by Dan Zangari
Kaescis’s anger boiled amid his rhetoric, but he tamed his fury.
Destruction, the voice whispered.
“They hurled you into a dark age… but I will undo that curse, restoring you and your people. You will become powerful once again, powerful enough to drive out the invaders that have claimed parts of your land.” That piqued Gevistra’s interests. He moved from the wall and knelt before Kaescis, asking another question.
“Am I a god?” Kaescis grinned. “No… the gods have been gone for a long time, but their blood runs through my veins.” Gevistra looked confused. No matter, he was too primitive to understand.
“Gevistra,” the changed Wildman groaned, “I feel… different.” Concerned, Gevistra turned to the changed Wildman and asked another question. This time, none of the words were understandable.
“No,” the changed Wildman said. “No hurt now.”
“You will feel some pain, Gevistra,” Kaescis said. “But this is arpran magic I am using. It will simply restore you to your true form.”
Gevistra nodded uneasily. The changed Wildman’s cries had frightened him, and rightly so. The lifting of the curse was painful, but the pain would subside once the transformation stopped.
“Now, do we have a deal, Gevistra? Will you take me to Chief Bhrane and advocate for us to search Klindil unmolested?”
Gevistra nodded.
“Good,” Kaescis grinned. He knew this plan would work. If the other tribal leaders were like Gevistra, things would be easy. Surely they’d see this restoration as more valuable than what Kaescis was receiving. Then he would enlist them.
The Sapphire Guard won’t stop us this time, he thought. Not with an army of Wildmen at my command.
And Kaescis uttered another incantation.
* * * * *
“I don’t like this,” Laeyit grumbled. That woman didn’t seem to like anything. She was more of an annoyance than anything else. Why did Kaescis tolerate her?
“Kaescis knows what he’s doing,” Bratan said.
“What is His Imperial Grace doing?” a scout asked.
“Bartering,” Grand Marshal Galiur said curtly.
“I know that,” the same scout said timidly. He was trying to hide his exasperation. “But with what?”
Bratan eyed the man for a moment. “I suppose I can tell you,” he said, sighing. “Kaescis is—”
Footsteps echoed into the large room, and Bratan abruptly withheld his explanation.
Had the prince returned? Intrigued, Cornar leaned forward, as much as he could with the rope holding him back.
Kaescis strode into the room unbound. The prince walked with two Wildmen—no… those weren’t the same Wildmen, were they? They looked different. More human… Their faces didn’t protrude as much, and their cranial feature had receded. They had less hair too.
By Heleron’s Trident, Cornar thought. What’s going on?
“Cut them free,” commanded the Wildman on Kaescis’s left. The Wildmen who had guarded Cornar, and the others gasped.
“Do not fear,” the same Wildman said. “It is I, Gevistra.” One of the guarding Wildmen blurted an incoherent phrase, looking confused. Was he asking why this Gevistra looked different?
“I know,” Gevistra said. “Cut the prince’s people free.”
The Wildmen didn’t obey. They looked at each other with growing fear.
“Calm yourselves,” the other changed Wildman said. “We are the same, but better. You can be too. It will not hurt.”
What had happened to those two? They looked different and spoke without that strange Wildman accent.
Kaescis stood with his arms folded, looking like he was in charge. Had he cast a spell on the Wildmen? Used some sort of enthralling magic to make their speech more understandable? Those were obviously illusions he had put on those two. Well, that’s what Iltar would do if he were here.
Another Wildman shouted at Gevistra, sounding worried. That shout seemed like a plea. “We… can… not”? Cornar wondered. The words sounded distorted, emphasized in the wrong places.
“Obey,” the one called Gevistra commanded, his tone harsh. The Wildmen looked to each other, unsure of what to do, but one turned to Cornar and cut him free.
Cornar watched with intrigue as the Wildman complied with Gevistra’s orders.
