left Arythan sitting in the middle of the road, but the passage of time had not eased his concerns. Arythan had not known about Seranonde and her threat to him. But there was more. There were the ideas Seranonde had planted in Eraekryst’s mind, ideas that had taken root even though he did not care to think of them.
A stray voice addressed him. “Your abduction was convenient. She said as much.”
“She suggests that I was deceived by my own people,” he murmured. “�
��Tis a weighty accusation, that they would abandon me to such torture…that I would never return.” He frowned. “I cannot believe such a tale. I will not.”
“You will wonder when you see them. Beneath your joy, you will wonder if they betrayed you. The idea will burn inside you until you can stand it no more.”
“They would not betray one of their own. I would sooner believe my kindred than a murdering Durangien.” Eraekryst fell silent when the girl returned with three vessels of red wine.
Her expression was riddled with concern. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied with a smile.
“Liar.”
“Let me know if you need anything.” She grazed his shoulder with her fingers as she left him.
A new voice, an angry voice surfaced over the last. “She knew about the mountain. She knows of what horror you are capable. You are a murderer. You stole my life. And you will claim others with your terrible power.”
“No,” Eraekryst whispered. “’Twas beyond my control. ’Twas not my doing. I would never—”
“You did. Consider the witches. You are tempted by what you know you can do. They showed you your strength in the mountain. They used you in ways you never thought possible. You are a monster set free.”
“No,” Eraekryst repeated more firmly. “I know what is right and what is wrong.” He took a gulp of wine and dismissed the angry voice.
The third voice that reached him was his conscience. I do not want to return to Veloria. I do not want to rule my people.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered. They will welcome my return, and they will make me whole again. I will yet bring about a new era for the Ilangiel.
But what if I do not belong among them anymore? Could I be so changed?
Changed for the better. I must embrace my role. If I care for them, I will forge a new path.
Eraekryst stared at his cup and the two others upon the table. They are here. He stood and turned to face the door, where a familiar face peeked inside.
“Thou wilt create a scene lingering in the entrance, Atrion. Step inside.”
How long had it been since he had heard his native language? Eraekryst stood frozen, watching as the two Ilangiel cautiously entered the tavern. His brother, Atrion, stood beside his closest friend, Chierond. They sighted him just as the serving girl came to greet them. “He’s been waiting for you,” Eraekryst heard her say.
They were faces Eraekryst had not seen in over a century. He noticed immediately how Atrion had matured. When last he saw his brother, he resembled a boy in his teenage years; now he could pass for a young Human of twenty. His hair was longer, his slender frame stronger. Atrion had always been the shorter of them, but Eraekryst would admit that he had grown a little taller.
Chierond was exactly the same, and Eraekryst expected no less. Though he appeared to be a mortal man of some thirty years, his true age was expressed through the brightness of the aura surrounding him. Despite his many, many years, the elder Ilangien could not hide the hint of emotion from his narrow face upon seeing the lost prince standing to greet them.
Atrion stopped just shy of his brother, staring at him with wide, blue-green eyes. “This moment is all that I have hoped for since the day thou hadst disappeared,” he murmured. His surprise brightened into a grateful smile as he embraced Eraekryst tightly.
Eraekryst did not know how to respond. Atrion had always been emotional, though the gesture was not unwelcome or unappreciated.
Atrion drew back and gazed at his brother again. “I have searched for thee. I have tales to tell that thou wouldst not believe.”
“’Tis only fitting we would find thee in a Human tavern,” Chierond said in the common language. He bowed reverently, and Eraekryst returned the gesture. “Thou art wan and sickly,” Chierond said. “I encourage thee to sit, and later I will tend to thee when we are not in the presence of so many mortals.”
The three of them took their places at the table. “I was not certain that you would come,” Eraekryst said, finding his voice.
“That we would track thee here?” Chierond feigned insult. “They are but mortals, and we are discreet. ’Twas Atrion who was reluctant—”
“Do not listen to him, Eraekryst,” Atrion said, his smile undiminished. “I have journeyed with Humans. There was a warrior woman by the name of Lady Xiuss—”
Chierond interrupted him. “Aye, there has been much activity in thine absence, young prince. I see, though, that time has seen thee nearly mature.” He lowered his voice. “And I wonder what it is thou hast seen, where thou hast been in so long a span.”
“I have not forgiven myself for not accompanying thee that fateful night,” Atrion said, his smile finally relenting.
“What is to forgive?” Eraekryst said quietly. “’Twas my folly, the consequences deserving.” His gaze met with Chierond’s.
“Tell me what had happened, brother,” Atrion pleaded.
