by Welcome Cole
“I own the guilt for Pa’ana’s death,” he whispered, “I should have seen it coming. I should have…”
He covered his mouth to smother the sounds of his pain. He couldn’t let weakness subvert his need to tell her, couldn’t let his grief waylay him. And he wouldn’t let it. This was too important. He had to face it no matter the pain or the cost to his wellbeing.
He carefully squeezed her hand. Tears leapt to their death against his sleeve.
“When Pa’ana fell, when I told you it wasn’t an accident, you denied it exactly as I knew you would. You said… you said it was impossible, that it… wasn’t the way of our people. You’ve always been purer than me in that way. You always had more faith. But I think, in time you came to understand the truth.”
He stroked the wisps of hair back from her pale brow and gently kissed her icy forehead.
“But what I never told you was how I knew. Calina help me, I couldn’t tell you. Not then. I didn’t want to see you suffer the way I suffered. I didn’t want you to hate me the way I hated myself.”
Anger and regret roiled up again like a murderous wave, but he choked it back. He couldn’t submit to it. He refused to submit. He was done with weakness.
“What I never told you is how I knew. How I knew it was murder. I knew because the wyrlaerd didn’t throw Pa’ana from that ledge. Calina help me, I did. Damn my soul, I murdered my own brother!”
He crumpled to the rock beside her and buried his face in her shoulder. “They took him!” he sobbed to her silence, “The filthy bastards took him. Pa’ana was a hack! But up there, up in that tower, far away from the earth’s water, he fought past their hold. He begged me to save him from them. He said he couldn’t control himself any longer. He said he was going to turn on us all. He was going to betray us. He begged me to help him! He begged me to release him! And I did. Gods help me, I did release him! I threw him to his death from that wretched tower.
“I… I tried to save him,” he whispered beneath the sobs, “After I pushed him, I… I lost my faith. I tried to pull him back up, but he wouldn’t take my hand. He wouldn’t let himself be saved. He told me to let him go. He… he told me to…”
For a time, he couldn’t draw a breath. He could only lay there on the marble beside her as his grief ripped free, sobbing hard enough to rip open his wound. He prayed the anguish would suffocate him, that the pain of this godless sorrow would simply seize his heart and spare him a lifetime of anguish and black guilt. He should’ve died out there in the plains. He should have died beside Maeryc in that dirty grass, exactly as he deserved.
The ground suddenly shifted beneath him.
Mawby tensed.
And then he was falling.
∞
Mawby stood in a room that looked to have been grown from ice. The floor, the walls, the grand ceiling were all carved from some peculiar crystalline material that glowed from the inside. The light was so soft, so delicate, so utterly surreal, he wondered for a moment if there was any light at all.
A peculiar dais floated like a boat on an icy black lake several paces before him. The dais was anchored at each corner with godlike pillars that swelled to the domed ceiling far above them. In the midst of the dais sat an ornate chair that was carved from the same mysterious material as the rest of the room.
A Vaemyn stood on the dais immediately before the chair. His hair was dark as coal and he bore a swarthy complexion. And though clearly Vaemysh, his horns weren’t right. They were unnatural in appearance, like they were made of crystal themselves. The ugly Baeldon stood on the black floor below the dais with a sword in one hand and his battle-axe in the other. He had his back to Mawby.
Something felt uniquely wrong about the entire situation. The dark Vaemyn stood there before the steps, staring down at the mountain called Jhom. He held his own sword too indifferently, like it was a cane, with his palm resting on the pommel and the blade tip parked on the dais beside his foot. The blade was identical to the one in the tent back in the war tunnels, the one holding the half-breed captive in its light. A white crystalline caeyl eye flamed like a burning diamond in its hilt.
Mawby’s stomach surged. He suddenly understood that the Baeldon called Jhom was here to kill this Vaemyn, though the Vaemyn appeared strangely unconcerned by it. He simply stood there on that dais, leaning into his cane-sword, looking at the mountain with an expression more akin to regret than apprehension.