“Well done, Tutil,” Gevistra said, gesturing for him to come near. “You will be the first of our tribe to be restored. Kneel before the prince.” Restored? Perhaps Kaescis wasn’t controlling these two.
“In due time,” Kaescis said, glancing to Gevistra. “I will relay some orders, and then I will restore your people.” The Wildmen nodded and Kaescis addressed the others.
“Bratan, Laeyit. You’re coming with me. We’re leaving tonight to speak with the Wildmen high chieftain.” The prince looked to Galiur. “We’ll need our things. Send part of the Crimson Praetorians with our armor, horses, and packs of supplies.”
Galiur nodded and saluted the prince. “Yes, Your Imperial Grace!”
Kaescis then turned to Krindal. “You’ll lead the rest of the expedition to Klindala. We’ll meet you on the outskirts of the ruins.”
“But, Your Imperial Highness,” Krindal spoke up, sounding frazzled. “What about the—”
“Krindal,” Kaescis interrupted, “there’s no need to fear our enemies. They have not come this way. We are the only outlanders Gevistra’s tribe has encountered in several years.”
Cornar eyed Krindal, intrigued. Had Krindal been about to say the name of the group that frightened him?
Grand Marshal Galiur called for everyone to follow him, marching back the way they had come. Krindal hurried after him, and then the scouts fell in line, followed by the warriors and Sharon. Laeyit and Bratan, however, joined the prince.
Cornar stood between the statues for a moment, eyeing the Wildmen. He noted the difference between those who guarded him and those who spoke with Kaescis.
“Are you coming?” Vargos asked. He was the only other member of the emissary party—besides the prince and his friends—that was still in the large room.
“Yeah…” Cornar said, stepping away from the statue.
“They’re strange looking, aren’t they?” Vargos asked.
“The changed ones?” Cornar asked.
“All of them!” Vargos blurted, glancing over his shoulder. “I knew Wildmen were primitive, but I didn’t think they were not human. They’re like animals…”
Cornar took one last look at the Wildmen before leaving the room. The one who had cut him free was kneeling before Kaescis. The leader was saying something but Cornar couldn’t hear what.
“I wonder what he meant by restored,” Cornar said as they entered the hallway.
“Beats me…” Vargos said with a shrug.
“What do you know of Klindala?” Cornar asked the old barsionist.
“Obviously not enough.” Vargos shook his head. “I’ve never heard of people like that. The Wildmen have always been shrugged off as primitives. There aren’t many stories about them. The Maltins tend to keep away from this part of the island, and no one has made an exploratory venture out here in decades. If someone did encounter the Wildmen, they probably didn’t record their findings.”
That seemed odd to Cornar. Wouldn’t someone have made mention of these people?
“Makes me wonder, though,” Vargos continued. “How those two looked more human than the others.” Cornar nodded, mulling the entire matter over in his mind.
They continued in silence until they reached the foyer. Cornar walked over to the marred statues. They looked human. One’s face was worn off, and the other’s head was missing completely. Neither statue portrayed the appearance of the Wildmen. They didn’t even come close. The Wildmen didn’t walk upright; they hunched as they stood or walked. Their demeanor was completely different from these statues.
Restore them, Cornar thought.
The Wildmen were said to be the descendants of the Klindala Dynasty. These
ruins belonged to that dynasty…
“They defaced them,” Cornar muttered.
“What?” Vargos yelled from the door.
“They couldn’t stand what they had become, so they destroyed the statues.”
Vargos put a hand on Cornar’s shoulder. “What are you talking about, boy?”
“The leader said Kaescis would ‘restore’ them,” Cornar said, pointing to the nearest statue. “Look, that statue is of a man. These ruins belonged to the Klindala Dynasty. The Wildmen are their descendants. If you think about it logically, the Wildmen were once human and somehow became that…” He gestured back whence they had come.
“Or maybe they were born that way,” Vargos said. Why was he always the cynic? “Sometimes children are born with odd traits.”
