Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  “That’s no business of yours.”

  He laughed. “Ready to bed an imp are you, Alifrei?” he turned back to Arick. “You are a disgrace.” With his rough hand, he grabbed Arick by the neck. “I could snap your spine with no effort and be hailed a hero.” He paused, smiling. “That’d be too easy.” From his waist, he grabbed a dagger and, without as much as a second thought, buried it in Arick’s stomach.

  Motionless, he fell beside Narra, blood gushing out of the open wound. She screamed and tried to hold the blood in.

  “Good luck, if you’re kind then you’ll end it,” the man said and threw the dagger in front of her. “Next time it will be you. You stinking imps are not welcome in my city.”

  Consumed by rage, her mind cleared. The man’s back was to her now, but who truly cared for honor? She grabbed the dagger and rushed towards him jumping just at the right time and piercing his neck.

  With a loud thump, his fat body fell to the ground. Through the gushing blood, he tried to speak, but Narra only spat at him.

  The two goons prepared for battle, but she dodged their attacks and, with ease, stabbed them. At least her school days in Istra were not for nothing.

  She knelt beside Arick and put her hand back to his wound. Holding back the storm of tears, she whispered words in the tongue of Sesteria commanding her magic to heal him. Nothing happened. Over and over again, she shouted those words, imagining the runes as vividly as she could, but it would not answer.

  No. She would not resign to her fate and let him die. If she were to live in that damn city at least, she’d do it with someone kind, someone who could be her friend.

  With the dagger, still covered in blood, she carved the runes into her forearm and repeated the words one last time.

  Strength left her body as Arick’s wound began to seal in a flash of green light. In his eyes sparked life yet again; he was not lost.

  “Don’t you dare die,” she whispered tears falling from her eyes. “Please. I beg you.”

  Arick smiled at her and touched her cheek, leaving a smudge of blood. “I promise I won’t die.”

  Her weeping was interrupted by a sound of clinking armor. Before them came a guard, the proud lion of Istra etched into his breastplate.

  “Please, help,” she said through her tears. The guard ignored her. “He’s injured and needs help,” she begged him.

  The guard glanced at them but said nothing.

  “What are you doing?” screamed Narra. “Help me get him to a hospital.”

  The guard inspected the dagger, the dead bodies, and their identities. He glanced at them, took the blade, put it into one of the other man’s hands. Then, from the waist of one of the man’s goons, he pulled another knife, drove it into one of the dead bodies, and left it there.

  With the scene prepared, he left whistling a familiar tune of a popular Isterian song. Narra shouted, but it was for nothing; the guard would not come back.

  “Go,” said Arick climbing up to his feet. “I’ll find you, I promise. Now you must go home. I will go too.” She wanted to argue, but Arick gave her no option. “Trust me, Narra. We will see each other again, soon but,” he took a deep breath, “now go home.”

  Assured that she will Arick again, she alone set out back home. Her body was weak, and her clothes were covered in blood.

  On her way, she passed the Crawling Guardsman; the sound of merry patrons was heard all throughout the now empty square. If only she could join them, be one of them. She shook her head and smiled, who knew, maybe one day she would. If people like Irpen and Arick exist, maybe Berians were not that bad. Her own countryman abandoned her, refused to help, and even forgone his duties.

  Reaching the door of her home, she saw Ceril standing behind the counter, playing with a pencil. Right as she entered, he looked to her, ready to scream, but as his eyes noticed her bloodsoaked clothes, he spoke softly, demanding to know what happened. Narra explained quickly, omitting many details and lying about others.

  “Don’t go just yet,” said Ceril as she was heading upstairs, ready to wash herself and for a night of rest.

  He walked over to her and eyed her. “Tell me, how did getting customers went? The two drunk bastards in the Crawling Guardsman were surely excited to hear about what we have on offer.”

  Tired to think about how he found out she spent her day there, she shrugged and did not even try to think of a lie. There was no point in arguing with him. “I didn’t do it,” she admitted. Her honesty took Ceril by surprise. “I’m going to take a bath, wash the blood out of my clothes, and then I’ll go to sleep.” She turned her back to him.

