by Dan Zangari
“Solidin,” shouted one of the captors, “we found him attempting to cross between the pillars.”
The man looked terrified. “P-pl-please,” he stammered, “spare me. I beg of you!”
Solidin picked his way through the rubble, coming to the captive man. Normally, Solidin would have ordered the man executed… but the supplanted honor within him compelled an act of mercy.
The outcry drew the attention of those around Solidin, and they came beside their leader.
“Who are you?” Solidin asked in Common. This man is not a Sorothian, he thought. Not one of Cornar’s men.
“My name is Practil,” the brown-haired man answered. “A servant.”
Practil’s captors looked to Solidin inquisitively. Their gazes anticipated Solidin’s order of execution.
But Solidin gave no such order. “Tell me more about yourself, Practil,” Solidin asked. He glanced to the blazing weapon in his hand. I wish I could dismiss this…
“I… I belong to the Royal retinue of Prince Kaescis Midivar,” Practil answered.
Intrigued, Solidin searched the man’s eyes. They were a pale brown—a normal color for a man. Not a half-breed abomination, he mused.
“This coward must have fled the battle,” an elf commented in Elvish.
Practil shot a frantic glance to the elf, but then returned his gaze to Solidin. “Will you spare me?” the servant asked, his voice trembling.
Solidin considered the request. This man might serve a purpose… He grinned. “Our reputation for relentlessness can only be maintained if a survivor is left, now and again,” Solidin said. “It has been some time since we intentionally left a straggler to tell the tale of their comrades’ defeat.” The fear on Practil’s face dissipated.
“Though a discovery such as Dalgilur should warrant secrecy, your return to Mindolarn will send a powerful message,” Solidin continued, eyeing the servant. Practil tensed. “We will keep you captive until we return to Keth. Once there, we will see to your return to Mindolarn, where I expect you to inform your emperor of your prince’s failure.”
Practil swallowed hard.
Solidin opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by a shout. He turned to see one of the female scouts hurrying toward him, carrying a silvery oval disk, domed on one side.
Could it be? Solidin wondered, his eyes wide. The disk looked akin to the mapping tevisral he had lost during the earthquake on Klindala. But then, Solidin’s eyes were drawn to the scout’s clenched fist. Did he dare hope that she held the other component? The thought of it made him feel exuberant.
“Solidin!” the elven maid cried triumphantly. “The qui’sha is dead!” She neared Solidin and opened her hand, revealing a tiny twenty-one sided gem.
Gasps of surprise and intrigue filled the air.
Solidin beamed with elation. “It seems you have another matter to relay.” Solidin turned to Practil, his tone jubilant. “Your half-breed prince is dead.”
Practil paled.
The elven maid came within arm’s reach and handed Solidin both the mapping tevisral and the gem. Solidin activated the tevisral, and then it projected the map of Kalda. Its appearance pleased him, but then he wondered about Kaescis’s hasty flight. Had the prince entered that vessel knowing that his cowardly ally was without his means to negate the storm? Solidin had witnessed their sea craft disappear within Dalgilur’s defenses.
Perhaps he thought the ancient vessel was enough to withstand the storm, Solidin mused. But no vessel had ever survived the tempests of the Anomalous Corridor.
“Oh, my prince!” Practil wailed.
Solidin waved his hand, dismissing the elves holding Practil. “Secure these,” he handed the mapping tevisral and gem back to the scout. Solidin then turned to the crowd now gathered around him. “Continue clearing the war camp. I want this filth transmuted and cleared before sunset.”
* * * * *
When darkness settled on Dalgilur, Solidin was drawn to the upper reaches of this place cut out of the mountain. Solidin knew the route he must take as if he were walking through his own home.
After climbing forty stories, Solidin wound through corridors until he came to a set of doors unlike any other in Dalgilur. It bore the Keepers’ emblems of each Order, and writing in Common, Elvish, and Draconic.
At his approach, white light shot from beneath his armor and illuminated the details on the door. A faint hum resonated throughout the corridor, then the doors slid apart—much like those found in the headquarters of the Elven Aristocracy of Merdan.
The space beyond the doors was akin to the attunement chamber in the Keepers’ Temple at Klindil. Twenty-one thrones lined curving walls, with a lit emblem above each—the symbols of the various Keepers’ Orders.