A whole society sharing the same physical deformities? That didn’t seem likely.
“So you think they’re all cursed?” Vargos balked. “And the prince is going to restore their humanity… False hope. That’s always a good bargaining chip.”
“Curse?” Cornar asked, not amused.
“Wouldn’t you call it that?” Vargos raised his brow. “If you’re thinking logically? Lycanthropy is passed on from parents to children.”
No, this couldn’t be a curse. Kaescis had done something to the Wildmen. Changed them. Magic couldn’t lift curses. Arpran magic couldn’t reverse lycanthropy any more than it could ease Amendal’s madness. That old conjurer was definitely cursed.
“Look.” Cornar pointed to the nearest statue. “The statues prove my point. The Wildmen were once men. Those statues have damage on them, unlike the exteriors of the buildings we passed. If the statues’ damage was due to weathering, then both the buildings and the statues would share similar erosion.”
“If they were made of the same stuff…” Vargos said skeptically.
Cornar shook his head. There was no use trying to convince Vargos. That’s what Kaescis is using to barter. He’s going to turn the Wildmen back into men. How was he going to do it, though? Did Kaescis have some type of tevisral that could do it? But Cornar hadn’t seen the prince carrying anything when they left the war camp. Perhaps the prince was more adept at wielding magic than he led others to believe.
Shaking the thought aside, Cornar walked to the entrance of the building with Vargos. The grand marshal and the others were partway across the large courtyard. “We better catch—”
The ground shook beneath Cornar, and a rumble echoed from the mountainside. A violent tremor surged throughout the fortress. Both he and Vargos stumbled, falling to the floor. A chunk of stone fell from the building’s exterior, striking the stairs leading to the entrance.
Cornar glimpsed Galiur and the others on the ground. None looked harmed.
An earthquake.
“Looks like your curiosity saved us.” Vargos grunted, pushing himself up from the floor.
“That’s the first earthquake we’ve experienced since mooring,” Cornar said, still on the ground.
An aftershock surged through the mountain, and Vargos stumbled. Cornar continued waiting on the floor. Another aftershock shook the ruins, less violent than the first.
“We should be fine,” Cornar said, standing briskly. “Now, let’s catch up to the others.”
“He will wander for a time, crossing the land of the gods, though he shall not know it.”
- Prophecy of Soron Thahan
The Will had been a readily accessible subject within many volumes at the Hilinard. It was a central focus of the Cherisium religion, after all. The Will embodied a communion with the Cherisium god, Cheserith. He was esteemed as the Creator of the world, the Great Deliverer from eternal bondage. Through Cheserith, his followers would be granted an eternal splendor that was incomprehensible.
Iltar found that to be ridiculous religious drivel.
The Will, on the other hand, was quite intriguing. There were many ways to receive the Will. Some people claimed a feeling that compelled them to action. Others said the Will could be heard, like an audible voice. Those were things ordinary people experienced, or so the text claimed.
The leaders of the Cherisium religion, the Prophets of the Trifica, were granted greater manifestations of the Will: chiefly, visitations of a man in red who delivered the Will. This man—who Iltar assumed was the Messenger of the Promise—sometimes granted visions. A verse from an annual feast cited a description of what such experiences would entail: “I come, clothed in red. I light the mind like flame. I show the past, the future, and the present.” That sounded a lot like a passage from Soron Thahan’s introduction when referring to the Harbinger and how he would understand his predestined path.
One book told an account from a man who had lived seven hundred years ago, claiming that he experienced a vision in the realm of the gods—a realm called Vabenack. Neither Iltar, Elsia, nor the acolytes found any other references to Vabenack or a place with a yellow sky.
Other texts spoke of the realm of the gods, claiming all the devoted followers of the religion would end up there after dying. It was a place of paradise and eternal joy.
That was quite contrary to Iltar’s experience in Vabenack.
