Sora stared down at the six strange symbols glowing on her chest. “I don’t know their names.”
“You know one. The most gifted mystics are born with an affinity for a certain element. You've always been drawn to one.”
“Fire.” She didn’t even have to think twice.
“Yes. The giver and the destroyer. It is the power that blossomed within you naturally, and that which burned your home to the ground. It saved you from certain death in the Webbed Woods, yet made you fear your own abilities in Winde Port. In you, the fire is two sides of the same coin, and its name lies on its ridge.”
Sora was too overwhelmed to wonder how Madam Jaya knew about what happened in those places. She’d come to assume that her new caretakers knew everything about her past.
“I don’t…” she stammered.
“Look within,” Madam Jaya said. “The runes speak, but the language of the gods is unique in us all, as we were all made unique. I can show you the way, but only you can find the word. Imagine it like a flower, blossoming in spring—you are the flower. Within you holds the power of life, the seed that will grow into a great field.”
Sora looked to her teacher, but the woman remained stone-faced. So, she closed her eyes again, and this time didn’t allow herself to go to dark places. She searched inside herself, into her memories, until she felt that sharp pain in her chest again.
“Aquira!” She blurted the word out before realizing what could happen. Energy roiled beneath the surface. Her eyes snapped open, and air flooded her lungs. One of the bar guai's runes glowed blue like the door to the Well of Wisdom.
“Of course,” Madam Jaya said. “Yours was a destined meeting. The fulcrum on which your future rests. Now, try again.”
Sora stood, feeling like she’d just woken from an extended rest. She raised her hand and looked inward. She could always feel the presence of Elsewhere staring back if she searched deep enough, haunting her, tempting her to push beyond her limitations and sacrifice a piece of herself, but now she only heard the thumping of her heart.
She whispered the name of her wyvern friend, and a spark ignited at her fingertips. Then she spoke it louder, and flame wrapped her hand as it always had after blooding.
“Marvelous!” Madam Jaya applauded, showing enthusiasm for the first time.
Sora exhaled, and the flame extinguished. Usually, summoning fire left her weakened, as if her power were a muscle to be exerted. Thanks to the bar guai, she felt perfectly fine.
“Do not get used to how little it drains you,” Madam Jaya said. “The makros imbued in the stones is limited. With practice, you will grow more efficient, but draw on them too much, and you will find magic as impossible to wield as a commoner.”
“So then how do I learn to channel as you do?”
“By not getting ahead of yourself.” Madam Jaya stood and guided Sora’s hand to her side.
“I don’t mean to be difficult. It’s just, I don’t understand how learning to use a crutch will help.”
“It is a good question. A crutch, by any definition, is meant to help one who is weak become strong. Channeling requires extreme knowledge of oneself. Through blood sacrifice, Elsewhere responds, begs even, for you to unleash its power here on Pantego. It is why we admonish blood magic. For those without your natural gift, it can be impossible to control the rage it fosters. Elsewhere can consume the host or turn them into vengeful husks bent on consuming all before them.”
“Like an upyr,” Sora remarked.
“In a way, yes. An upyr with no sense of what they once were. The bar guai allows you to see only your own reflection, and thus it is purer. More controllable. When you learn to channel, it is from within yourself you must draw. You will come to find that Elsewhere isn’t a parasite you answer to, but a tool to be wielded.”
“But I thought you said that using our abilities in Pantego meant a sacrifice is needed. Spilling blood, I understand. Other mystics, they gave their power to store in this stone. But if you can channel it through your own body, what is the sacrifice?”
“That, Sora of Troborough, is an answer for another time.”
“Please, I’d like to know.” And she meant it. She knew Whitney needed her as soon as possible, but these answers were why they’d set out from Yarrington in the first place. For her to discover her true identity. It was difficult to look away now.