Solidin moved to the center of the room, knowing that his presence would summon a kolphigrym. Once at the room’s heart, Solidin stopped, waiting in anticipation. But nothing happened.
Where are you? he wondered, scanning the chamber. “Dusel Nadim,” Solidin shouted, “show yourself!” Nothing happened.
Solidin sighed, his irritation forming a scowl upon his face. He waited for another moment. There’s nothing here, he thought. Was he wasting his time? No… he had felt compelled to come here. It was the same sensation that drew him to Dalgilur.
He took another step into the room. Nothing changed.
“I am a Keeper of Truth and Might!” Solidin shouted. “A Bladesinger!” He removed the necklace housing his gem, holding it aloft. “Can’t you see this? Can’t you sense me?”
There was no reply.
Solidin growled with frustration. “Why will you not show yourselves?!” His cry echoed, but when it faded an eerie silence lingered in the chamber.
Suddenly, Solidin felt alone.
No… He shook his head. There had to be something here. Why else was he compelled?
Solidin spun, dashing to one of the thrones. He touched it, but nothing happened. He then moved to each of the other thrones, but none reacted to his presence. The walls were next, and he touched every square phineal of their surface.
Again, nothing. After a long time of searching, Solidin returned to the center of the room. A sad realization came over him. This was a place where other Keepers greeted the newly initiated.
But there were no other Keepers on Dalgilur. And there were no other Keepers in the shrines or the temple. They were gone.
Overcome, Solidin fell to his knees, despairing the fate of this long-lost Order.
Our Enemy will return. And there is only one way to prevent his advent. But I doubt you will consent to destroying the symbol of our ancestors’ victory.
Sorrow once again consumed Iltar’s soul. He had experienced cycles of wrath and weeping since leaving the top of his tower. This was grief unlike any other he had experienced. Oh, Alanya…
His heart swelled with anguish as he knelt upon the grass within the manicured grounds of his tower, watching Delrin and Jalim. The two guards were waist deep within a hole, shoveling dirt for Alanya’s grave. Delrin took a deep breath, resting on his shovel. The hobbling guard noticed Iltar and gave him a smile, but Delrin’s expression soon saddened. Iltar’s anguish was infectious.
With red-rimmed eyes, Iltar watched his guards. He should have transmuted the ground and reformed the raw matter into a pile beside the grave. But Iltar could not find the will to break the bonds of his despair.
The guards were finished before long and climbed out of the hole. They left Iltar alone to gaze at the pit that would hold his beloved. My beloved? Iltar wondered. He had long given up hope that he would ever refer to a woman as such. The thought left a wrenching pang.
Faint footsteps crunched the grass behind him, then Iltar felt a gentle touch against his shoulder. “Do you want to sit, Master Iltar?” Belsina asked.
Completely numb, Iltar stared blankly at her. Belsina gestured to a chair from the dining room. The acolytes were carrying more chairs, setting them beside the one mentioned b
y Belsina. Iltar, however, simply stared at the chairs. Belsina said something to him, but Iltar didn’t quite hear it. He was drowning in his emotions. Belsina left after a while, and Iltar was once again alone.
It wasn’t long before the guards returned with the acolytes, carrying an elaborate casket. The wood was exquisite, ornamented with gold embellishments and brilliant jewels.
Iltar marveled at the sight. They had no such things here at his family’s homestead. He gazed at the casket quizzically as Bilda and Tigan hurrying around the procession. They stopped beside Iltar, looking excited.
“Doesn’t it look great, Master Iltar?” Bilda asked.
“Pagus changed it, sir,” Tigan interjected. “Hegdil only made a crude box, but Pagus put an illusion on it.”
Iltar didn’t reply.
A moment later, Elsia entered the grounds of Iltar’s tower. The countess walked somberly, following the procession. She had since cleaned up from the battle, wearing one of Belsina’s dresses. Her face was plain, as when they first arrived in Mindolarn—after all, Belsina wouldn’t have any makeup for her to wear. The countess took a seat behind Iltar. She simply gazed at him with a blank expression. She too was grieving.
