Tear of Light

by Michael Edward Tenner

  A'stri stood back up, sword in hand. She watched him, piercing him with her gaze.

  As his final attack, he uttered a simple phrase, the worst he remembered. It was a spell of immense power in its own right, but with the power of the staff, it had the ability to shatter worlds. In his hands, he held power beyond those of the fictitious gods of legends.

  He struck down like a hammer to an anvil. The world shook and a crater opened beneath him. Wind stronger than any tempest siphoned in all that was around, the trees, the grass, bushes, mushrooms, all ended in the crater.

  Morael dropped down, once much of the forest was swallowed by the crater. It closed, and the golden rings around his hands shattered and reformed the staff.

  The scarlet left the pupils of his eyes, his hold on the power weakened. His knees were weak, and only by leaning on the staff, he was able to stand. In the distance, he saw towers of a gray city. Beria was close.

  Secrets Below

  S taring down the edge of a blade, Narra looked deep into the rebel’s eyes. There was no reason for the hatred that lay there. She did nothing wrong.

  He smiled as he readied to strike. “Please,” she whispered, closing her eyes. The rebel ignored her.

  Clank! His blade did not reach her. Stopped by the other rebel, the one that came by their shop just days before, the one she...apologized to afterward. “No, Alec,” he said.

  They began to fight, screaming one over the other. She knelt there, on the ground, her barren knees roughed by the dirty stones. Now or never, it was her chance to run.

  Then the creaking of the door echoed across the alley. Ceril walked out, fire in his hands. “You dirty Berian pests!” he shouted, sending the scorching flame at the two fighting rebels.

  It hit the older one, burning his back. The other used it for his advantage. He ducked, letting the blade pass above him, and then drove his sword through the older rebel’s chest.

  Blood squirted out as the sword pierced him, coming out from his back. A few droplets landed on her face. Her hands were shaking, this wasn’t meant to be. “We must run!” she urged her father.

  “Shut up,” he replied and threw a wave of fire against the rebel. “Is that how you repay me?” he shouted at him. “I welcomed you to my store, I’ve not done you any slight!”

  “He protected me!”

  “I told you to shut up!” Ceril shouted back at her. “He started this whole thing. Using my gift!” Again and again, he sent fire against him, the rebel barely dodging. “I will burn you to dust!”

  “Father!” Narra shouted again. “We must run, let him be.” Fire. A wave washing over the side of her face, burning her skin. She wouldn’t scream, she was used to pain.

  The rebel fought with all his strength but couldn’t withstand magic. His sword broke, and he was left defenseless.

  “You never loved me,” she whispered under her breath. With her sweaty, slippery fingers, she grabbed the sword, a gift from Ceril himself.

  “What?” His words were like poison, like fuel added to the fire. “Any other time I would be calm, but at this moment, you dare to speak back to me? Once I’m done with this scum, you will feel what it means when I am angry.”

  “You never loved me,” she said, louder. “All my life, you hated me.” Shouting, she attacked, cutting right across her father’s elbow, separating his hand from the rest.

  He cried out in pain, cursing her name. Often she dreamed of doing just that, of enacting revenge. All eighteen years of her life, he tormented her, did unspeakable things to her. She would end it right then. With one swoop, she lodged the sword in his neck.

  “Come!” the rebel shouted. “They are coming.”

  She didn’t hear him. There was a tune that played in the air. Free at last. Every bruise, every cut, and every insult paid back tenfold. Ceril died as far from the Imperial lands as one can get, in the city of the lowest of the low. His blood spilled on the stones of Beria. She couldn’t stop her laugh; he got what he deserved.

  “This way!” a voice shouted, one familiar. Before she could find out who it belonged to, the rebel dragged her away, holding her scarred wrist.

  One corner after the other, getting closer and closer to the city walls. She wrestled her wrist away from him and followed on her own.

  “What’s your name?” she shouted at him, a gentle laugh on her lips. The rising evening wind ran through her short hair, caressing her bloodied cheeks.