Madam Jaya stared longingly in Sora’s direction, through her. “With every spell, we give a piece of ourselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not a piece made of flesh or bone, but a shred of who we are. Our personality, our memory, but not our sanity as with blooding. It is why the first of us created the Well of Wisdom. So that we may remind ourselves of who we are if we stray too far. Abuse your power, and who you are will cease to be in both mind and body. A spectre.” Madam Jaya reached out to touch Sora’s cheek, and her hand passed through.
The grief twisting her features was unmistakable. Since she found them, Sora had looked upon the mystics only with fear, awe, and disdain. Now, she pitied the woman before her who had been reduced to air.
“Is that why Aihara is so coarse?” she said, grinning impishly.
Madam Jaya looked shocked, then allowed a smile to show as well. So, they do have a sense of humor.
“I suppose,” Madam Jaya said. “The Ancient One,” she stressed the mystic’s title, “has been around for a long, long time. She clings to this realm for the good of our Order. Do you know why she speaks for us when there are seven of us who remain on our Council?”
Sora shook her head.
“For a mystic, there is no greater achievement than age. The focus and honing of the power it takes to exist here in Pantego for three hundred and six years is beyond comprehension.”
“Three hundred and six?” Sora asked, jaw dropping.
“Before Liam the Conqueror was even a thought. When there was an Order of our people to lead, the eight eldest sat atop the Tower ruling over us. We are the Council now, only because we remain, waiting for our eight to restart our great order.”
“How old are you?”
“Alas, I am only one hundred and fifty-two.”
“Only…” Sora muttered.
“I see your spirits are higher now, Apprentice Sora, and I am glad of it. For next, you will find the god-word for another spell. Tell me, since your Gift first manifested, have you found a proclivity for another type of magic?”
“I’ve healed people, but it’s always been much more difficult and drained me far more. There was a time with... well... I healed a rancher after a dire wolf attacked him and it nearly killed me.”
“There is no art nobler than healing, but it draws on two of the fundamental elements in your bar guai. Power over flame, as you know, and over water. If fire is the life giver and the destroyer, water is the life-essence that flows within all of us and the land upon which we live. It is within your blood, within your flesh, as it is within the earth.”
“Okay… I think I can do that.”
“Many have thought.” She snapped her fingers, and the door to the room opened. In walked two of what they called servants, carrying a table. Sora felt her stomach turn over. On the table lay Kai, stripped completely bare, with a gash cut across his chest.
“What did you do!” Sora ran directly through Madam Jaya to the men. She inspected Kai’s wound. He was breathing well and had the muscle tone to ensure that the cut wasn’t too deep, but it still looked incredibly painful.
“What did they do to you?” she questioned as she pushed the other servants away.
Kai took her hand and squeezed. His palm dripped with sweat, as did his brow. “I’m helping with your training,” he rasped.
“Relax, Sora,” Madam Jaya said.
“Relax?” Sora glared at her, Elsewhere in her eyes.
“The wound is not fatal, and in this place, it cannot get infected. It is only the pain he feels, and we must learn to conquer pain. Kai understands this
.”
“It is all right, Miss Sora,” he said. “I trust you.”
“This is wrong,” Sora said.
“As I said, all members of the Order have their part to play. Not only us. Kai bleeds so that others who are at your mercy do not have to.”
“You could bleed yourself.”
Madam Jaya raised her hand and stared at it, longingly. “We no longer can. Now, eat.” A bowl of lumpy soup suddenly appeared in her ethereal hand. She shoved it toward Sora’s gut. “Maintain your strength and stay focused. I will return in the morning to see if you have healed his wound.
At that, Madam Jaya soundlessly exited the room, the two healthy servants at her side. “Wait, but I don’t—” Sora chased after her, stopping when she noticed Aihara Na standing in the entry, appraising her. Her hard glare sent a chill up Sora’s spine. Then, the door sealed shut.
Sora turned back to Kai. He seemed calm enough despite being treated like a test subject… as a test subject.
“You’ll be fine, Miss Sora,” Kai said. “Find the power within, and you’ll be okay.”
