by T P Sheehan
Sarah could not help herself—“Have you something to say? About your father?” She squatted behind Lucas. A part of her wanted to stroke her son’s hair, a part wanted to place the curse on the sorcerer who killed her husband.
“Father…” Lucas mumbled.
“Your father is dead, Lucas.”
“Delvion watched his son die. No man should watch his son die.”
“Sympathy for Delvion comes to you before regret for your father?”
“Father…” Lucas mumbled again.
“And now Delvion wants you to help him kill Bonstaph? Then what?”
“It’s just the beginning…”
“Magnus? Catanya? Your mother?”
“I am reborn to a new mother.”
Sarah’s heart heaved. “What… what do you mean?” Her words dribbled from her tear-soaked lips. “I am your mother, Lucas.”
Sarah gripped the sides of Lucas’s head. She immediately spoke the first part of Marsala’s curse. They were a poisonous collection of dark words from an ancient age—from the darker side of the Paragon era, long ignored in the recollections of nostalgia and unwritten in legends and scripts. These words were the stuff only mystics like Marsala knew and dared not whisper, except for the needs of a desperate cousin. The words were short and sharp and designed to take hold of Lucas’s mind like the grips of a vice. Lucas’s eyes widened and his pupils pulsed furiously. He tried in vain to fight back.
Confident the curse would keep Lucas well restrained, Sarah whispered words to lift the Tenebris spell. She knew she could not perform the other components of the curse while the Tenebris spell drew so much of her energy. Her body’s true form took shape and her shadow fell into view across Lucas’s body. Sarah felt her strength return. Lucas stared up at her.
“Mother?” His voice seemed a muddle of recognition, confusion and horror.
Sarah spoke the next part of the curse. She gripped Lucas’s head harder, closed her eyes and entered her son’s mind as tentatively as handling a newborn baby. Such a thing was heresy for a gypsy to do to a loved one, but the mind Sarah saw was hardly her son’s—it was utter bedlam. The wyvern venom had poisoned his mind, monopolised his thoughts and used every piece of self-doubt and self-judgment Lucas possessed as a vehicle to convey a dark perspective of the world.
The first thing Sarah desperately wanted to know was how this all happened. She searched through Lucas’s memories, right back to when she last saw him. Together with Magnus, he was fleeing toward the Crescent Woods, then through the woods and across the plains toward the Nuyan River. On these plains the wyvern attacked. It poisoned Lucas. A healer was quick to draw out the creature’s venom but traces of it remained. The wyvern had entered Lucas’s mind—briefly and inconspicuously—nourishing seeds of self-doubt that tormented and festered, creating an ideal host for the poisonous traces of venom to exploit. It was slow at first, but the darkness proliferated at an exponential rate. Sarah saw this proliferation through a journey of cascading thoughts, each darker than the last, reflecting like mirrors on one another until reason and logic were lost. Perplexed by malignant madness, Lucas fled to the Corville Mountains.
At the peaks of the desolate mountains, Lucas came upon a nest of black wyvern whelps. The nest offered relief from the cruel winter winds and so he lay here to rest. The wyvern queen returned to its nest and attacked Lucas. In the attack, the wyvern scried his mind, recognising the poisonous work of another wyvern. She assumed Lucas was serving a purpose and spared his life, supplementing his poisoned body with a fresh infusion of venom.
Time passed and the wyvern queen watched on as Lucas suffered, inching ever closer to death. The queen used her barbed tail to pierce Lucas’s stomach and infuse him with her wyvern blood in an attempt to revive him. Lucas recovered but within hours, his body rejected the blood. Finally, having fed the whelps in her nest, the queen also fed Lucas the whelps’ milk. The milk provided nourishment and strengthened his body so it could resist the lethal side effects of the venom and rich wyvern blood, all the while exploiting their strengths.
Sarah reeled in horror at what she was seeing. This wyvern queen’s milk was the sole reason her son had survived so long where Delvion’s experiments with wyvern blood failed. But how did he come to be in Delvion’s service? She continued to search Lucas’s memories.
