Holding his head high, he entered. They all watched him, the Archons of the Empire, all sitting around the marble table.
On the far end sat, with chocolate brown locks of hair, Nael Di Reo, the Archon of Sesteria and older brother to Arianna. Beside him sat his other sister Noriella, Archon of Alrimia.
Nariel, for whom Aelir searched the table, sat in the middle with Onica, Garel and Astiel, Archons of Ardia, Camirna, and Inrio. A still bloodied scar ran from high upon his brow and all the way down below his eye. He was glad that was all but wondered who inflicted that wound on him; Alric or the mysterious attacker.
And closest to the Emperor, who sat in the front, was Vikar Ka Ner, Archon of Istra and Morael’s dearest friend.
Aelir took a seat beside his father, on a chair to his left.
It was the first time he saw all the archons together. He was not allowed to participate in their monthly government meetings.
“My Lords,” he said courteously, “I apologize for the delay.” They all bowed their heads and smiled at him. “I was told to come to noon.”
“Thank you for joining us,” said Alric. “Lord Vikar arrived mere seconds ago. You have not delayed us.” He turned to the archons. “I apologize for not informing you of the reason for our meeting today. It pains me to admit that this information is too sensitive for the ears of those not present in this very chamber.
“Yesterday his excellency lord Nariel engaged in a fight with a foreign, unknown attacker. In this fight, his prowess proved too little, and he was defeated and injured.” The other archons looked to Nariel in surprise. “Lord Vikar was also present as was prince Morael.”
It was then Vikar’s turn to speak. Without leaving a single detail, he informed them of his and Morael’s engagements with Berian rebels and their discovery of a young woman named A'stri.
Finally, he and Nariel spoke of the attacker. A wielder of powerful magic beyond their understanding. He noted that even for Morael, it was a challenging fight.
“Forgive me, my lord, for the interrupted but the magic you speak of. It reminds of a chapter from the personal diary of the First Archon, lord Zarrin.” A drop of sweat ran from Aelir’s head as the archons’ eyes looked to him.
“It may be incorrect,” he continued, “but I believe this magic is a mutation. An attempt to replicate Ancient Sesterian. Archon Zarrin spoke of Sesteria’s enemies attempting exactly this. While most attempts resulted in brutal deaths, one nation conjured magic that bore the color of violet.”
“Impossible!” Alric shouted. “That magic is long gone.”
Aelir shook his head. “Vikar, the girl, A'stri. Her eyes describe them to us.”
Confused, Vikar replied. “They are green, with shimmering light as the sun shining at an open countryside.”
With a shrug, Aelir looked to his father. “Verdant eyes, with shimmering light. You know this to be a true father. It is plain as day.”
“Forgive me, I must ask,” Nael spoke up. “I believe neither of us knows what you refer to.”
“Tell them, or I will,” Aelir threatened his silent father. When no reply would come, he looked to Nael. “We speak of the Li’Ari. Azure and verdant of eyes, masters of long-forgotten magic.”
The room got silent. Not even the breaths of all nine of them interrupted it. They all knew the name Li’Ari, but so few knew all there was.
“They were the true masters of magic. Unlike us, they were one with it, born with the ability to use it. When Areon bound it to ancient Sesterian, he took it away from them. It wasn’t until emperor Allim shattered the continent in half when the war ended. Our world shook in its core, the land split apart just to end that pestilential war.”
“We should act now,” Garel shouted, “mobilize the armies and set sail to the other half of the continent. Exterminate what is left of them.”
“That is suicide if they wield magic capable of downing an Archon!” Nael shouted back, giving a start to a long and loud argument.
“Stop them,” Aelir whispered to his father. “You know what I say is true.” But his father did not budge and watched the archons squabble, in his eyes fear and uncertainty.
“Silence!” Aelir shouted at the top of his lungs, and with his fist, he hit the marble table. The archons stopped and sat back down. “Sending troops without knowing what awaits us is suicide. I propose a group of senior archons departs for the second half of the continent while the rest join me in the library in an attempt to find a way to nullify that mutated magic.”