  “Oren!”

  “I’m Narra!”

  “I know,” he shouted with a chuckle. “Don’t you remember?”

  She laughed and ran faster and faster. “Where we going?” Too well, she remembered and tried her best not to make it so visible. When she approached him after he left their store, she expected to never see him again. Just thinking about it made her blush.

  “Here!” Oren shouted as the wall was in their sight.

  They stopped, each taking in deep breaths. “There’s an opening,” he explained and gently pushed on one of the bricks. A small hole opened in the wall. “A tunnel for the royalty.” He let out an exhausted sigh. “Let’s go.”

  They dropped down, just a few feet, into total darkness. “It will take a while,” said Oren. “Be careful, keep your hand touching the wall.”

  Her shaking hand touched the wet stone. It made her wonder whether it was out of sheer excitement to leave Beria or just a rush of adrenaline. “Will they not find us here anyway?”

  “Only a few know about this place,” Oren said with a pleased chuckle. Almost as if fate itself wished to mock him, a sound of someone running reached them.

  “Kairi!” she shouted, and a ball of light appeared beside her. “Lead the way.”

  With an audible laugh, Oren started to run. Narra and her light followed him through the tight corridor. Water dripping to their heads, the ground unstable as the stones above them, they were the mouse chased by a vicious cat. Thinking about it made Narra wonder if as much were true, what if they were followed by an ally, not a foe.

  A few rats joined them in their run but scattered the quicker the two ran. Past a turn and a couple more, the ceiling began to lower, forcing them to slow down.

  “How much further?” Narra asked, her head grazed by sharp-edged rocks above her.

  Oren looked around and then stopped. “I don’t know,” he replied. “This is different. I’ve not been here before.”

  Slower, the footsteps behind them getting closer, they continued walking but quickly saw the end, a wall of rock. “What is that?” Oren asked, looking at the stones. “Something’s carved in there.”

  “Like that matters,” Narra retorted. “I don’t want to die here.” The ground shook. Her light disappeared. The footsteps were close, very close. Then the rocks beneath their feet crumbled. They fell down into the void. Narra screamed and attempted to recall her power, the light of her magic, but it did not listen. Magic was inaccessible.

  They never hit the floor, they landed helped by the air. The ground below was chiseled rock, ancient. Narra tried again to cast her spell, but the magic did not answer.

  “Where are we?” asked Oren, stumbling around.

  “How should I know?” Narra replied. “You’re the Berian if anyone knows it’s you.”

  They looked in each other’s direction but saw only darkness. “We can’t wait.” Oren agreed, his mood darkened.

  Short was their journey as the room they found themselves in had no door. Only a statue in the middle, one of a man holding a sword, at least that’s how much they were able to tell from mere touch, kept them company.

  Their hopeless moment was interrupted, screaming. From above, through the same hole as them, someone was falling down. They were unarmed, defenseless. Narra’s magic was gone, and even if not, she wasn’t in a state to cast offensive magics.

  “Hello?” a familiar voice spoke. “Is anyone here, I hear you breathing.”

  “Arick?” Narra questioned. “Is it you?”

  Surprised,
he called out her name. “How did you get here? I was worried that you were attacked.”

  “You’re an Alifrei,” Oren spoke out from the dark. “What a surprise that you know of the tunnel.”

  “Quite right. Yet you are here also and I suspect you didn’t come from where I did,” Arick replied snarkily. “Besides the tunnel originates in my basement. If it makes you happy, dear fellow Berian citizen, my uncle and aunt lie dead on the street.”

  Narra sighed. “I’m sorry, Arick. Do you know what this place is?”

  “No. The tunnel should lead outside of the city. There was never a mention of a hidden chamber.”

  With no light, they were stranded there, but not one of them lost hope. Carefully they inspected the walls, looking for a loose brick or even a switch that could get them out. They found nothing. Even the statue hid no secrets.