“I was taken by the Durangiel to the Nightwind, and from there to the black mountain of Kirou-Mekus. I have no more tale to tell.” Eraekryst sipped his wine, his gaze emptying as his thoughts drifted to another place.
Atrion and Chierond exchanged a glance.
“Eraekryst.” When no response was earned, Chierond grabbed Eraekryst’s arm. Only then was he roused.
“Thou art unwell,” Atrion said, alarmed.
Eraekryst’s brow furrowed. “From what would you draw such a conclusion? I meant to ask if all your adventures were true, for I find I cannot conceive of you leaving Veloria—nor Chierond permitting it.”
Atrion was too stunned to answer, and so Chierond responded for him. “Thou art affected by all thou hast experienced, I am certain. We will not speak of thine abduction at present. ’Tis enough that thou art with us now.”
Atrion nodded his agreement.
Chierond continued. “As for thy brother’s adventures, I had not a say in the matter. He is thy brother and thus just as stubborn. What he imparts, however, is true, and I know he will expound upon the details soon enough.” He drank his wine. “’Tis a fair drink, but I have sampled better. May I ask what manner of exchange thou hast employed to obtain it?”
“’Twas gifted to me by Leta,” Eraekryst said, knowing his answer would perplex the elder Ilangien.
“Leta?”
The serving girl happened to be near them when her name was uttered. She swept by their table and smiled at Eraekryst. “Erik is a sweetheart. I have taken care of his drinks.” She touched his shoulder. “Have a safe journey home.”
When she had gone, Eraekryst found two sets of eyes staring at him.
“‘Erik’?” Atrion asked.
“’Tis a nickname,” he said simply. The mage had addressed him by the name before, and Eraekryst found he rather liked it.
“Interesting,” Chierond said, studying Eraekryst more closely. “Atrion, finish thy drink. The Humans are congregating on account of our vivacious presence. ’Tis time we return thine elder brother to his waiting empire.”
True enough, the tavern had filled, the occupants intent on making the most of their merriment. The immortal Ilán was a subtle but sure attractant—even for those unaware of its power or its presence. Eraekryst scarcely noticed the increase in activity around them. Chierond’s words were painted in his mind. Waiting empire. Why were those words so ominous?
A distance from Human civilization, beyond the traveled road and into the threshold of the forest, there was a growing light. The sun had already ducked beneath the horizon, the colors of dusk but fading embers of orange and crimson in the aftermath of a more brilliant sky. Where the shadows of the trees deepened in the oncoming presence of the night, the leaves sparkled as though the very stars were shining through them. Vapors of soft, colored light shifted in the air like sand pushed by the waves of the ocean, and the thickest tree to the smallest stone seemed to breathe with an intensifying energy, as though the very earth and sky trembled in excitement. The light, the energy, an
d all forms of life were drawn to the center of this manifestation, where the trio of Ilangiel had gathered to call upon the magic of the Ilán.
Eraekryst was on his knees, the Light drawn into him so that he was radiant like a fallen star. He was overwhelmed by the power that coursed through him, and his brother stood beside him to steady him, holding tightly to his hand. Chierond was the summoner, positioned before them both with open hands and head bowed.
Like a song, the Light swelled to a crescendo in a moment of blinding illumination. As the flash faded, the forest quieted, and all grew dark but for the three glowing forms of the immortals. Atrion looked at his brother anew, heartened by the change in his appearance. “Thou art as thou should be,” he said, and helped Eraekryst to his feet.
Chierond watched them. “Let him rest, Atrion. There is no cause to hurry.”
“’Tis thou who needest to recover,” Atrion said with a slight smile. “Thou art frail in thine old age.”
“Believe what thou wilt, but thy brother had the life of all the forest breathing through him, and ’tis a daunting force to endure.”
Atrion watched his brother slip from him and find a place to sit among the leaves. New plants began to stir beneath them, poking through the litter as though Eraekryst was the sun. “I would suspect his endurance is greater than ours.”
Eraekryst looked at him but said nothing.
Atrion’s brow furrowed. “Hath the Ilán stolen thy voice?” He turned to Chierond. “Is this not a time to rejoice?”
“What shadows thy heart, Eraekryst?” Chierond asked, his pale green eyes studying the elder prince. He sat down across from him, and Atrion joined them.
Eraekryst looked off into the trees, considering his words. “What had been so simple, so clear to see, was only a guise. Eyes that had not yet witnessed the world, ambitions stirred by idealism, the simplicity of ignorance… ’Tis a jest to me now. I do not know how to proceed with such doubt at my heels.”
“Thou wilt discover that the vision is the same, but thy steps will be wiser, carefully considered,” Chierond said.