His proposal was met with support, but without the word of the Emperor, it mattered little. Yet Alric remained quiet, and even when begged for a response, he would not say a word, his gaze focused on the wall opposite of him.
Angry Aelir stood up and shouted right in his face, but even that did little. Alric stood up and walked away, leaving them alone in the chamber. Even his walk was different. He made short steps, his jaw was open. Something was amiss.
The archons either did not notice or pretended not to, and looked to Aelir for command. As he looked at the closing door in utter disbelief, worried for his father’s health, he let out a long sigh. “He did not disallow it,” he said with a shrug. “Lord Nael, I wish you to lead the mission to the second continent. Pick at most four who will depart with you. A quick journey there and back again. Be prepared and well supplied. Do not travel alone, take at least your personal guard. The rest join me in the library tomorrow at dusk.”
“As you command,” said Nael.
Slowly all archons departed the chamber. “Nariel,” he called upon his find. “Stay.”
Once they were alone, Aelir sat into his father’s chair. “Come sit with me.”
“Aelir, what you did, I cannot understand. Do not speak--.”
“Sit!” he shouted. “I am still your prince, so listen to me.”
Surprised, the archon did as Aelir commanded. “Very well, my prince, what do you ask of me?”
“I heard what my father said to you.”
Nariel’s eyes filled with panic. With a shake of his head, he whispered, “Allow me to leave with Nael. He will choose me. Please. If I remain, we are both in danger.” He touched Aelir’s shoulder. “Trust me.”
Point of No Return
Oren and Alec reached Beria merely two days later, working Nika’s horses to exhaustion. When they arrived, still under the light of a late afternoon sun, they headed to the square, not far from where Oren and Efri lived. There Alec wished to speak with one of the rebels stationed in the city.
Entering the markets, their noses were assaulted with various foul stenches, most of which came from the clogged up sewage below the streets. Oren sighed for once unhappy to see the city of his childhood.
“Is it not too busy?” he asked Alec, who was looking around, stretching his neck to the fullest. “We could rest ‘till tomorrow.”
Alec shook his head. “We are already late,” he whispered angrily. “Meet me at the Guardsman come sundown. I will find our contact until then.”
“Very well.” As Oren was about to walk away, in the direction of his former home, in the corner of his eye, where only days ago was a run-down building now stood a well decorated and newly open store.
Interested to know who would open a shop in that part of town, he headed in its direction.
To his dismay, it was all across the market square. Passing through beside the bustling crowd he remembered waking up early to be the first one there as shops opened. He and Efri always liked to get the best ingredients. The food was always so good, a seasoned pig, sausages, the most fantastic bread and beer. He sighed. Hunger came to him, just imagining it.
Now it all was only a memory. Efri was a prisoner, and he joined a rebellion.
As he grabbed the door handle, with a pained smile, a deep yell from within the shop took his by surprise. Still, he opened the door and entered.
The inside of the store looked a lot better than he remembered. The floorboards were polished, and the
walls had a new coat of paint. What remained were the old windows, but cleaned they looked almost impossible to recognize. The strangest thing was the dominant smell of lavender and roses overpowering the stench from outside.
“Welcome!” the man sitting on a chair behind the counter shouted at him. He jumped up, pushing whoever was standing beside him aside. His hair well-kempt, wavy, and grown all the way to his shoulders, that and the clean teeth, the clothes; there was no question, the man was an Imperial. “May I help you?” His voice lacked an accent, which revealed he was from not too far away.
Oren nodded but didn’t reply. Instead, he shifted his attention to the items they had for sale. Shelves layered with vials big and small, some with what looked and smelled like perfume and some glowing with liquid of nefarious magic.
“What is that you sell here?” He had no intention to buy anything, nor was he genuinely interested, more curious.
“A variety of products, my dear sir. From perfumes and healing oils to potions, made with magic. Now I know what you wish to say, magic is not for Beria, but times can change! Tell me what you need, and I can assure you there is a potion for that.” The owner spoke loudly and very quickly, so quickly, Oren could barely understand half of what he said.