  Then, just as they were about to begin anew, a song. It echoed, singing a beautiful, loving tune. A sack hanging from a necklace Oren’s neck suddenly lit up, shining with its green light. In shock, he pulled the gem out, the light blinding them until the light lessened to just light up the room.

  The walls were not made of ordinary stone, they were ancient chiseled brick, and the statue was made of shimmering rock. It looked different, unlike Beria, or anything in the Empire.

  “Look,” said Arick. “The sword. On the hilt, it looks like a stone is missing.” He looked at Oren. “Where did you get it?”

  Oren rushed to the statue, holding the gem in his hand. “Why would they take from here?” he whispered his question for no one but him. With care and fright, he pushed the gem into the end of the hilt. The light disappeared, and they were thrown into darkness once more. Then, from the handle, the light spread through the blade.

  The statue moved. It knelt before them, illuminated by the sword. The more of the light hit the statue, the clearer its face became, rising from below the stone.

  Then the sword fell from its hand, now clearly of glass-like steel, lit with the verdant light. Next to it appeared a sheath, decorated with gold and gemstones.

  Oren picked it up, the tune of the gem singing ever louder. Then came a sound of stones moving and the wall opened before them.

  They walked through, the way lit up by the sword. “It’s light,” Oren whispered. “Like glass, even lighter.”

  “The quicker we’re out, the better,” Arick scuffed.

  The ground changed from old rock to polished marble, and their voices began to echo. Then the wall closed, and fire arose beside them. It was lanterns lighting up a great hall, filled with books and pieces of parchment.

  They all stood there, looking at the impossible sight. Symbols were carved into the walls, the floor, and even the ebony tables and chairs. One set of symbols was repeated over and over. “It’s Sesterian,” Narra whispered. “The runes.”

  “What do they say?”

  She chuckled. “Beria.”

  “Beria isn’t Sesterian,” Oren argued, but nobody replied. “Let’s find our way out. This place should not exist, and I wish to stay here, not a minute longer.”

  Suddenly a voice echoed. It was calm, old, and so very sad. “Who goes there?” it asked. They all looked at each other, knowing not what to answer. “By light’s lament, answer me!”

  “Who are you?” Arick shouted back.

  The voice growled, and then came a sound of a chair moving from their right. They all looked there and from a chair rose a figure in a dark cloak. “I had lost my name many years ago. Forgotten in the streams of time. Will you tell me yours?”

  “I’m Oren. This is Arick and Narra.”

  “You wield the weapon.” Oren nodded. “This room is its legacy. The name of it is written on these walls.”

  “Beria?” Arick questioned.

  “Yes, in a way. The city that hopefully still stands above us was named after it, built because of it.”

  Oren began laughing. “I have never heard of that. Beria named after a sword? Cannot be.”

  “All of Beria’s history is contained in these halls. You couldn’t have known. We hid the truth away from the people. Told them the lies they wished to hear.” The figure laughed as well. “Besides, it’s not the sword Beria is named after. The stone is. It is one of three, forged a long time ago. It’s Bera, the spirit of the land its form whatever best suits its wielder and the situation. Then there are two more, Lia, the heart of the sky, and Dera, the soul of the light.”

  “Vi Dera nurio rea menore,” Narra said. “You have heard those words before, have you not?”

  “The light’s crown of eternity,” the figure replied. “It has been thousands of years since I last heard that language spoken. How do you know them?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “These are the words chiseled into the imperial crown. Everyone knows them.”

  “Empire?” the figure questioned. “Has my home fell to Areon’s wrath?” He growled. “Expected as much.”

  “It has,” Narra replied. “If you know that language, what is it called? How do you know it?”

  The figure sighed. “Sesterian, that’s what he called it.”

  “Who?” Oren asked, confused.

  “Areon, he was the one who bound magic to the language of old Sesteria. The first emperor,” Narra explained. “You speak as if you knew him,” she said to the shrouded figure.