“I’m not worried about me,” she said, softly. She returned to his side. “Is this what they do to you? Treat you like meat?”
“The Secret Council is in no need of training. I do this for you, and only you.”
Sora swallowed. She extended her hands over his bloody chest and wriggled her fingers in preparation. “Then I won’t let you down.”
XXVI
THE KNIGHT
Torsten couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d sent Wren to Rand’s home to try and find an ally who hadn’t yet been manipulated by Redstar, but it’d been so long he’d nearly given up. Especially after seeing Wren, broken and subservient, agreeing to Redstar’s every word before the people of Yarrington.
“Rand Langley,” Torsten said. He released the chain he’d used to strangle one of Redstar’s warlocks, letting the body crumple. Stepping toward the bars, he said, “From Iam’s Eye to mine, it’s really you.”
Rand raised his head to regard him. The young man looked even worse than the last time Torsten had seen him, weeks after he surrendered the white helm and fled the castle. His face was gaunt, almost skeletal, and a patchy beard sheltered a bony jaw. The luminescent paint around his eyes masked just how tired and dark they were.
“No warlock tricks, Sir,” Rand said. “I came just as you asked.”
“I was worried Wren never made it to you.”
“He did. I... I tried to take down Redstar myself, but if not for the High Priest, I’d be dead. Whatever Redstar did to him, he’s—”
“I know. I saw. He’s another puppet to the deceiver's will now, just like our poor king.”
“The reunion is over,” said another who accompanied Rand. “Time to go, Rand Langley.” The man stepped forward and tried a few keys in the cell’s lock before its gate swung open. He was a Breklian, judging by his white hair and mustache, and the feathered muffin cap topping his head. Torsten swore he knew him from somewhere. It wasn’t often Breklians came so far south outside of trading vessels.
“He’s not free yet.” Rand snatched the keys from the man’s hand, then hurried into the cell. He kneeled before Torsten to unlock the cuffs chaining his ankles to the wall.
“What did he do to the High Priest?” Torsten asked. A cuff fell off his leg, and the stale air against his irritated skin stung. He welcomed the pain.
“I don’t know, but he has to be stopped,” Rand replied. “I maimed him, but it only seemed to make him more powerful.”
“So that was you who took his hand?”
Rand released the second cuff, then stood and nodded. “Spilling blood only seemed to make him stronger.”
“It is the font of wickedness his kind draws on. You’ve done well, Sir Langley. It won’t be forgotten. Now, it’s time we end this nightmare once and for all. Redstar said that on the Dawning, light and darkness would be one. Whatever he’s planning, it must be stopped.”
“He mentioned something similar to me.”
“You Glassman would see all the wonder wiped from this world, wouldn’t you?” the mustached Breklian interrupted. “Unfortunately, the young deserter has made a deal, and I take those seriously. You are on your own from here, Sir Knight.”
“Rand, what is he talking about?” Torsten asked. “I can’t do this alone. But together, two Wearers stripped of their honor—thanks to Redstar’s treachery—we can win back the King’s Shield.” Torsten lay a hand on Rand’s armored shoulder. “I may not know the faces of those who remain, but I know their hearts.”
“The Crown is not everything to all of you. Move, Rand.”
Rand glanced back at the Breklian, then Torsten, and then his gaze fell to the floor.
“I won’t ask again,” the Breklian warned, stepping into the entry of the cell. The burning torch, lying on the ground, cast light on his face.
“Wait, I do recognize you,” Torsten said. “You’re Valin Tehr’s man, aren’t you? Codar, is it?”
The Breklian bowed. “He sends his regards and says that he misses your squabbles. You were too good for us after you put on the White Helm.”
“The whole world is too good for you lot.” Torsten turned back to Rand who seemed heartbroken. “What do they have on you? I swear, help me now, and when the kingdom we once knew is restored, they won’t be able to touch you.”