  Just as her foot touched the first stair, she felt a piercing pain in her ankle. She fell down, screaming in pain.

  “No daughter of mine will speak to me like you just did!” he shouted, unbuckling his belt. “I will teach you manners if it is the end of me. For weeks I tolerated your insubordination but not anymore. You will listen to me and do as I say.”

  It wasn’t the first time Ceril was violent; Narra was used to his slaps and punches, but never before he went further than that.

  For long minutes he hit her with the cruelest of smiles. His belt scarring her body.

  Unsatisfied, he grabbed her hair and pulled her up just to then throw her to the floor. Over and over, adding more punches and slaps, finding new ways to inflict pain.

  He tore her shirt off completely, revealing the bandages that covered her chest. It only added fuel to the fire. He grabbed a rusty knife from the counter and cut the bandages. Whether by rage, sloppiness or on purpose, the blade made its way deep into her skin. It took a few more punches for Ceril to notice her bleeding.

  He was done then and went to inspect the vials he put it just that morning, leaving her in the middle of the store, bloodied and barely able to move.

  With pain like she never felt before, she climbed up the stairs and threw herself onto her bed with tears in her eyes. She cursed Ceril’s name and wished he’d die soon.

  A'stri

  The humid smell of the hall was almost revolting, just as the idea of a rebel tribunal. Morael came only in time. While his soldiers dealt with the panicking rebels, he turned to Vikar.

  Some sense of happiness brought him to see his friend again, but he would not hide his anger over Vikar’s sloppiness. For the third time, he got himself into such a desperate situation.

  Once he allowed a building to collapse on him, Morael still recalled sitting by the rubble laughing. The second time was not entertaining anywhere as much for Vikar willingly drank poison, thinking it would not affect it, but it did, and he almost died. For an imperial archon, he was truly thick-headed at times.

  Seeing the panic all around, he made a step forward, and as the bottom of his shoe touched the hard floor, the ground shook and cracked. With each step, it became stronger and the magic more potent until all were quiet. He so much disliked loud sounds.

  His golden eyes looked to the leader, standing right in front of Vikar. With a thought so simple a child could muster it, he called for his weapon, a spear named Vanquisher, made of magic itself. It appeared beside him, a terrible but beautiful; its blade was sharper than any other, and it moved with the speed of light. With a wave of his hand, he sent it flying towards the rebel leader. The old man looked harmless, but he wanted to scare him; hurting him was not his intention.

  But then a blinding green light filled the hall, forcing all to look away, all but Morael. He watched the light with an inquisitive eye. It brought no smile to his cheeks, for it was of another magic, one he has not experienced before.

  Soon it was gone, and with it disappeared the rebel leader. Shaking his head, and with no more earthquake in his steps, he came to Vikar. The two men looked at one other, with a smile forcing its way to the surface of their faces.

  “Mori!” Vikar happily shouted and joked, “For once, I am glad to see you.” They laughed, but Morael scolded him none the less.

  Suddenly, from his left, a fem
ale voice shouted, “Die imperial scum!” A young woman, even younger than his brother, rushed towards Vikar and him with a drawn sword. He stopped the blade with no more than a finger. The blade lit up and turned to ash.

  He smiled. “Wouldn’t that be nice,” he said in a whisper. “Such naivety. How old are you, girl?”

  “I won’t tell you!” She stuttered as she spoke. “I will kill you soon.”

  With the tip of his index finger, he touched her forehead. “Sit back down.” He sighed as she did just as he commanded. Her eyes still latched onto him but without control of her body that was all she could do. Rarely he played with people’s minds, but then he had little sympathy for Berians.

  Then his attention moved to the woman beside the attacker. One with short brown hair and unlike the others a satisfied look. “Not her,” said Vikar. “She’s not one of them. Almost made me weep when she protested the way they handled the trial.” Vikar shrugged. “Still she is Berian.”

