Into the Fold

by Chase Blackwood

  …I think it was then, that I had finally understood the reason I’d felt uncomfortable. It had been the naked edge of truth that had lingered off stage for far too long. It had been the unspoken words of a fearful heart and an unbroken soul. It had been the ruptured dam of spilled secrets.”

  Chapter 39

  “The broken shards of remembered strain are stronger than any peaceful memory.” Valik the Philosopher – Bryn Yawr

  The following morning Aeden awoke as if from a dream. His head was foggy. Memory bit at the edges of awareness, yet reality presented nothing more than the watery lines of past experience and remembered pain.

  “You’re up,” a woman’s voice found him, startling him into the moment.

  Aeden nodded, rubbing his forehead.

  Master Claire Ashdown moved toward him.

  “Let’s have a look,” she said, eyeing him carefully.

  She peeled back an eyelid and stood uncomfortably close as she peered into his eyes. She then listened to his heart and his breathing. She prodded at his neck and armpits, and fussed over his hand.

  “Good, good,” she said mostly to herself, “pupils react, strong heart, swelling gone…”

  Aeden somehow felt reassured by her soft voice as she went about her duties. She slowly unwrapped the bandage about his hand. It had been packed with herbs and smelled mildly of vinegar.

  “Surprisingly, good,” the master mused softly.

  Master Ashdown moved to dispose of the bandage as Aeden flexed his hand. It felt stiff. He looked at it as if were a stranger’s appendage. He noticed the scarred knuckles, the callused palms, and the thickness of his fingers. He flexed and stretched those fingers, as if testing to see if they still worked.

  “Everything seems fine,” Master Ashdown said, returning to his bedside, “How do you feel?”

  Aeden placed his hands onto his lap and glanced out the window.

  “I’m ready to leave this place,” he stated, “No offense to you master, but I feel rather cooped up.”

  Master Ashdown merely nodded as a look of sympathy crossed her face.

  “Don’t be so eager to face the world,” she replied, “it’s harder when memories aren’t fresh, it leaves the mind brittle.”

  Aeden was already swinging his feet over the bed and onto the cool, stone floor. A flash of memory accosted him like an attacking bear. Aeden squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea swept over him.

  An image of Adel leapt to mind. He had been next to him the night before. He had been talking. What had he said?

  “What’s wrong with me?” Aeden asked.

  Claire nodded solemnly.

  “I suspect,” she said carefully, “that you weren’t completely forthcoming when I’d asked about prior hallucinogenic exposures at the fourth Trial of Ansuz. I believe the Stinking Nightshade interacted with lingering residuals. Residuals that likely compounded its effects.”

  “Am I okay now?”

  The master paused as if thinking of how to best answer his question.

  “You’ll likely have a mental scar from this…” her voice faded as she rubbed briefly at her chin in thought, “and you may experience some headaches, and in the short term, you may have lapses in memory and an urge to blurt out whatever comes to mind.”

  A wave of memory overcame Aeden. He recalled the stab of burning agony as he grabbed the blue dragons. He glimpsed fragments of a swelling crowd pressing in about him, images that danced about the edges of recollection.

  His head spun for a moment as he struggled to right it. The memories faded.

  “Did I win the trials?” Aeden asked, studying Master Ashdown.

  Her face was a careful mask of professional composure. However, underlying the sharp demeanor was a ripple of emotion. Was it sadness? Aeden decided it was compassion. She had felt sorry for him.

  “I think all of it will come back to you soon enough.”

  Aeden nodded once and glanced about the room. Light spilled through the window. It was the soft, watery light of a Mystes Mountain morning. It played with the shape of the thousand little drawers lining the wall. It fell upon the stand beside the bed and the nearby chair. It highlighted the stonework of the floor.

  “My sword,” Aeden said with a sudden realization and yearning.

  Master Ashdown looked up, a moment of concern crossing her features.

  “Master Sigerica has it.”

  A sense of relief washed over Aeden like a receding ocean wave.

  “Thank you master,” Aeden said as he pushed himself off the bed, “for healing me.”

  Master Ashdown merely smiled as Aeden exited the room.

  Chapter 40

  “And the wicked shall be forced to endure the seven levels of Gehenna.” Book of Divinus

  Aeden’s heart pumped with equal parts anticipation and dependence. His mind felt clear, shaped by purpose. He exited the medical room and swept down one of the many corridors of Bellas Tower.

  The curvature of the hallway gave way, revealing three students lingering by an open doorway. The familiar sight of the novus classroom caught Aeden’s attention. A stab of familiarity greeted him.

  The lingering students fell silent at his approach. Two of the students exchanged significant glances, while one ducked into the classroom as if seeking refuge from a storm.

  Aeden took note of their odd demeanor. He didn’t greet them, as they did their best to ignore him, although, he could tell they were discreetly watching him.

