Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  The woman laughed and prepared for a fight. A light sparked in her eyes and from her palms a great fire burst out against them.

  Morael turned his back towards her, shielding the other three. “Take her!” he shouted at Vikar, handing him A'stri, who was awoken by the attack.

  “No, no,” a different voice, but one familiar, echoed through the corridor. A small ember flew in front of Morael and danced on the air. “Fire is mine by right.” The spark grew in strength, and from it, surrounded by smoke and ash, came Nariel Ul Ren, Archon of Tristicia and wielder of the Everflame.

  “Welcome, Nariel,” she shouted, her voice irritating like fingernails dragged on wooden floorboards. “Your little fire will do naught against me. I am stronger.” The woman smirked and threw herself against a wall. Her fire then ran on it towards the four of them.

  With a smile and a snap of his fingers, Nariel stopped the approaching flames. “I must admit I did not expect to find a jokester here,” he said, mockingly shaking his head.

  Angry, the woman yelled, ignoring his snide remarks, “Give her back to us, Morael. By right A'stri is ours!”

  “A'stri?” Morael smiled. “Thank you for introducing her to us. Her name has not come up until now.” With his elbow, he nudged Nariel.

  “My turn!” the archon shouted with gleeful pleasure. Flames came out of his own body, burning the stones around him. With his smile growing, he sent them forth.

  His fire, the Everflame as he called it, was magic of his own creation. Unlike ordinary fire, it burned as hot as the sun, at least that’s what he told everyone. At the age of fifteen, it earned him the honor of one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Five years later, he became the youngest archon in history.

  Morael’s younger brother Aelir took a great liking to him. No surprise as Nariel was barely a few years older than he. Often he was jealous of their friendship and the fun they had, even if it mostly consisted of debating exotic flowers. He respected Nariel greatly; he was a powerful man devoted to serving the Empire.

  Before Nariel’s fire could reach her, the woman pulled out a dagger from a pocket of her cloak. She smiled and drove it deep into her neck. The runes on her face began to glow.

  Just as the fire was feet away, the blood gushed out, became a shield, and stopped it with absolute ease. It pulsed with energy as if it were still part of her living body.

  “Blood magic,” Morael uttered. Even when seeing the horrors of the past play out before him, he could only think of his brother and the joy it would bring to see the topic of his favorite book become a reality. “Step aside, Nariel.”

  The archon looked to him, “I can take her,” he shouted. A spark exploded beneath his feet, and he launched himself forward to strike her.

  Morael was too slow to even try and stop him. For a powerful archon, Nariel was overly self-assured, to the point of seeming arrogant at times.

  From a shield, the woman’s blood became a blade. She grabbed it and struck right against Nariel’s left eye.

  Only just Morael pulled him back with his own magic. The archon screamed in pain, blood coming from his eye socket. “Translocate back to Sesteria,” Morael commanded with an irritated sigh, but Nariel did not hear him through his painful screams.

  “What a child,” snarked Vikar and snapped his fingers embalming him with white light and sending him straight to the citadel in the imperial palace.

  The woman laughed. “Now to reclaim what is ours,” she shouted, her voice even deeper and angrier. “All three of you will die!”

  Morael’s mood darkened. All around him could feel the rage boiling in his heart. “Consider this an honor,” he said and called Vanquisher to his side. For the third time in his life, he grabbed its leather-covered handle. A great power began to course through it, giving it a powerful golden glow.

  With unnatural speed, he ran to her, Vanquisher almost piercing her heart, but at the last second, she parried. He pushed against her blade with more and more strength. “This blade was forged from the light. There is no darkness it cannot withstand,” he whispered, pressing down harder. From his very self, he sent greater magical strength into the spear’s blade. Her sword shattered, and Vanquisher went right through her, turning her heart into ash.

  Before life left her for good, a verdant light sparked in her dead eyes. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “In the shadow of dragons’ wings, their enemies shall fall.”