  “You!” Morael shouted at her and the woman looked to him. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Efri.”

  Morael came closer, looking deep in her chocolate brown eyes. “Vikar has told me that you stood by him.”

  “I didn’t.” She took a deep breath and let out a defeated sigh. “I was against the way they did things.”

  So strange was the behavior of commoners, yet this one oddly acted no different from Morael’s peers. “Why did you oppose your fellow rebels then?”

  “I was captured and told to participate in this. To your surprise, I never supported them.” She rolled her eyes. “Sure, you won’t believe me. So when will I be arrested?”

  Morael laughed. “You shall not be.” Amused he took a seat beside her. “Tell me, do you know who I am?”

  With a shake of her head, she shrugged. “Should I?”

  “She doesn’t know,” Morael shouted at Vikar. “I told you we would find someone.”

  “That doesn’t count,” Vikar protested, knowing he just lost a long-lasting bet. “How do you not know who he is?”

  Efri looked at Morael one more time. “I never heard of someone that looks like him.”

  “Very well, you win,” he snapped at Mori. “Save it!” Mad he walked away.

  “So, who are you?” Efri asked. “Sorry.”

  With a smile, he replied, “Morael Vi Dera.” Even hearing his name she looked at him confused as if asking why should that tell her anything. He laughed again, considering whether she is joking. “Never heard Vi Dera before?” Only then it clicked in her head but she didn’t say a word. “What is the matter?”

  “You’re the prince?” she questioned. “Why are you here?” Even then, there was not a shiver of fear in her voice. That woman was indeed something special.

  “Vikar is my friend and, well, couldn’t let him stay here and get killed. Besides sitting in the palace, doing nothing is so boring.”

  She smiled. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Enough of chatter, we ought to leave this place. Our men will stay here but Viky and I are departing. Is there anything you can tell us? How you got here, why did they force you to partake in this charade?”

  With a pleased chuckle, she told him. First of her plan to make a living in Natind and possibly even Istra. Then of Tarell, the girl who attacked Mori just minutes ago and how she captured Efri. Finally spoke of her parents, who were caught and jailed. A minor mention deserved her friend Oren, the owner of a strange verdant gem.

  It arose even more questions, but Efri seemed unconcerned he disappeared in a flash of green light.

  At first, Morael debated what to do and say, but in a strange way, he took a liking to Efri. “I will allow you to see your parents,” he said. “If they were truly captured as you say, then there shall be no problem.” In truth, upon hearing her story, he presumed her parents to be dead, used as a ploy by the rebel leader, but he opted not to share his feelings.

  “May I ask you something?” she said in a more sorrowful tone. Morael nodded. “Was it true that Beria would fall if not for what Vikar did?”

  It was the question he the least wanted to hear. Again and again, Vikar told the story of suffering Berians, empty stomachs, but all knew it was a lie. “No.” He could feel Vikar’s gaze pierce him from behind. “What he did, he did with good intentions. While it had the desired effect, giving Istra time to set up supply lines, it was a terrible act. Even today, his mistake was not forgotten. You have my word that he was greatly punished for that.”

  Efri thanked him, seemingly satisfied with his answer, even if just temporarily. He smiled and made a special offer, “Come with us. We shall travel to Istra, and there we can seek out your parents.”

  “Why?”

  “We are not monsters Efri,” softly spoke Morael. “Please do not consider us so. What Vikar did, at a younger age, he did with a fool’s hope for better days. Just like you, he grew up a commoner.”

  She gasped in surprise. “Vikar was a commoner?”

  “Royal titles are not always inheritable. One must prove their value to hold such a rank. Many of the lords and ladies that live in the capital’s palace come from humble beginnings.”

  “Alright,” she said, bopping her, staring at the ground. “I accept.” Confused, she still forced a smile.

  Suddenly, before Morael could answer, a soldier shouted, “Your Imperial Majesty.” He ran in gasping for air.

  “What is it?” snarkily asked Vikar on the opposite side of the hall, tending to an injured young girl.

