by Kala Merseal
"She hasn't woken," Bieva said before Cirith could question.
"I know." Cirith moved to sit on an armchair next to Bieva.
"Then what is it?"
"When she wakes, she is not to leave until I come here."
Bieva frowned. "What are you doing?"
"We will attempt to heal her commander tonight and it's best that nothing interferes."
“And if she wakes before you arrive?”
Cirith’s golden gaze roamed over Ara’s sleeping figure, his expression unreadable. He had not told anyone but the elders the truth of the ritual and he was not sure if the princess would storm the keep if she knew.
“Tell her that I wanted her to have extra rest after today’s events.”
“Sure.” Bieva nodded, though her expression was still suspicious.
Cirith stood.
The moon was not yet to its peak, which meant that the ritual was still hours away. He decided that they would return to the keep and its lower levels and wait out the hours there.
When he entered the lounge where he left Solas, Cirith saw the elder and the mortals in a heated discussion. Cirith had hoped that after their discussions, that short time alone with them would give Solas time to apologize or reconcile.
“What is it now?” Cirith snapped as everyone stilled upon his arrival.
The mortals stood away from Solas, the divide in the argument clear.
“I apologize, Guardian,” Max said, stepping forward when Arlow opened his mouth to retort. “My young warrior decided to open his immature mouth.”
Cirith glanced to Arlow, who crossed his arms and stewed in silence. No wonder they butted heads; Arlow reminded him of Solas in so many ways, despite his more carefree attitude.
Then he turned to Solas and said, “Must I really blatantly ask an elder to apologize to the guests?”
“No,” Solas grounded out. “A discussion of the training I would be giving them diverged into a discussion of their commander.”
“And he blatantly insulted Rae,” Arlow snapped. “When he is lying not too far away on his death-bed, you would claim that his ability or lack thereof was his downfall.” “No—”
“Rae fought against that horned Kaevari bastard and lived,” Arlow continued, his volume escalating. “He may be on his deathbed now, but he left that fight alive. And if what you do works, then he will wake up.”
Max’s hand clenched Arlow’s shoulder and Arlow went silent, his neck straining as he clenched his jaw. Cirith glared at Solas. His silent message was clear—don’t respond.
“Fine.” Without another word, Solas turned on his heel and left.
Silence settled over the room. The others watched Cirith as he sighed and combed his fingers through his hair.
“I will come by tomorrow morning to tell you the results,” Cirith said. “Until then, stay here. I advised Bieva to tell Ara if she wakes up throughout the night to rest.”
They all nodded.
Without another word, Cirith returned the gesture then left. Anxiety gripped him as he returned to the keep and its lower levels. If this worked, their commander would not ever be the same, and he was not sure how accepting the mortals would be of that. But Cirith would make sure that Raethin transitioned well.
When he approached the sacred chambers below the keep, a whisper caressed him. Goosebumps rose across the nape of his neck. A ghost of a finger ran down his face.
Finally, Rakeva spoke.
“There is a Spirit commanded by One Higher than me. He will burn through the curse and rebirth this mortal.”
Cirith faltered. Her words filled his movement with more purpose. The veil still covered the sanctuary’s entrance when he approached. He pulled the cloth back, revealing the rarely visited space. Roots and vines covered the chamber. Its space was mostly empty, except for what waited at the end of the rectangular space.
An altar stood before a sculpture carved into the druidic tree’s thick root which spanned the length of the opposing wall. A feminine figure with her hand reaching out as if to caress the onlooker. Wooden eyes of calming, nurturing love met Cirith’s as he stepped further into the room.
Sweet incense already burned from a stone bowl situated on the altar. Misandreas and Vilithian sat in the middle of the chamber, at the opposing points of the carved circle.
Cirith halted at the edge of that circle, his eyes roaming on the last object in the room. A white cloth draped petrified stone, hiding what sat underneath for decades now. Dust settled over the cover. It was not often that Cirith ventured into this chamber. The druid elders didn’t need him for their usual rituals.