The little of the well-prepared speech made little impression on Oren. He turned to chastise, to mock the owner, but behind stood a young woman, not too dissimilar in age. Her gaze was reserved for the floorboards it seemed.
“Why did you come to Beria?” Oren bluntly asked. “Not meaning to offend, but I doubt business is too good.”
The man exhaled, “You just might be our first customer since we moved in.” He looked around the room and then out of the window by his left. “Beria’s a hard city, but in time I believe we will get through to her people. To tell the truth, we struggled to sell anything in Istra, forced to move out we came here.” While e the owner’s voice may have convinced Oren of his lies, the woman rolling her eyes told him the truth.
“Anyway, I did not introduce myself,” the owner turned back to face him. “I am Ceril and this,” he pushed the woman forward, “is Narra, my daughter.”
Oren’s eyes looked firmly at her. There was something about her that made him wish to know more of the two of them. It wasn’t the scars and bruises on her hands and cheeks; it was the look in her eyes that took his interest.
“Look, I don’t understand this at all,” Oren admitted. “Potions, ailments, oils all that is as familiar to me as Berian customs are to you. But, if I’m honest, I’d like to know more.”
Ceril’s eyes sparkled. “That is great to hear! Narra, darlin’, go and show some of your skills.”
“No.”
“That was not a request.” His voice was stern, with almost a hateful tone. “Do as I said!”
“I’m not helping him,” she shouted. “If you want it, do it yourself.”
Ceril grabbed the collar of her shirt. “I am warning you, do as I say.” He whispered, but Oren overheard regardless.
“Oh fuck off,” she shouted back. “He doesn’t want us here, just look at him playing interested.”
“Narra!” Ceril shouted as she forced her shirt out of his hand. Free, she rushed up the stairs, cursing at him. “I am so sorry,” Ceril whispered in Oren’s direction. With a wave of his right hand, Oren dismissed what just happened and was about to leave. “Please, as an apology for my daughter’s terrible outburst, let me give you this.” From below the counter, he pulled a small buckle with three vials.
Oren came closer, inspected it, but even then was unsure if to take it. Yet Ceril would not take a no for an answer, and so Oren was forced to accept. Even if they were Imperials, he wished not to antagonize them for no reason.
Looking at them closer, he inspected the contents of the vials. They were full of black pulsating liquid.
“Throw it towards anyone, and they will freeze, bound by magical energy,” Ceril explained its effects. “It lasts for about twenty minutes. Enough to run away.”
The two words echoed in his head. “Run away!” As if it were a command. He shook the thoughts out.
Even though he knew not what to use the vials for Oren put them on his belt and walked out, wishing the lying merchant a good day. He did promise to bring in some of his friends, but he had a feeling Ceril knew well that would not happen.
Sun was slowly aiming to set below the far away horizon. Almost half a day, Oren spent walking around the city. In the end, his old home was the one place he didn’t visit.
Yet before he could set out to the tavern, to meet with Alec, he was stopped. Someone grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. “What are you doing?” he shouted and turned around.
It was the girl from before, Ceril’s daughter. Cursing his head for he couldn’t recall her name, he looked at her, tried to, but she stared to the ground, holding him. “What are you doing?”
“I am sorry.” Calling her voice, a whisper would have been an understatement. Only barely Oren made out what she said. “I didn’t want to say that. Just got angry.”
Oren chuckled. “Look, if your father’s making you do this, then just say you did it. I think lying isn’t exactly something you’re afraid of doing.”
“No.” Her grip tightened as she grabbed his shoulder. “He didn’t send me. I’m sorry.”
“It is alright.” He touched her chin and forced her to look at him. “Let go of my arm, please.”
“Right!” She laughed. “Thanks.” Without warning, she stepped forward and embraced him. “Feels good,” she whispered. “Sorry.”
As quickly as a fox, her hair was colored after she ran away. Oren had no time to reply.