Mawby felt himself move. He ran up onto the dais, though he’d made no command to impel his legs to do so. He saw his own sword rise up before him as he faced the Vaemyn, though the situation completely bewildered him. Why would they be there to kill this man? He didn’t appear a threat, and it seemed unlikely the Baeldon would need assistance against him in any case.
He tasted blood and knew without touching it that his lip was split. His leather jerkin was sharply ripped from shoulder to hip, and soaked with dark blood. He realized he was wounded, seriously wounded, though he had no memory of events that would have caused such a thing.
He felt himself turn to face the ugly Baeldon. He raised sword up offensively, and in that moment understood. He wasn’t assisting the ugly one at all. He was trying to stop him from harming the Vaemyn. The mountain was his enemy!
As if hearing his cue, the ugly one sliced his great axe across the space between them. Mawby barely stumbled away in time to avoid losing his guts, falling back hard onto the dais directly at the feet of the dark Vaemyn. The dark man yelled something he couldn’t make out. The mountain’s axe again fell at him, shattering the surface of the crystal dais as Mawby barely rolled away in time. He landed hard on the black floor. His sword clattered away into the shadows of the room.
The mountain’s shadow spread over him, his battle-axe poised for the killing blow. His face twisted with an expression that had no right to reside there, and a sinister glean burned in his hollow eyes. Mawby knew this look. He’d seen it too many times before. It was like looking into the dead eyes of Maeryc and Pa’ana. Jhom was a hack!
∞
He rolled to his knees just in time to avoid vomiting all over himself. For a time, he was imprisoned in that position, staked to the cold marble by palms and knees as his gut retched itself clean.
At some point, he became aware of a warm pressure on his shoulder, but it wasn’t until his puking eased and the air mercifully returned to his lungs that he recognized the source. He risked his grip on the earth to drag an arm across his mouth. Sweat and bile dripped from his chin. He spit into the emesis pooled before his face.
“It’s all right, Mawby.”
The voice. It was the mage.
“Slow your breathing. Try to relax.”
Mawby pulled away from the supporting hands and rolled over onto his back beside Koonta’s legs. The cold marble felt strong and soothing against his muscles. The chill radiating into his back took the edge off his unsettled stomach. He cleared his eyes with a forearm. When he opened them again, he saw a marble giant gazing passively down at him from the corridor wall. A sarcophagus. He was back in the tunnels.
Chance knelt over him with his hand on Mawby’s chest. “Rest there a minute. It looks like you bit your tongue.”
Mawby swiped his mouth and examined the swath of bright red smeared across his thumb. He’d been bleeding in the vision, too. Gods above, had he really been fighting Jhom?
“What happened to me?” His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
“You were tending her, and then you had some kind of fit. Are you subject to fits?”
Mawby again smeared the sweat from his eyes. “Fits? No. I don’t reckon it was a fit.”
“No?”
“No, it was… it was a dream. I think.”
Chance shrugged his brow. “A dream? A waking dream?”
Mawby threw his arm over his eyes and thought about Jhom and the murderous essence of the vision. The memory felt unclean. He wished the mage would go away.
“It wasn’t a dream
, Mawby.”
After a moment, Mawby pulled his arm away and looked up at him.
“It’s all right,” Chance said, “You can tell me.”
“I already told you. I don’t know what it was.”
“I think you do.”
Mawby pressed his palms against his forehead. He was growing a headache.
“Tell me, Mawby.”
“I said I don’t know!” Mawby snapped, though he immediately regretted it. He dropped his arms to his side and stared up at the high ceiling. The tent blankets glowed blue directly beside him. During the vision, he’d somehow rolled out of the tent. “Apologies,” he whispered, “It was… it was the vision, I reckon.”
He regretted that more than the snap. He should just shut his damned mouth.
“The vision,” Chance repeated too carefully, “The vision?”