Elsia had found references to the Chosen and the Will. The Chosen were said to have direct access to their God, walking between the realms of the living and the gods. As far as Iltar could tell, they were the only ones who could initiate the Will. All other instances were imposed upon the individual.
While Elsia and the acolytes focused on the Will, Iltar went off on a tangent, researching the Chosen. After some digging, Iltar discovered a little more about their nature. The Chosen were immortal beings, blessed with divine power that only Cheserith possessed. The Chosens’ power permitted them to withstand the burning splendor of their deity, unlike mere mortals.
According to a few modern scriptural passages, written in the last few centuries, the Chosen had led humanity in ancient times. They were the Stewards of Kalda. One of the passages spoke of them being the caretakers of tevisrals belonging to a utopian civilization. It sounded a lot like Krindal’s theories of Cultural Regression and the Lost World.
Iltar came to a dead end on the subject, finding material that was a rehashing of other passages. Minor details were different, but nothing monumental.
* * * * *
Eleven days had passed since Iltar began his research at the Hilinard. He had made some progress. But he was no closer to finding answers about the Unspoken One. Iltar had left that subject to Pagus. The boy hadn’t given him a report yet.
Yawning, Iltar set his borrowed books and notes on the shelves within his rented alcove. He was tired, and rightly so. It was quite late. He then grabbed the lightstones from the sconces and secured all but one in his pack.
Much of the seventh floor of the religious wing of the Hilinard was dark. In addition to the illumination from his lightstone, moonlight poured through the glass ceiling as well as starlight. Constellations filled the night sky, many visible through the glassy dome.
Sighing tiredly, Iltar pulled the alcove’s gate shut and locked it. I probably stayed later than I should have, he thought. But when it came to research, Iltar always had a tendency to push himself into the wee hours of the night.
With lightstone in hand, Iltar made his way through the darkened religion-philosophy wing. Each of the other floors was just as dark as the seventh, except the first. Iltar passed a dozing attendant and entered a brightly lit hall.
He blinked several times, adjusting to the light in the hall. Each of the Hilinard’s halls was brightly lit by lightstone sconces. The sconces were positioned higher than a man could reach, to prevent theft.
Iltar wound through the corridors, making his way toward the Hilinard’s main entrance. He passed no one in the halls. Most, if not all, of the patrons had probably left. Iltar had sent Elsia and the acolytes back to the high duchess’s mansion hours ago. The carriage probably hadn’t returned.
I’ll have to walk, he thought. That was fin
e. Alanya’s mansion was only a short walk from the Hilinard. He could use the exercise. Most of his day had consisted of sitting and reading.
Iltar soon reached the foyer, the same room which held the map etched into that black monolith. He’d had one of his acolytes investigate the thing, but the boy hadn’t come up with any answers. It had to be a tevisral.
The Hilinard’s foyer was empty, except for two attendants dressed in white robes who stood beside the closed three-story doors. This was the first time Iltar had seen them shut.
One of the attendants held out his hand, expecting Iltar to return his green token. Iltar removed it from his bag and handed it to the man without a word.
“Have a pleasant night,” the other attendant said, gesturing to the doors.
Iltar raised his brow in confusion. “Do you expect me to push this open?” He gestured to the towering slab. The door was at least half a phineal thick and probably weighed as much as twenty men.
“Do you not see the door within the door?” the attendant asked.
Iltar took a closer look at the patterns in the large slab. A slight gap was between a few of the lines. A hidden door?
“Just push it open,” the attendant urged him.
Iltar pushed the area within the gaps, and an arched doorway, barely taller than he was, opened outward. Well, that was clever, he mused and exited the Hilinard. The door closed behind him.
The Hilinard’s grounds were empty. It was a little eerie, like being in Vabenack. Iltar made his way along the path with the statues and down a road leading to a large metal gate. The Hilinard’s guards—clad in silver plate armor—opened it for him, and Iltar stepped out onto the empty streets of Mindolarn.
Looking both ways, Iltar cautiously crossed the street.