  It laughed, and the cloak that hid its head fell down, revealing a sight most terrible. “I did,” it replied. Its head was of brown stretched skin. “For my services, my loyalty, the great Areon Vi Dera offered me anything I wish. What a fool I was. My wish was immortality. By chance, he omitted the fact that my body will still decay. I have felt much pain during my life but nothing is the same as your flesh rotting away.” With pain, he looked around. “I have been here for so long I can barely remember him. Even if it pains me, I must admit he had a certain quality to him. The charm, his long ashen hair, the glowing golden eyes. He could talk a mother into giving up her first-born.”

  “What did Areon do?” Narra asked. “The binding, tell me of it. If you were there, you can share the truth, the actual truth with us. We all know something more was at play back then, nobody dares to question it, but we know, we are taught that much was lost.”

  “It was a terrible time,” the man said, his lidless eyes looking at her. “Magic was a wild beast, and Sesteria was at the brink of destruction. I am sorry to say, dear Narra, that I do not possess the truth you seek. He never told anyone what happened. If you wish to know the truth, you must gaze into his book.”

  “The Book of Areon?” She laughed. “Only a Vi Dera can read from it. Not even the emperor can see all.”

  Smile formed on the man’s ancient face. “There is an incantation that allows anyone to see what is written there. From what I recall, it can also boil your brain, so I would not advise you trying it.”

  After a few more questions from her, Oren and even Arick, the ground shook above. The sounds of a city amidst a rebellion reached them. “Can they get in here?” asked Oren.

  “For as long as you are here, yes.”

  “We must go then.”

  The man stopped them, his hand rising up, bone visible. “Before you go, I have a request, dear Oren.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am tethered to the world of the living by a thread of Areon’s creation. The blade you possess and gemstone in its hilt can withstand even his light of crimson-gold. It also is one of the very few things that can sever the thread that keeps me alive.” He sighed. “I beg you, end my suffering.”

  Oren nodded and unsheath the glowing blade. “Are you sure?” The man nodded, though the little that remained of his nose breathed in.

  “Ready,” he whispered, smiling. With a look of confusion, Oren drove the sword through into his chest. In the man’s eyes sparked a light of scarlet, and his life was extinguished. His body crumbled to dust.

  They ran through a single corridor that led them far away. A couple of flights o
f stairs and they found themselves just by the eastern gate. It was open and not a rebel in sight. They ran through and then to the small forest that neighbored the sea. They crossed a river, resting beside it for just a short while.

  In no time at all, they reached the far edge of the forest with a clear view of the coast.

  When they rested for a short while Oren went to find firewood while Narra and Arick cleaned a small area of dry weeds and gathered a few rocks to form a campfire.

  Before the long fire was burning, obstructed by the trees. It was risky but not as much as trying to move all across the peninsula and reach the imperial territory. They were confident the rebels wouldn’t venture that far from the city walls.

  They had little energy to discuss what they learned, but Oren still found time to inspect the sword. Its blade was like glass but stronger than steel. It was light, almost as a wooden training sword.

  “Narra?” said Oren after sheathing the sword, trying to get her attention.

  She looked over to him. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have acted sooner. If I had your father—.”

  Narra’s laugh interrupted him. “He killed my mother,” she said, her eyes falling to the ground. “Got what he deserved.” Strangely she expected to feel compassionate for Ceril, but she couldn’t find empathy. All the voices in her head told her she did nothing wrong.

  “Not meaning to interrupt,” Arick interrupted them. “What are we going to do now?”

  “Go to Istra,” said Narra. “I have things to report there, and perhaps my old house should now belong to me.”

  Oren sighed. “I cannot join you,” he said. “My friend, she was captured. I do not know where she is.”

  “Where else do you expect to find any answers but a regional capital of the Empire?” Arick questioned him. “Your friend, if captured near here, will be there anyway. We’ll find someone who knows for sure.”

  And so they made a plan. After a night of rest, they’ll travel to Natind, there they will stay overnight and then set out for Istra. Money was an issue, but Arick had a pocket full of coins and gladly offered to pay for them all.