“We don’t need to touch him,” Codar said. He scraped his dagger up one of the cell’s bars, the screech causing nearby inmates to cry out in anger. “Let’s go.”
“Rand… what did you do?”
“Whatever it took to get you out.” Rand bowed his head to Torsten. “You didn't give up on me, sir, when all the world’s light seemed to go out. You don’t need me. This kingdom never has. Now fix what I helped start.”
Rand hurried past Codar as if he didn’t want a chance to second guess his decision. The Breklian’s mustache lifted with a grin. “Good luck, knight. We look forward to what happens next.” The man sunk back into the shadow, and when Torsten rushed to the open gate, he saw their shadows fading down the dark tunnel.
“Rand!” he called out.
The young man stopped and glanced back.
“You had nothing to do with this,” Torsten continued. “Whatever it is you think you did wrong, you are forgiven. Thanks to your strength we have hope again.”
“If only you knew what I have done,” Rand said softly. Then he and Codar headed upstairs and out of the lower dungeons. Again, Torsten was alone with the ravings of madmen asking why they too weren’t freed.
Torsten knew well of Valin Tehr and his exploitation of Dockside. He’d grown up in the South Corner, just beyond the docks, where Valin’s influence over the many cobblers and tailors dotting the clothing district were continually butting heads with his thugs. His years in the King’s Shield consisted of many days cleaning up Valin Tehr’s messes. However, the wretch always seemed to avoid a cell. Eventually, Torsten moved on to kingdom-wide concerns, but Tehr’s gang remained a nagging pain in the King’s Shield’s side.
He couldn’t imagine what Rand had offered in exchange for their help, but as Torsten crossed over into the anteroom, he whispered a silent prayer for him. Then he looked to the moss-covered ceiling.
“Not all of us have lost our faith, Iam.” He fell to one knee. “Give me the strength on this, the holiest of days, to see Your will done. To cast Your enemies from this sacred land once and for all, and return light upon Your chosen kingdom.”
He traced his eyes, noticing that for the first time in his life, he hadn’t received the blessing of a priest on the day of the Dawning. And he wouldn’t. For today, he planned to do the work of his kingdom, even if it meant he’d never reach the Gate of Light.
Whatever it took.
He and Redstar had danced for too long, and he wasn’t sure why he’d expected it to end with him anything but alone. He grabbed the unconscious guard’s cudgel, then headed for the exit. The other pri
soners begged him to free them as well, but if he was guilty of killing one of his own Order, he couldn’t imagine what they'd done.
He climbed the stairs and headed down the dank tunnels toward the castle. The Dawning would mean fewer guards to deal with, at least any Glassmen standing in his way who believed him a traitor. Any Drav Cra would face the unadulterated wrath of Iam.
Two Glass soldiers stood guard at the stairs leading into the castle courtyard. Torsten headed straight for them.
“Halt!” one shouted. “Who are you?”
Torsten didn’t stop, didn’t respond, just continued onward until the torchlight was enough to reveal his features. The sentry’s eyes went wide.
“Sir Unger? You’re not supposed to be—”
“Step aside,” Torsten ordered.
Their hands fell to the grips of their swords. “We have strict orders.”
Torsten closed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
“For?”
Torsten swung the cudgel and swept one of them off his feet. The other got his sword free and slashed, but Torsten grabbed his forearm first and bashed it into the wall, knocking the weapon loose. He drove his head hard into the bridge of the man’s nose. As he turned, he brought his foot down on the other’s face, knocking him out cold as well. They’d be fine save for some bumps and bruises.
He quickly dragged their unconscious bodies into a near-empty storage nook, used some rope from sacks of potatoes to tie them down, and covered their mouths with a shred of torn cloth. Checking their armor for anything useful, he found that only the chainmail hauberk of one of them fit his tremendous build, and even then, it was a tight fit. Ever since his days as a squire, he’d needed the castle blacksmith Hovom Nitebrittle to craft his armor specially to fit him even when such meager work was beneath him.
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