The wooden sculpture protruding from the root was Rakeva’s idol, the sacred item in which she incarnated when she visited the earthly realm. It was years since her last visit. Before her altar, an elven beauty etched in stone sat on her knees underneath a dusty cover, her hands reaching out to touch her beloved one last night. Tears carved into her cheek.
He turned his gaze from the altar and its inhabitants. The two elders present had not acknowledged his entrance, deep in meditation.
Cirith sat at the third point of the circle, crossing his legs like the others, and closed his eyes.
With a deep breath, he fell headlong into the dark cosmic waters waiting for his visit. Only when Solas arrived near midnight would he pull out of that abyss. Then they would finally begin and by dawn, they would discover the truth behind Rakeva's scheme.
Chapter Fourteen
For the last several nights, Ara slept dreamlessly and deeply, and she wondered if it had to do with the ward’s ability, keeping the demons out from here. But when she fainted from the breaking of the seal, she found herself tumbling through visions that felt too real to be mere dreams.
Bright, blinding beings of song surrounding a mound of clay, their deft fingers curling it into a world. Humans and elves appearing from earth and stardust. Wars breaking out among the races. A presence in the Void stirring, drawn to the chaos, and the beings who shifted around the created realm of clay to obscure the presence's view. A cry from that dark abyss, prophesying its emergence. A flash of familiar bright, kind silver eyes twisting into crimson sent pain through Ara as she slept. When she shuddered awake, sun filtered through the glass windows of her guest quarters.
Blinking through sleep, she found Bieva standing over her with arms crossed.
“Nightmare?” Bieva asked.
Ara wetted her dry lips and shifted in her bed. The sheets clung to her sweaty skin.
Bieva sighed and retrieved clean clothes for her. She returned to Ara’s bedside. Ara set her feet on the floor and rubbed her eyes.
“Your first session with Cirith and Vilithian did not go well, I’m told,” Bieva said as she set down the clothes beside Ara. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
Ara still felt like a demon mauled her. Her limbs ached and head pounded. Rushing blood and thumping heartbeats filled her ears.
She clutched her head, covering her eyes, as Bieva sighed and began to pace again.
Then the druidess said, “Raethin is in the infirmary downstairs.”
Ara’s head whipped up, ignoring the sharp painful needles running up her neck and skull.
“How? What happened?”
“Our elders took the opportunity of your time recovering to heal your commander.” Bieva shrugged. Her arms crossed. “They say he is stable but asleep. Would you like to visit him?”
Ara frowned at the druidess. Her hand grazed the fresh clothing. “I will after I get.”
“Of course, Princess.” Bieva gave her a thin-lipped smile and left the room.
When the door shut behind the druidess, Ara sagged. Pain continued up her neck and across her skull. But she was determined to see her commander healed and resting. Ara hated to admit that grotesque imagery of her last visit to him haunted her. Having seen his entire half of his body engulfed in a gigantic bruise and a black-crusted, oozing hole the size of a head. She hoped he was healed—and pr
ayed he was saved for good.
While the others would gladly admit that they could not survive without Raethin’s guidance and presence, Ara’s admittance of her dependency froze on her tongue. She was not sure why but the thought of her life depending on him sent red creeping up her neck and cheeks.
A fresh bowl of water and a washcloth waited on the bedside table. After wiping down the sweat from the night, she moved to dress. Ignoring the screaming aches of her limbs, she stifled her groans as she slid off her night dress and replaced it with the form-fitting gown. The fabric, like the other druidic dresses she wore, felt smooth and comforting on her skin.
Once clothed, Ara slipped on her flats and rushed out the door. Bieva stood in the guests’ quarters gathering space, muttering to Nyphelia.
They glanced up as Ara approached. Nyphelia jumped up to hug the princess, her frail arms like an iron cage around Ara as she squeezed.