Mawby struggled for path of retreat. Why had he said anything? “I didn’t mean the vision,” he said too quickly, “I meant a vision. I meant… I don’t know what I’m saying. My head’s cloudy.”
“Do you have the Lesser Birthsight?”
That took him by surprise. “Birthsight?” he said, looking up at the mage kneeling over him, “Like Wenzil, you mean?”
Chance nodded. He seemed vaguely amused.
Mawby grinned at the absurdity of the notion. “Do I look like a mage?”
“Well, I didn’t think so. But these days, who knows?”
Mawby said nothing.
“Can you sit up?”
“I think so.”
Chance offered him a hand. Mawby locked his forearm and let the mage pull him upright. The man’s strength surprised him. He hadn’t expected a warrior’s grip.
He sat forward on crossed legs and pushed the loose hair out of his face as Chance steadied him with a firm hand. Then he looked back at the disheveled tent wall. “I need to clean that up,” he whispered.
“Leave it. I’ll get it. You need to rest.”
“I’m fine. You can stop worrying.”
Chance laughed at that. “You’re beginning to sound like Jhom.”
The name landed like a knife stick. Mawby looked over at the waning fire farther down the tunnel beneath the hatch. They were alone. He didn’t remember when Wenzil and the ugly one had left.
“They’re reconnoitering the plains,” Chance said as if reading his mind, “They prefer it at night. Baeldons only sleep every few days.”
“The ugly one’s damned protective of you.”
“Jhom thinks it’s his personal mission in life to keep me out of harm’s way.”
“Doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, having your own—”
“Tell me about the vision.”
Mawby’s stomach sank. It was an impossible request. “It was nothing,” he said, looking away, “I’m just tired. I fell asleep.”
“Do I look a fool?”
Mawby reluctantly returned to the man’s gaze. It was about as intense as looking into the sun. He wondered if it was the man’s strength or some kind of witchery. Either way, those eyes made the memory of the vision feel like a boulder squatting on his chest. He couldn’t get his head around it. It couldn’t possibly be true, and at the same time, he knew it was absolutely true.
“Tell me about the vision,” Chance said again.
“I told you. I reckon I nodded off.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
Mawby had to laugh at that. “Ay’a, I know.”
“They’ve opened the Drayma, haven’t they?”
Mawby struggled to mask his surprise, but at the same time wondered why he’d bothered. The mage already knew he was Lamys te’Faht, and there was nothing he could do about that. But the man couldn’t possibly know about the Drayma. The Drayma was the single most honored secret in his order.
“Mawby, it’s pointless to deny it. I know you’re Lamys te’Faht. I know the Drayma exists. I know more about your Order than you do. It’s just foolishness to lie about something so obvious, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Mawby replied, pushing himself up to his knees.
“Then tell me.”
There was no way to argue it, not without looking stupid or just stubborn for stubborn’s sake. “Of course I know about the Drayma. But how the hell would I know if they’ve opened it? I don’t even know where it is.”
Chance laughed again. “You really are a terrible liar.”
“Am I?” This time he found no humor in the words.
“You know who I am? What my role is?”
Maybe it was his surprise, maybe it was the heat of the mage’s eyes burning through to the back of his skull, maybe it was just stupid embarrassment, but he couldn’t let it go. The mage was right; he had no aptitude for lying.
“I know some,” he said at last, “I know you’re the Water Caeyl Mage, keeper of Na te’Yed, member of the Circle of Twenty.”
“Yes,” Chance said. His eyes were relentless.
“But that’s not what you’re asking, is it?”
“No.”
“For all I know you could be Lamys te’Faht yourself. Maybe you’re testing my loyalty.”
“I’m not. And that’s not my way.”
“But you know about our secrets, about the Drayma. You say you know more than me.”
“Yes. Much.”
“Then what’s your role exactly?” Mawby pressed, trying to turn the interrogation around, “What’s the role of your kind, I mean? The role of the mages?”