As the procession crossed the grounds of Iltar’s tower, Belsina and Hegdil hurried through the gates, carrying sawhorses. Both maid and groom moved passed the pallbearers, placing the sawhorses in front of the open grave.
Delrin and Jalim guided the boys toward the grave, where they set the casket atop the sawhorses. Each of the pallbearers stepped away, except for Pagus.
The youth uttered an incantation, dressing the sawhorses and the air between them in an illusion befitting royalty. Pagus then took his seat beside his aunt. He studied Elsia for a moment, then cast another incantation, veiling her face with an illusion. Elsia forced a smile and muttered what Iltar could only assume was a “thank-you.”
“Master”—Bilda clasped Iltar’s shoulder—“do you want to sit?”
The boy’s touch jarred Iltar from his reverie, and he found the strength to move into the chair.
Soon, Hegdil and Belsina stood between the grave and the tiny assembly. The groom stepped forward, clearing his throat. “With the countess’s permission, I have volunteered to conduct this burial ceremony for the High Duchess, Lady Alanya Tasivir,” He droned on, keeping with traditional Sorothian customs. After he was finished, Hegdil invited those in the assembly to step forward and speak.
One by one, the acolytes stood and spoke about Alanya. Each shared fond experiences with her during their time in Mindolarn. Hearing the boys only evoked more sorrow. Elsia was the last to speak. She was brief, and Iltar barely comprehended her words. She mourned for the loss of her friend. There was an undertone of anger as Elsia spoke. Iltar did hear her mention something of manipulation. There was a moment of silence after the countess was finished, then Hegdil arose and instructed the pallbearers to put Alanya to rest.
Bilda and Tigan also stood, standing on either side of the grave. The younger boys uttered incantations, mustering green magic. Soon, both wielded a mass of ensnaring tentacles. The pallbearers heaved the casket, moving to the open grave. Once there, the tentacles under the two acolytes’ control grabbed the casket, gently setting it in the ground.
One by one, the boys left, following Belsina. Elsia stood at the grave, gazing at the casket, then she too departed. Only Hegdil and the guards remained. The three men shoveled the dirt, concealing Alanya’s casket. They were nearly finished when Hegdil stopped to study Iltar.
“You know, it’s customary for the spouse to lay the final shovel of dirt,” the groom said. He took a full shovel and walked to Iltar. Hegdil held the shovel out, gesturing for Iltar to take it.
Iltar furrowed his brow. “I know you were not married,” Hegdil said, “but I’m sure you would have been, eventually. Here, Master Iltar.” Iltar stared at the shovel for a long while and then stood. He eventually complied and dumped the last of the dirt onto the mound. Hegdil patted Iltar on the shoulder, then took the shovel. The groom walked across the manicured lawn with Delrin and Jalim. Soon, the three of them disappeared through the wrought-iron gate.
Once again alone, Iltar stared at his lover’s grave. He thought this final action would grant a sense of finality, but it hadn’t. Iltar remembered Alanya’s last words to him: “Come find me in Vabenack.”
Suddenly, sorrow was replaced with a faint glimmer of hope. Though Alanya was dead, Iltar could find her in Vabenack—he would manipulate the Translucent Fields to manifest Alanya in all her splendor. Still staring at the grave, Iltar smiled, feeling a measure of peace.
As Iltar’s spirit lifted, a displeased rumble echoed on the wind. He looked around, searching for its source, but found nothing. Reflection… Iltar squinted at the sky.
* * * * *
Iltar stepped onto the covered porch leading to the side entrance of his family’s home. Hearty aromas—mingled with the sweet smell of baked furnapel—greeted him as he entered the homestead. The scents were comforting, evoking fond memories from his youth. He basked in the momentary recollection before striding down the corridor. The mirror by the door caught his eye. There was a steady calmness on his face. His sapphire eyes reminded him of his father—firm and resolute. The sight solidified that sense of peace he had felt.
He continued down the hall, nearing the kitchen. Hegdil’s voice came from the front of the home, retelling a fanciful story.
“Iltar,” Belsina called. Iltar turned toward the kitchen. His maid was handling a metal baking sheet full of fresh furnapel tangrils. “Come here,” Belsina said, setting the sheet down on a wire rack. Iltar complied, picking his way across the kitchen.