Having recovered yet transformed, Lucas was left to wander the Corville Mountains alone. No other wyvern harmed him, for they caught the scent of the queen. Delirious and mad from his second and unrestricted dose of wyvern venom, Lucas journeyed across the Southern Wastelands for days until he emerged through the blinding dust at the Black Cliffs of Ba’rrat only to be greeted by a group of patrolling Quagmen and their tamed wyverns. The Quagmen meant to kill Lucas, but their wyverns formed a protecting barrier around him. The situation was reported to Delvion whose attention was sparked, particularly when he learned Lucas was the son of his new prisoner—Ganister.
Delvion now had the perfect disciple. Lucas had a poisoned mind waiting to be twisted and manipulated and he had forged a unique bond with the wyverns. Furthermore, he had the son of his enemy as a faithful servant.
Delvion had his sorcerers teach Lucas to exploit his dark power and become a sorcerer himself. As Lucas quickly mastered one sorcerer’s skill set after another, he would kill them, not allowing them to get so close as to learn the true formula of his strengths and abilities. Delvion was unperturbed and prepared to sacrifice his sorcerers in order to build his disciple’s powers. After all, Delvion’s vision was to replicate Lucas’s powers for himself and his men now that the final Electus had been chosen, stealing away his last chance to obtain the powers of dragon blood. Until now though, Delvion had failed to learn Lucas’s secret as to how he survived both the wyvern venom and the wyvern blood.
It took some time for Sarah to recover—not from wielding the second stage of the curse, but from learning what her beloved son had been through and what he had become. Still gripping his head, Sarah found herself stroking his fair hair. It was a paradox and she knew it. He was the boy she loved yet all at once despised.
Having seen every portion of Lucas’s thoughts, Sarah knew it would take a team of sorcerers an infinite amount of time to isolate and remove the poison and retrain his darkly shadowed mind. More so, with the wyvern queen’s blood and milk binding him together, what would be left of him if they did? Sarah had no choice—she had to employ the third part of the curse and it would be the most demanding on her.
The third part of the curse was to conditionally control Lucas’s mind. It worked on two levels. Firstly, Lucas would become at odds with his sorcery, forever question its use, and never find peace in its power. Secondly, if Lucas were to ever kill Sarah, he too would die. A child who sends both parents to the grave has earned a place beside them… Sarah believed. Perhaps then, when we stand before the gods in the afterlife, I may trade what merit I have to earn him a place in the stars…
Before placing the final part of the curse, Sarah recalled her wish to Marsala—‘The curse must bind our fates.’ Then she recalled Marsala’s warning—‘Such a curse will bind you to a nightmare from which you can never wake.’
“So be it…”
Sarah looked into her son’s steel-grey eyes one final time. He stared back. Incredulity pulsed through his thoughts. He knows what is to come, Sarah observed.
The words of the curse rolled from Sarah’s tongue. Her tears fell into Lucas’s eyes, clearing the grey shadow and revealing their natural green. For a moment her son was there, looking at her, but his eyes soon greyed over again and his face contorted into its former malice. Examining Lucas’s thoughts once again, Sarah could see the curse working. The mirrors of darkness perpetuating his mind of madness were twisting and turning inward toward layers of reason and logic—reason and logic taught to him over a lifetime by Sarah and Ganister. Lucas would now be forced to watch rather than retreat to his shadows. He would forever be in a state of reflective unres
t, spectator to his dark deeds—against his will.
Sarah spoke the final words of the curse that bound her to Lucas. Speaking them revolted her, for they were words as poisonous as the wyvern venom that ruined him. Lucas’s mind now harboured a dormant sickness that would bloom should Sarah die at his hands, causing his own death.
Sarah leant forward and kissed her son softly on the forehead. “I love you, my son. I’m sorry for your fate. Search for light. Only then will you find rest.” She let Lucas go, stood, and walked away.
“Telburrow Tramblo Canfligetaris…” Sarah restated the Tenebris spell with a slight variation. It was something Marsala had insisted she learn. It would get her out of the Caves of Cuvee. Perhaps, Sarah considered, it will help me find the refugees on the Southern Plains and warn them of the worgriel attack. Instead of focusing on Lucas, she now focused the Tenebris spell on finding the man Delvion wanted to kill—Bonstaph.