“The role of the mages?”
“Ay’a.”
“You mean the Circle of Twenty?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve existed in one incarnation or another since first harnessing the caeyls. We’ve been here for too many mortal generations to count. Back then, back a hundred generations ago we were more healers than mages. We used our gifts of Birthsight for righteous purposes. But the Divinic Wars changed that. We were led away from the divine nature of our original charter. We became Cleric Knights, warriors for Calina’s children.”
“I know the history. I mean, what’s your role now?”
“Now?” Chance said with a bittersweet smile, “Now we’re sentinels more than anything. The caeyl energy is dying and so goes our strength. Now we just watch. We wait. We help where we can. We pull like minds together for the cause. Eventually we’ll simply die off.”
“Why aren’t you Lamys te’Faht?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Because of your vows, you mean?”
“No, I mean I don’t know. Only the Father knows why the burden of that duty was never requested of us.”
Mawby easily saw through the forced humility. “You don’t consider it a burden. Your burden is that you weren’t asked. You consider it an insult.”
When Chance finally spoke, it was only to say, “It’s complicated. It’s not our place to question the Father.”
“I have my share of flaws, but stupidity isn’t one of them.”
“We know of your order,” Chance said, looking hard at him, “We’ve known all along. We’re privy to your laws and rites because we helped you write them. We understand the honor system of Lamys te’Faht. We know of the clans created in each of the four dominions. We were instructed on the secrets of succession within each. We know nearly everything about your order except why we were excluded from it.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why make as powerful a group as the Circle of Twenty privy to such secret information, but ask no responsibility in return?”
“I don’t know. We were charged by the Father to watch for dark signs and to assist when that time came. Nothing more was asked.”
“Praven,” Mawby whispered.
Chance was staring at him so hard, he only barely willed himself to return the gaze. “Praven Vaenfyl. You know that name?”
“He was a caeyl mage,” Mawby said, “One of the first.”
“Yes.”
“He was the Demon Slayer. He brought about the
end of the Divinic Wars.”
“The Demonslayer?” Chance asked, leaning forward.
“The few who still know the name today believe he’s a myth,” Mawby said as he thought it through, “They know him as Vaenfyl, which is the familiar version of Faht Wyr’veng te’Caeyllth.”
“Father Demon Slayer,” Chance whispered.
“Yes. He’s considered a protective spirit among the ignorant and superstitious.”
Chance said nothing.
Mawby felt dutifully paranoid, like he had to keep the conversation going or be lost under the weight of those eyes. “What I know is folklore,” he said quickly, “There’s nothing written that I know of, nothing outside our clan’s scrolls. It’s said he’s the mage who founded our order after the Divinic Wars. It’s said.”
“Your people don’t talk of him much anymore?”
“I already told you; he’s a fairytale to them, that’s all. Truth is he’s not much more than that to Lamys te’Faht, just a word of mouth story. None of our family documents offer much more than simply the name and title.”
“No, I mean your people. Your family.”
The question puzzled Mawby. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”
Chance fleshed out a contrived looking smile. “What did your father tell you?”
Mawby thought about that. He’d thought of it much over his life. “He rarely spoke of it. He told me of my responsibility to the Order, but even that was only in the last few years before his death.”
“What else did your father tell you?” Chance said. The urgency was back in his voice.
“What do you want to know? Praven was the Father Caeyl Mage. He was the Demon Slayer. He feared nothing and he feared everything. He was the architect of our Order.”
“What did your father tell you about the Caeyllth Blade?”
Mawby considered the question. His first impulse had been correct; this was an interrogation of sorts. Chance knew some of the history, but not all of it. He was trying to pry it out, as if Mawby might have some direct link to the history, some natural understanding of the dark details. The mage believed he was hiding some crucial truth.
“You can ask me anything you want, Chance. Straight out. You don’t have to play me.”