With a smile, he then headed to the Crawling Guardsman. He made his way through the packing merchants of the market, and from almost half the square away, he heard the jolly sounds of people drinking.
Entering, he saw Irpen, the innkeeper, running around his hands full. Beside the old rusty bar, before the door into the back, he saw Alec. With an excited smile, he walked to him.
“Oren!” a shout suddenly came. “My boy, you came back.” It was Irpen, now running towards him. He grabbed his hand and shook it with a proper wide smile.
Oren smiled back and tried to wrestle his wrist away. Thanks to his luck, the inn was packed, an Irpen could barely keep up. He let go of Oren’s hand and rushed to help a patron sitting in the far back.
“Here you are,” Alec whispered as he approached him. “Let’s go.” He opened the door for Oren, just enough to walk through.
The room was small but cleaner and cozier. On the far end, where one would expect a window, was a burning fireplace. In the very center of the room was a long table full of food and drink and surrounded by six chairs.
“Take a seat,” Alec commanded, sitting down himself to the front of the table. Oren sat beside him, for it was where a tasty dish of cheese. For days he hasn’t eaten properly, it was a welcome sight.
Just as he sat down, the vials on his belt grabbed Alec’s interest. “What is that?” he asked.
In short, Oren explained just what happened, leaving only a few details. To his surprise, hearing of the effects of the three vials made Alec’s eyes sparkle with joy.
He smiled. “The imp filth will soon be gone, washed away by the rain of our revenge.”
“Leave your poetics for crowd speeches.”
“Well.” Alec sighed. “The vials will be instrumental to our goal. If you agree to help us, you will be rewarded!”
Oren did not understand, but Alec refused to reveal any more of their intricate plan until other members of his group arrive.
“The city doesn’t support your rebellion, not anymore,” said Oren. Days ago, he would welcome a rebellion, but deep down, he always knew it not be true. Efri’s nature was the end of his hate. “Whatever your plan is, it will not work.”
Without a word back Alec stood up and began browsing the few pieces of ink-covered parchment that decorated an old bookshelf in the roo
m’s corner. “This city is a pile of dried wood. It only takes a cinder for a fire to start.” He coughed as the dust from the parchment made its way to his nostrils. “The imperials took our city by force, many have not yet forgotten. Soon you will see our plan is not that of a fool.”
At first, he wished to mock Alec’s words, but he had to admit it made a shiver run down his spine. So instead of worrying about a rebellion, he turned to a jug of beer.
As beer dripped down onto the dirty floor, Oren’s eyes locked with Alec’s. He was tired of waiting. “They’re on their way,” Alec assured him. “Irpen!” he shouted towards the door.
Moments later, like a hurricane ready to destroy the countryside Irpen ran in. “Yes?”
“Bring us some proper food, the others are delayed.”
“Right away!” With his back turned to them, he quietly uttered, “Glad to see you here, Oren. I always knew you were a true Berian.”
Quicker than one would expect Irpen ran in with platters of food. He laid them beside the little snacks already there. Alec thanked him and send him away.
With Irpen gone, Oren asked again, demanding to know all there is, but Alec would not say a word. With a smile, he stabbed a juicy pork sausage. “I’ll explain everything; patience is a virtue.” He pushed a platter of sausages before him. “Eat.”
Rolling his eyes Oren started eating and sipping on his second mug of ale. He ate Irpen’s sausages many times over the years, but that day they tasted different, plain bad.
With reluctance, he finished his meal and watched Alec stuffing his face with more and more until they heard someone knocking.
The door opened, and in came a large man, bigger than any Oren has seen before. A deep scar decorated his dirty face going from his chin all the way up until it was lost under his blond hair.
Alec jumped up from his seat, swallowing what was in his mouth in one revolting gulp. “Ermi!” he yelled out and shook hands with the massive brute.
“It’s nice to see you ‘gain Alec,” the man replied, his voice deep yet with a chord of peacefulness within. “This your new surrogate kid or what?”
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