A PRISONER’S ADVICE
Magnus held Lucas’s sword, pointing the blade at the Ferustir. He did not trust him at all. For a whole day, the priest had thwarted every move Magnus made to overpower him.
“Again,” Austagia commanded.
And again and again and again, Magnus sighed. It was ridiculous. One hundred fights in Ba’rrat’s arena and I never lost a single one. I even bested Joffren… He realised then that he did not best Joffren. It was Catanya who fought the rogue priest while he snuck up on him with the Juniper stone—at Eamon’s suggestion—and overtook Joffren’s body and mind, then was able to recover where Joffren was not.
For a whole day he had been on the training field sparring against Simeon. Both of them were dressed in Ferustir armour, though Simeon need not have bothered. Every bout ended the same way—Magnus injured or yielding. The simple truth was he could not match Simeon for training and skill. Far more frustrating for Magnus was the feeling that any respect he had earned by making amends with Brue was surely waning. At some stage, every Irucantî in the Romghold had watched him spar and fail. Catanya had offered Magnus advice on technique, as had Austagia and even Eamon. They all saw flaws in Simeon’s methods but Magnus could not see it.
It is hopeless… Magnus conceded.
To her credit, Catanya had given Magnus a few days grace. Magnus knew she wanted to leave right away to find Hannah and he intended to go with her. Austagia convinced Catanya that Magnus needed to use this valuable time to train—at least for a few days. Magnus felt terrible about it. He should have sided with Catanya and left right away just as he should have bested the priest in sparring as he had done to every Quag warrior who had ever threatened his life. Except for Briet… Thinking of Briet was his undoing. The only way I can best Simeon is by using my Electus powers, as I had to with Briet. However, Magnus knew using his fiery powers was hardly sparring—I could kill him.
“Again, Magnus,” Austagia insisted.
Frowning at Austagia, Magnus sheathed his sword and approached Simeon. He had been sparring with the priest for eight hours straight and decided it was time to ask him directly for some help. “Give me some pointers, please.”
“What would you like to know?” Simeon answered. His face was expressionless.
“You know what I’m going to do before I do it. The more we spar, the more flaws you find in my technique. I’m getting more predictable and less inclined to best you each time.” Magnus spread his arms wide, admitting defeat. “If you have any pointers for me as to how I can best a priest, please tell me.”
Simeon looked at Austagia who nodded to him then he looked back to Magnus and sheathed his lance. He stood rigid with feet wide and hands clasped behind his back. Magnus wanted to slap him for his conceited posture. When he spoke though, Magnus was surprised at his directness.
“It seems you should be fighting with two swords rather than one. Your strength outmatches the light sword you wield. Secondly, you look for weakness in my technique. This is something an opponent can feign and use to trap you, should you try to exploit it. It is better to look for patterns in an opponent’s technique and predict from this. It is harder for an opponent to fake strengths than weaknesses. Finally, if I may say so, do not concern yourself with them.” Simeon pointed to the common where three priests had taken time out to watch his sparring. “And do not concern yourself with this.” Simeon prodded Magnus’s forehead. “Clear your mind and fight to win.”
Magnus realised he was standing with his jaw open and snapped it shut. “Thank you.” It was all he could think to say.
“Perhaps we could take time to rest?”
Magnus was sure the priest was saying it because he was bored as much as he was being polite. “Good idea. And thanks again.” He nodded to Simeon and walked toward Catanya, ignoring the fact that Austagia was in clear earshot. “Help me, will you? The sooner I get this, the sooner we can leave.”
Catanya crossed her arms. “For six months I endured my training here in the Romghold. Never was a day shorter than yours was today. In fact, on my first day of training I gave up… declared that I was going home!”
“How did that go down?” Magnus was curious.
“Ask Austagia.”
Magnus peered reluctantly at Catanya’s uncle.
“Have a meal and we’ll resume training tomorrow,” Austagia said.
Magnus looked back at Catanya who smirked. “Aye. It was something like that.”
Magnus and his companions joined Eamon, Jael and Trax in the common kitchen for a meal. Three priests were working to feed the now thirty-strong congregation. Most were still dressed in full Ferustir armour. Magnus looked around. He was sure if he faced off against any one of these priests—without using Electus strengths—he would fare no better than he had against Simeon.