  “During our sweep, we found something. A door with sesterian runes, one we are unable to open.”

  Morael looked to Vikar, exchanging a look of worry and even a slight fear. Runes a soldier of the inquisition cannot open? Both knew something was amiss. “Show us,” Morael commanded.

  With Vikar by his side and Efri in toe, they were led through the convoluted corridors and tunnels until they arrived in front of a massive metal door, far away from the main hall.

  Just laying his eyes on it, Morael uttered, “Out. The entire battalion, get them out.”

  As he commanded, the soldier ran away with the utmost haste. The door was metal but old, very old, with runes that even Morael couldn’t understand, for they seemed to make no sense, and from them, he sensed an unknown power.

  “What is it, Mori?” asked Vikar. “Have you seen any of this before?”

  He shooked his head. “It’s the same as the light before.” Gently he touched the metal. “You should go,” he said, knowing well he would not do so. “So should you.” He glanced at Efri.

  “No,” she replied. “If it is the same as the light, then Oren could be there!”

  With a shrug, he called upon his magic and commanded it to push open the door, but even against his power, it was resilient. Vikar and Efri shook as he forced all of his strength against the door, feeling his power.

  When it was clear that the door wouldn’t even budge, he uttered a word of ancient Sesterian. Beside him, crimson gold energy began to burn, and then the door started to melt; only then, his power could force it to open.

  The door flew open, and they looked inside. There in the darkness, they saw the most horrid sight. A young girl of green hair suspended in the air with chains all around her various kinds of metal tools. The way her limbs were spread apart must have caused immense pain. Her naked body was decorated with many scars of diverse depths. The dirty bandages did little to cover wounds much more severe.

  Then her eyes opened, and she looked at the three of them. They were smaragdine like the most beautiful countryside but filled with tears and unimaginable fear.

  Morael stepped forward and walked into the room, closer to her. With interest and a plead of help, she watched him. She would say something or scream, he was sure of it, if only her mouth was not gagged with a dirty rag.

  The room was beyond even the worst of his nightmares. The tools were bloodied and scattered all around just as jars and vials of liquids bearing all co
lors of the world. In some was thick blood and in some what looked like pieces of meat; he rather did not think of it further for even his stomach turned upside down as he imagined the horrors that must have happened there.

  He snapped his fingers, and the chains that held her lit up with golden light then turned to ash. Carefully he caught her as she fell down. The moment she dropped into his arms, she wrapped her weak hand around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

  Morael felt sick seeing the scars up close. “Can you speak?” he asked, holding back his disgust. With a smile, he gazed into her eyes and ran his hand through her forest green hair.

  “Yes,” she replied in the softest voice and the most silent of whispers. “Thank you.” With those words, she fell asleep on Morael’s shoulder.

  They were about to depart when a feeling of dread took him. “We must go,” said Vikar.

  Morael nodded. “Quickly.” They both sensed it, dark ancient magic mustering its strength coming closer. “You think they are after her?”

  “I do. Otherwise, they’d attack us before.”

  With utmost promptness, they set out to leave. Morael led them, trying to remember the closest way out. Ordinarily, they could translocate away, but with the girl’s wounds and Efri present, they would be risking their lives. Even under the sky, which made it often easier, it would be too great of a risk. He hoped it would not come to that. Often Morael wished for translocation to be a simpler spell, but alas, it happened to be one of the most difficult.

  As they ran through one of the last corridors leading to the cave and then outside, a voice called out to them. “Return the girl!” its command echoed. At the far end appeared a figure cloaked in a brown. “Are you ready to gaze into death’s eyes, son of Alric?”

  They stopped. “I do not fear death, nor are you the one who could take my life. Begone and pray that our paths never again intersect.” A gust a wind Morael sent forth pushed down the person’s hood. It was a woman with chiseled features and a scarred face. No. Those were not scars, he noticed looking with more care, it was sesterian, spells even he has not learned of before. All spoke of death and blood, magic that no one practiced.