  Cry

  His master held up a scarlet tunic and waited for his reaction. “No other man would ever give something so valuable to a scrap,” he said. “Take it.” He again dangled the article before him.

  Ri’on did as he was told. The soft silk of the tunic was of the most delicate fabric he has ever touched. “Thank you, master.” He bowed. “It is an honor to serve you.”

  “Put it on,” his master commanded, caressing his cheek. The touch of his hand was rough and sweaty. “Go on.” He urged him with a poisonous smile.

  Disgusted, Ri’on unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, placing it on a leather armchair he stood beside. All the while, the master watched him. The gaze of his eyes felt no better than his hand, possibly even worse.

  He did his best to hide as much as he could, making sure his trousers and belt would stay on safely. Still, little could escape the old man’s look. The muscles of his Ri’on’s stomach he enjoyed the most, and he could see just how excited the master got when he stood there shirtless.

  The tunic fit almost perfectly, the expensive silk felt even lighter than the air that surrounded him. Whoever made it was a master of the craft. Yet it was the color that was not to Ri’on liking, he despised red, it didn’t go well with his dark blue hair, and living under the crimson-gold sky he has seen plenty of red.

  “Does it feel good?” the master asked and licked his upper lip, revealing the rotten teeth hidden under. Ri’on gave him a nod and touched the fabric.

  Expecting a reply more extensive, the master stood up and walked closer to him. “You must learn to speak properly. How many times have I told you this? People dislike scraps that keep quiet even when spoken to.” His hand touched his cheek again. “A less kind master would not hesitate to punish you.” Quietly he whispered his thinly veiled threat.

  Full of hate and anger, Ri’on replied, “I apologize, master.” The man smiled, pleased to hear his voice. “You honor me greatly. I merely lack the words to express how beautiful your gift is.”

  Master laughed. “You are too good with words, boy. I wonder why you use them so rarely.” He looked to the window, covered in thick dark silk. “The two of us could enjoy so many long debates.”

  “I apologize.” He had no intention of participating in whatever debate meant in the master’s strangely defined dictionary. “My knowledge is of no equal to yours.”

  The master raised an eyebrow. “Well, of course, it is!” he loudly proclaimed. “Still, I enjoy intellectual debates.”

  “Let us engage in some on the morrow then?” suggested Ri’on. He was revolted by the arrogance of the man; the most intelligent debate he has ever had was with most likely with a newly painted wall or a dog.

  “Very well, my dear boy,” he patted him and ran his hand through Ri’on’s azure hair. “I worry tomorrow may not be a day either of us would wish to come.” His voice changed, and so did his composure.

  There were still things he could learn about his master, it seemed. “What do you mean, master?” He looked into the man’s eyes. “Please tell me.”

  “Come ten o’clock, we will depart for the Cry.” He sighed. “I am sorry, but your attendance is necessary, so make yourself look appropriate.”

  Ri’on wished to protest, the Cry was a city he never wanted to step a foot into, a gathering of slavers, the lowest of the low. “Of course, master,” he said, smiling but filled with anger. He bowed and moved towards the expensive door, made of ebony and tinted glass. “May I leave?”

  “Go.” The master smiled. “We will be back come noo
n tomorrow,” he added and gestured for Ri’on to close the door.

  After a quick and cold bath, Ri’on put on an uncomfortable layer of make-up. In the small mirror, given to him by the master upon his arrival, he looked at his own body. Often he debated just what the old man fancied on him so much. When he lived in a city far east, he was often teased and ridiculed for his boyish stature. He sighed, rather not thinking about the reason.

  With distaste, he looked at that tunic. If it only it were blue to suit him better. He sighed and put it on. Even if ugly, it was comfortable and caressed his soft skin.

  With a gaze at the clock, he realized it was almost ten, and so he walked down the main staircase and joined the master who was already waiting for him.