“Don’t look so despondent, Magnus.” Eamon slurped at his bowl of soup. “You bested three of these warriors in Ba’rrat, if you remember.”
“I brought a roof down on top of them. That was hardly besting them.”
“You saw an opportunity and took advantage of it. No different.”
Magnus felt Jael and Austagia’s stares and wanted to end the humiliating conversation. “I’m fine, Eamon.”
“You’re among friends now, no need to worry.”
“That’s what you said when we dined at the Hugmdael Inn. Do you remember that one?”
Eamon grumbled then retorted. “It’s far less likely a handful of Quagmen will march into this kitchen and besides, the food here is immeasurably better.” Magnus could not help but laugh and Eamon laughed with him, drawing attention to their group.
“I do not think this is a laughing matter.” It was Trax. He was seated directly opposite Magnus and stared straight into his eyes. The drone of conversation in the common kitchen dulled to silence. Trax stood and projected his voice.
“Less than a week ago, Magnus, Catanya and I hatched a plan to bring down the two most dangerous priests of our order. It worked. Liné’s egg was returned to her and the surviving High Priest is restrained in a prison cell. I want you all to take a look at the three of us. I am an old man. Catanya is our youngest Irucantî and Magnus has no formal training in our ways. And yet we succeeded. How? We fought together and we fought with heart. This same heart led Magnus to bridge the gap between he and Brue. You all saw this for yourselves. Magnus has never so much as ridden a dragon—am I right, Magnus?”
Magnus played with his fork. “Aye. I have not ridden a dragon.”
“And yet he trains amongst us, searching for ways to replicate our methods of combat without resorting to using his Electus strengths—something he hid for one hundred battles in Ba’rrat’s arena.” Trax walked around the table and stood in the middle of the room. “Ba’rrat was Magnus’s cleansing and not one of us are envious of it. I would wager that if his life were on the line, or Catanya’s, or mine, Eamon’s, or any of yours, we would have seen a very different fight on our training field today. Magus fights for others. He fights with heart. That is why Thioci chose him as our Electus.”
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Magnus glanced at Catanya who took his hand and clasped it tightly. Trax looked directly at Magnus. “Semsdër-fatel, do not judge yourself by how we spar. Should battle come, I would place my life in your hands.”
“What Trax says is true.” It was Simeon. He stood at a table at the far end of the room. “Magnus fought today like he was trying to learn our technique. Each of you saw him sparring. I am sure every one of you saw the obvious.”
“He was holding back,” a priest said, seated at Simeon’s table.
“Who else saw this?”
Magnus looked around. Every priest raised a hand.
“I too would put my life in your hands,” Simeon said with a bow and seated himself again. Many of the priests nodded in agreement and they all returned to their conversations.
Jael leaned toward Magnus and spoke softly. “I saw you fight in Ba’rrat’s Arena. Austagia and I entered the arena to protect the Electus, yet you held your own and fought with us as a warrior.” She glanced at Catanya then turned to talk with Austagia.
Magnus buried a tongue in his cheek. He knew he was supposed to appreciate Trax, Simeon and Jael for defending him, but he still felt he was being weighed and measured by their standard. He was beginning to realise why Catanya resented these people so much.
Magnus leant toward Catanya and whispered in her ear. “We leave here tonight.” He stood, letting her hand go and marched out of the kitchen, knowing Catanya’s eyes were following him. He walked eastward from the common along the cobblestone path, trying to ignore his plaguing thoughts about the day wasted in the Romghold. He felt a fool for making Catanya wait. They had done what they came to do and were wasting days when they could be fighting the war back in the Uydferlands.
Magnus kicked a pebble at his feet. It skittered across the cobblestones, off the path and clanged across the iron bars of the High Priest’s prison cell. Out of the cell’s darkness, a hand reached through the prison bars. Long fingers grasped the pebble and held it a moment before drawing the arm back into the cell. Wondering at first why the cell was unguarded, Magnus gathered there were likely a myriad of wards keeping the High Priest behind the hardened steel bars. He approached, trusting the wards would protect him. At the cell door, Magnus peered in. A single lamp from the path shone dim light through the bars, illuminating one half of the High Priest’s face.
