by Mark Eller
* * * *
In his family’s main home, located in Grace, Calto sat in his chair beside his bed. During the first half of the night, he had worked furiously to calm Queen Elise and squelch rumors that he, the High Priest of Anothosia, had become corrupt. Somehow, a rumor had spread that he caused the queen’s male children to die shortly after birth, though how he could be at fault when he had never been in attendance was not explained.
The other half of the evening had been just as bad. Somewhere in Grace a hellhole had opened and be damned if he could find it. After sending knights and guards to all the likely locations, he had run out of places to look. Worse, Larson had not yet checked in through their shared link created by Anothosia’s magic. Because of petulance, most likely. Larson had not been happy when Calto forced Sulya on him as a condition of Calto’s promise to be kinder to Simta. Still, it was slightly possible his brother had run into more trouble than expected.
Weary, eyes drooping, and his mind drifting, Calto called for Goron, his servant. As bad as this day had already been, the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep in his armor.
“Master,” Goron said upon entering the room.”
“Remove my armor,” Calto ordered. “Then fetch me a warm brandy and let me know if Larson sends word through his link with another knight. I’ll have his head for keeping me up with worry.”
Hours later three empty glasses sat by his right hand. Calto’s mind wrapped itself in cottony folds of near sleep while the morning sun was a gradual lightening on the horizon. His eyes slipped closed. When he opened them again his bedroom was filled with soft light. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes with one hand.
Had Goron left him to sleep when he knew Calto waited for Larson? Growling low, Calto stood up. The fool should have wakened him.
Calto
Calto froze. His mind came fully alert as he cast nervous glances around the room. The light, he saw, did not come from his window. Instead it came from the other side of his bedroom.
Grabbing his staff, Calto walked quiet and cautious across the room, wondering who dared to enter his private chambers unannounced. Drawing close to his dressing table, he halted in surprise. The light shone from something on the table. Frowning, he leaned closer for a better look and cursed.
Larson’s sword!
A slow shock overtook him. There before him, glowing in a soft, pure white, thrumming in time with his staff, lay the sword given to his brother by the goddess herself.
How in the two hells had it gotten there? He moved a step closer to the table, scanning the room around him before reaching out to pick up the sword. When his hand grasped the warm hilt the light died, and the voice came to him again.
Calto
Raising his eyes to the mirror, he started. A reflection that was him and yet not him stared back from a nimbus of white. Calto broke out into a cold sweet despite the cool, morning air.
“Larson?” He reached out to his only sibling with a shaking hand. “Brother?”
Larson reached back, his clear blue eyes sad, regretful. He said only one word before fading from the mirror’s golden circle, leaving Calto behind.
Sulya
For long moments, Calto stood in front of the mirror, staring at his lonely, ragged reflection. An anguished keening sounded, and Calto realized it was his own voice raised in despair. Tears slid from his eyes. Emptiness entered his heart.
Larson was dead.