  “Right on time.” The old fat man was clothed in a greatly ill-fitting suit and pants. “Let us go, dear boy.”

  Just as he and his master stepped out the front door of the villa, their eyes were blasted by the powerful light. It has been many days since Ri’on last ventured under the golden sky; it was like the rays were even stronger than before.

  One of the master’s servants called to them, “This way, the coach is ready.” They both hurried forward, and the servant opened the small black door of the carriage. First, the master jumped into the darkness that resided within, almost got stuck in the door.

  Ri’on climbed in after him while the master shouted at the servants, instructing them to wait with umbrellas next time. He sat opposite of him for the master’s sizeable behind barely fit the cushion. The entire coach shook with even the slightest of his movements. “They don’t make these as sturdy as they used to,” he noted, shifting around yet again, finding the most comfortable spot.

  “I have never taken a carriage before,” said Ri’on, knowing master expected a reply. “It is good that the windows are covered.”

  The master scuffed, “Thought as much. Paler than marble you are.” His eyes looked over Ri’on yet again. “Why do you not wear the Farra shorts I have given you? It has been so very long since I last saw you wear them.”

  Just then, the door was shut by the servant waiting outside, and they were thrown into almost absolute darkness.

  The question took Ri’on by surprise as he essentially forgot about them after stuffing them into a drawer.

  “I thought they would not work well with the tunic,” he quickly retorted. “They are quite short.” If only that was all but even more than the tunic, the shorts left very little to the imagination; he felt like a prostitute wearing them.

  The master shrugged. “Of course. They are not the best piece.” He nodded.

  Just as the carriage began to move, Ri’on felt a sense of dread wash over him. It was the doubts, worries, and fears he held locked far away. He didn’t want to go to that city nor to accompany his master anywhere. The little light that made it inside was just enough to perfectly illuminate the fat owner of his and made it easy to confirm his attention was, to Ri’on’s dismay, focused solely on him.

  He tried to evade his lewd stare, but it was hard to avoid when the master was so enormous.

  “I have heard only a little,” he said, “but I was told that you are quite a skilled fighter.” His words extinguished Ri’on’s last hope for a quiet journey.

  Hiding his annoyance behind a well-prepared smile, he replied, “That is true. A sword is like an extension of my hand.”

  “How does a scrap learn to fight then? I do not presume your time in the east gave you much time to practice,” master inquired further.

  Ri’on shook his head. So much he disliked traversing through his memories, especially those of his time in the east.

  Conceded, he decided to explain. “My people retain some memories of our ancestors, mainly parents, and grandparents. I was lucky enough to be born with memories going back further. Sword fighting was one of them.” His answer was more close to a lie than the truth but suffice it did.

  “Is that true?” Master shouted his question learning forward. “I thought it to be a jest.” He laughed. “My former maid told of it.”

  “No, it is not a joke,” Ri’on replied. “But it is hard to explain. The memories are often blurry and difficult to see clearly. While I do recall some specific moments in great detail, just the way my ancestors saw them, some, such as my skill with a blade, is just a feeling in the back of my mind.”

  Intrigued by his explanation, the master stroked his chin. “Does that mean there are some that remember the war?”

  The question flooded Ri’on’s mind with memories of his ancestors, those he wished not to recall for he remembered much of the great war, through the eyes of Az’era. There was no person alive he would willingly share that memory with, especially that of the war’s final moment. “I presume so. My eldest memory goes back only two hundred years, long after the continent was split in two.” With a shrug, he elaborated, knowing the master would ask anyway, “It’s a beautiful memory of an old father teaching his youngest son to ride a horse.”

  “Why do you think it happened?” Master asked, ignoring his lie. “It always interested me why your people would go to war with the Empire.”

  Ri’on shrugged. “I do not know. If there is an answer, it lies with a Vi Dera.”