“You look better,” Belsina noted, eyeing him up and down. “Dinner should be ready in a few hours. But you need to eat,” she said in a motherly tone, handing him one of the pastries. The tangril was a little too hot, but its sweetness prevailed.
As he ate, a sudden calmness washed over Iltar—like the effect of a spell. Though the loss of Alanya was fresh in his mind, the bitterness associated with her death was swallowed up in that moment.
* * * * *
Belsina’s cooking lifted everyone’s spirits. The conversation at the dining table was quite lively. Even Elsia smiled. After dinner, the countess retired to one of the upper bedrooms, leaving Iltar and the acolytes to converse. Hegdil and Belsina cleaned up the table as the boys uneasily eyed each other.
“So, can we talk about what happened?” Agen asked. Iltar raised an eyebrow.
“Aunty didn’t want us speaking of Mindolarn,” Pagus said. “Probably too tender of a subject, I assume.”
“That’s oddly sensitive of you, Pagus,” Iltar remarked. Pagus shrugged, sitting back in his chair.
“I just want to know what those things were,” Bilda said. “They were creepy!”
“Hush, Bilda,” Pagus chided. “We don’t want her to hear us.” He gestured to the ceiling. Bilda frowned.
A few of the other boys voiced questions and opinions about Bilda’s comment. They claimed some of the dead Crimson Praetorians had red scales instead of skin, and long snouts. Like that Xalutir I encountered in Vabenack, Iltar thought.
“They’re called qui’sha,” Pagus answered, looking at the table. His demeanor was oddly reluctant.
Qui’sha? Iltar thought, recalling the name from the Legacy of Ku’tharn—the supposed race birthed by the book’s titular deity.
“They are part human, part dragon,” Pagus said. “They’re human-like, but covered in scales instead of skin. They have tails, but not wings. And their eyes… their eyes are the strangest of colors. Unnatural colors. They can change their shape, too. Only when they die do they reveal their true form.” Pagus’s words rang with dreadful recollection.
“How do you know that, Pagus?” Iltar asked.
Pagus started. He swallowed hard. “Because I killed one…”
“You killed one of the Praetorians?” Tigan asked with wide eyes. P
agus didn’t answer, averting his gaze to the table.
“Vaegris,” Iltar whispered the name, and his apprentice started again. “Vaegris had yellow eyes with orange flecks—that’s an unnatural color.” Pagus remained silent. “Vaegris went missing the day before the ball. The attendants said they never saw him leave, and the Praetorians hadn’t seen him in the Royal Archive, either.” Iltar chuckled, amused by his deductions.
“Why are you laughing, Master Iltar?” Agen asked.
“Because Pagus killed Vaegris,” Iltar said. “He saw the old librarian change from human to qui’sha. I imagine that was quite the surprise.” Pagus slowly turned to Iltar, but didn’t speak.
“Don’t worry, Pagus,” Iltar grinned. “Your crime will go unpunished. Let me guess, he caught you pilfering one of the tomes? You must have been holding a spell in order to strike fast enough to prevent an outcry. I assume you had several of your illusionary books persisting as well, and most likely a veil of invisibility.” Iltar felt a sense of pride for his apprentice as he voiced his speculation. “That’s quite the feat,” he grinned. Pagus looked unsure of what to say.
“You know, I encountered one as well,” Iltar said. “In Vabenack. It was one of the princes.”
“What?!” Bilda blurted, but abruptly covered his mouth, his eyes going wide. The rest of the acolytes looked surprised, except Pagus.
“You knew about that, too?” Iltar asked. “The princes, I mean.”
Pagus nodded. “I read about it in one of the books. All the Mindolarnian Royals are those monsters. Half their empire is probably like them, but maybe not as pureblooded.” Pagus summarized some of what he found during his furtive studies. He had read from a tome entitled The Fall of the Cheserithean Empire that chronicled the ancient Dragon Wars. Iltar remembered that was one of the illusions he had encountered in the Royal Archive.
The rebellious apprentice had delved into greater detail about the qui’shas and their heritage. During Pagus’s discourse, Hegdil returned to the dining hall, looking intrigued. “Are you talking about the dragonmen?” Hegdil asked. His eyes flashed with wonder.