“I’m so glad that you’re feeling better,” Nyphelia said as she pulled away. “When they brought you in yesterday, we were all terrified that something…worse happened to you.”
“Well, now that you are well,” Bieva said, clapping her hands together. “There are many things to do.”
“Like what?” Nyphelia retorted as she pulled back and studied Ara. “She still looks exhausted.”
“Another day spent resting is a day less of training.” Bieva’s hands settled on her hips. “Would you like to be caught unaware when the demons break through our wards?”
Nyphelia and Ara shared a look.
“No, I thought not.” Bieva turned on her heel and began toward the stairs. “Come now and we’ll see your precious commander. Then Cirith will advise for the rest of the day.”
When they entered the quarters’ main floor, they found Max and Arlow waiting for them by the infirmary entrance. Bieva shoved passed the two elves, entering the room without another word to the mortals. Arlow pulled Nyphelia to his side and kissed her.
Max gave Ara a fatherly hug. When he withdrew, he smiled. “I’m glad to you see that you are well now.”
“My body aches and my head pounds,” Ara said with a grimace. “But I’m awake and need to see him.”
Max’s expression softened as he nodded. “They just brought him here, a few minutes before dawn. Misandreas and her attendants are making him comfortable.”
“What are you waiting here for then?”
Max eyed the infirmary. “Cirith instructed that we wait.”
Ara followed his gaze, catching the human frame hovering in front of the infirmary cot, obscuring their sight of the commander. She saw Vilithian standing beside the Guardian but noted that Solas was missing. Misandreas walked around, her hands waving as she spoke vividly to the others and her attendants.
The lily-eyed elder froze when she caught sight of the princess.
Misandreas shouted for her to come in. “Hurry in, child.”
Ara crept into the room, followed by the others. Cirith turned and watched as she and her companions approached. His gold eyes looked sharp and hardened today, his expression completely unreadable.
Then the elders moved out of the way, beckoning the princess to approach her commander’s bedside. As she drew to him, she sucked in a breath.
The druids had tucked in Raethin well, covering him with thick blankets. Most of his chest and shoulders were still bare. Where once, just two days ago, did most of his skin bear black and purple bruising and crusted tar, it was now reduced to fading greenish yellow. His wounds were washed and bandaged, the gauze no longer stained deep yellow, brown, and black. The dark circles under Raethin’s eyes were clearing too, though his skin still looked slightly sunken and pallid.
Ara lost a shaky breath. Relief sagged in her bones. Though her body still ached, the tension released pulled out some of the aching pains.
“He seems to be sleeping well,” Ara said and swallowed. “How long will he sleep now?”
“It was a painful process for him, the healing.” Misandreas tucked the pillow around his head then stepped back to study her patient. “But he may wake soon. For now, the worst is over for him.”
“Good.”
“You may check on him throughout the day, Ara,” Cirith said. “But for now, after you have breakfast, you will go with Vilithian and begin training.”
“I…” Ara began to protest then halted, questioning the effort. Was it worth arguing, when Bieva made the point earlier? How much time did they have left?
Cirith faced her, his gaze cooling. “I know you are still recovering. The first session is always the worst and now that we have relieved you of that seal, you may find it easier to train. He will take it slow with you today, but we still must make progress.”
“I see.”
“You may come back in the evening when everyone begins to retire,” Cirith stated, his gaze roaming over the other mortals. “You must meet Solas at the grounds. I have talked with him to be more pleasant.”
Arlow and Max nodded, though tense at the thought
As everyone hurried to begin their day, Ara passed Nyphelia and halted, realizing that Cirith didn’t instruct her friend to do anything. When she turned to her, Nyphelia smiled and gripped her princess’s hand.
“I will watch over Raethin,” the elven woman said. “I am useless in all other aspects than to attend to your interests, my lady.”
Ara returned her smile.
“We will put you to work around here, Nyphelia,”
Misandreas said as she approached. “If you would like, I can teach you a little alchemy.”