  “Vi Dera?” Master shouted amused. “Do you believe they are still alive? How long has it been since the war ended? Three thousand years at least, I am sure of that! No dynasty could survive that long.”

  “Even if they are dead, Sesteria is where we could find an answer to that question.” He smiled mockingly at his fat owner. “In for an adventure master?”

  “Do you truly believe that place still exists? Such a naīve boy you are. Time took them long ago.”

  Ri’on only smiled in reply, for Sesteria was the final destination of his journey; its ruins would more than suffice.

  After a short bumpy ride, they arrived to Cry, one of the largest cities of the continent. All around, it was surrounded by a wall taller than all buildings but one - a massive sky-reaching dome. It was there where the so-called scrappers met. Ri’on’s master, his owner, was one of them. There was little special about them; in a civilized world, they would be seen as ordinary slavers but civilized their world was not, so the scum could give themselves honorable titles, lands, and armies, while most lived on the shores and struggled to survive.

  Passing through the gate into shadow was a welcome surprise. All streets and alleys were covered by a thick layer of silk and leather. The light was not welcome in the city, for darkness was a privilege of the rich and powerful.

  Many died, begging for shelter away from the light. Even when they arrived, the gate had a few dozen people waiting and pleading to be let in. Their skin was bruised and dirty, many were close to blindness, kissed by the light.

  In silence, they walked past the commotion and set out to the center of the city. The master’s lips were tied shut, his fat hands shook. Ri’on found it amusing and had to hide his smile. Fear was something seldom felt by the slavers; they deserved much worse.

  The streets were primarily populated by other scraps. A few times Ri’on tried to smile at them, give them a friendly wave, and to a few, he even called out, but no one replied, waved back, or seemed to notice him.

  “They have barely enough to function,” master finally explained, still shaking. Even in his voice, the fear was made its presence known. “Unless you’ve got a couple of crystals, they’ll never say a word to you. They are the true scraps.”

  Looking at them brought sorrow into his heart. He didn’t reply, for if he did, the words he wished to say could have meant his death. They all were his people, starving for magic so much they cannot even speak.

  With a newfound hatred, he looked at his master, in his mind repeating the promise he made so long ago - he will see this suffering end.

  A short while later, when they neared the largest building of the city, the massive dome located in its exact center, they saw no more scraps on the streets. A terrible silence
was all their ears could hear.

  Master stopped and knelt beside him. “Hold,” he said. “I had to wait until we were alone.” Quickly and carefully he snapped something into the collar of Ri’on tunic.

  As he did, raw magical power began to course through it. Confused, he looked at the master. “This will last a while,” he whispered.”

  Ri’on was about to speak, but the master placed a finger on his lips and shook his head. “Be quiet,” he commanded. “Listen carefully, Ri’on. There is much you do not know, and I could not have told you sooner. My servants and guards are all spies for the Conclave; it was too much of a risk.

  “Things will happen just moments from now. If all goes well, I will be on our way come sundown and you on your way to meet your destiny.”

  He wouldn’t allow Ri’on to speak, and so together, in silence, they continued walking.

  Before allowed inside, both of them were checked, thoroughly, for any weapons or magical items. Even the master did not escape the guards touching his sensitive areas; he surely wished to inspect Ri’on in the same way.

  With the embarrassment concluded, they made their way through the complicated and crowded corridors. It all felt like a dream. There were no windows and walls were covered in soft red silks, all around torches burned, and the fire crackled.

  Soon they arrived at the center of the large structure. The master referred to it as the great hall. It was an enormous room with a tall ceiling in the shape of a dome.

  In its center was a stage surrounded by rows of small booths, illuminated by light coming from a hole high up in the roof.

  “Let’s go,” master nudged Ri’on. “Ours is right over there.” He pointed near the stage.

  The seating was, to Ri’on’s surprise, comfortable for them both. “Don’t talk to them,” the master said as he looked at the other scraps. “If you do and their master doesn’t wish, so you will be killed.”