Nyphelia’s gaze brightened and she turned her smile to the elder. With her attention distracted, Ara bid them goodbye and left the infirmary. Her heart still pounded at the thought of Raethin recovering, her prayers answered.
For now, while she waited for him to wake, she would put her full attention to training so that when he woke,
Raethin would be surprised at her progression.
Ara grinned at the thought.
♦♦♦
After that first day of training with Vilithian, Ara found that without the seal magick came with ease. She found at first that the current of her energy was much like the beginnings of a river; a trickling that soon leaked into a creek that would merge with the larger current of water.
Her magick’s growth began slowly. For the first two days after her recovery, she found for hours she would sit cross-legged with Vilithian in the training quarters, focusing her energy to collect and bubble over within her. He called it cultivation and said that mages spent most of their adept time in this state of training.
Of course, Ara could not focus. Her mind jumped from frantic thought to another, never settling and resting in the calming waters of her subconsciousness. Vilithian sat patiently in front of her and as the day wore to the evening on that first day, she found herself dip into that tranquil dark that he described. Before they finished, she had found the trickling stream. The second day they began with the same process and Ara found her transition quicker and by evening, she was pulling on that stream.
By the third day, Vilithian instructed her to begin manipulating the magical current. The actions fatigued her quickly, to call upon the magick. The process was tedious, a constant churning and yanking on the current. When she began that step of training, she found that it would not budge but with time the repetition stretched the current steadily increasing its width and its flow.
Each night she returned to the infirmary and found Max and Arlow sitting beside Raethin. That first night, she nearly walked out upon seeing them, but Max caught sight of her before she could turn. He beckoned her in, a familiar expression gleaming in his eyes. She sat with them, watching over Raethin until sleep beckoned her to bed.
Her commander had looked better that night, his bruising fading to a soft brown with hints of green. The dark areas under his eyes lessened as well as the sunkenness of his features. The next few nights went much the same. After returning from training, she
would gather a plate or bowl of dinner and visit with the soldiers and their slumbering commander then retire to her room.
When it neared a week since the elders brought Raethin to the infirmary, Ara began to worry about him. While he physically healed, he had yet to wake. Cirith had disappeared since the first day of Raethin’s arrival to the infirmary and when she questioned Vilithian or Misandreas, both became oddly silent. Misandreas would smile, pat Ara’s cheek, and reassure her that he would with time.
On her sixth day of training, Vilithian implemented physical movements with the metaphysical actions. He taught her something akin to a dance; the motion of her limbs combined with the urging of her magical currents within her core resulted in a different kind of flow of energy. She found the magick moved in a way that it had not before. Understanding dawned on her toward the end of the session, that Vilithian had walked her from a way of harnessing her magick to shaping her energy into a weapon.
“You’ve trained well, Ara,” Vilithian said as they finished up that evening. “Rest well tomorrow. The Guardian and my elders have other duties to attend and have decided that our guests will rest.”
She perked up at his words as the elder ushered her out of the training quarters. Ara had spent two weeks in total within the druids’ fortress and had yet to have a day to relax and to explore the libraries she passed each day. And she would have more time to visit Raethin. A blush stirred up her neck as she quelled the thought.
Ara met with Nyphelia when she entered the guest quarters. They ate together and Ara listened to her friend gush about Arlow and the tales of training he spouted to her. Ara had a peculiar idea of friendship before the Kaevari siege, defined by the proximity to her parents and the status of the person in question. If her mother wanted it and was warranted by the relation of the crown to that person’s station in the court, she called that person a friend. But she knew it was not true friendship; rather, an acquaintanceship dressed up in its frills.
No, true friendship was the type of familial bonds that extended away from blood. Ara considered Nyphelia a friend—a sister. She could not keep from smiling while listening to her friend speak of her love. Of course, since Arlow and Nyphelia defined their relationship, a terror had plagued Ara that she did well to cover. Fate spoke of tragedy for those who fought against its doom, and Nyphelia and Arlow rebelled loudly.