  Aeden stifled his thoughts, tucking away their behavior to be mentally examined later. Currently, he had a sword to reclaim. It beckoned to him like the whispered song of a distant lover.

  Within a few swift strides, Aeden found himself upon the northern stairs. He paused as familiar voices circled upward from the spiraling stairway. The voices could only belong to two people, Dan and Laurent. Aeden watched as they rounded the bend, deep in one of their discussions.

  “Morning,” Aeden greeted, capturing their attention.

  They both fell silent, only just noticing him.

  “They released you,” Dan stated in shock, peering casually around the corner.

  “How’s the hand?” Laurent asked bluntly.

  Aeden held his palms up.

  “Wow,” Laurent commented, “not a mark on them!”

  Dan nudged Laurent with an elbow. Laurent rubbed at his side and gave Dan a stern look. It was Dan who spoke up.

  “Look,” Dan began, “you’re not exactly the most popular man at the towers right now…”

  Laurent jumped in boldly, “…dozens of rumors…”

  Dan cut back in, “…none of them good…”

  Laurent nodded in agreement as he continued, “…and let’s just say we’d rather not be caught up in the rumor mill.”

  Dan struggled to meet Aeden’s eye. Laurent’s face flushed red and his mouth formed a thin line. His wide set eyes darting back down the stairs.

  “What sort of rumors?” Aeden asked, a bit too strongly.

  Laurent glanced from the stairs to the tilework framing the exit. Dan looked out the thin sliver of a window as if only now noticing the position of the sun, or possibly contemplating jumping out to save himself from the awkward conversation.

  “We have class,” Daniel said tentatively.

  “…and we can’t be late,” Laurent finished for him.

  Aeden’s curiosity had been peaked. He momentarily forgot about his Templas sword and focused on the twosome. They were acting more strangely than normal.

  “Since when do you care about being late?” Aeden asked rhetorically.

  “Dan?” Laurent said, looking to his friend.

  Laurent didn’t wait for a response and used the momentary distraction to make a quick getaway.

  “Sorry,” Dan whispered, shrugging, before he strode past Aeden to catch up with Laurent.

  Aeden stood there for a moment, stunned. He watched as they hurried down the corridor. His mind, however, remained fixed on their
brief interaction. He mulled over their tone, their expression, and most of all, he lingered on their discomfort.

  What rumors had been circulating while he’d been recovering?

  Aeden was used to rumors. He knew he was different. It was hard to enter a room being a head taller than most, with snowy white hair, gray eyes, and a Templas sword strapped to one’s back, and not cause a stir. But this was peculiar.

  The rumors he’d often inspire were one of heroics. They were one of quiet interest. Women would look at him, play with their hair and giggle. Men often wanted to be more like him.

  He’d heard rumors at the University of Galdor that he had witches’ blood. He’d overheard gossip that he’d single-handedly killed a dozen shroud cats, and kept one as a warning to all the others. At the Monastery in Bodig, some of the monks would whisper about his interaction with the Inquisitor, stating he’d kicked him square in the chest from halfway across the nave.

  Rarely, had he heard people talking poorly about him, save for Caine. It was one of the reasons he hated Caine. To think that most of the student body had turned, to think that they were murmuring muted innuendos of malintent, of fear, of anger, of distaste.

  It was upsetting. His stomach soured at the thought.

  Aeden leaned against the frame of the stairway, the susurration of his sword tugging gently at him.

  He looked back down the corridor. Part of him wanted to pull Dan and Laurent out of the novus classroom and interrogate them until they told him what secrets were being whispered behind his back. Yet, he knew that’d only exacerbate the situation.

  He resigned himself to the moment and resumed his initial quest, to find his sword.

  Aeden darted up the stairs toward the bridge that connected the two towers. He felt the temperature drop as fresh air funneled into Bellas Tower. It swept down the stairwell in a low moan, adding its own flavor of hushed discontent.

  Without further thought, Aeden took the last few stairs, rounding the bend and coming upon the causeway. He paused and let the morning air greet him. He let the rays of the saffron sun warm him, as it dissipated the fog of Skadoian Valley.

  Aeden took a few steps, momentarily becoming lost in the scene. He watched as trailing fingers of mist evaporated lazily under the sun’s vibrant glare. He knew there was a labyrinth hidden below the haze, at the heart of the forest floor. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. It stirred his sense of adventure and tugged at his latent curiosity. It whispered of fate’s own binding.

  With one last breath, Aeden tore his gaze away. He crossed the bridge and entered the Tower of the Arkein. The great stone monolith swallowed him like some great beast. The sound of the passing wind fell away, leaving a buzzing silence in its place. It was an energetic stillness that marked the air. It felt heavy, as if history clung to the very stonework.

  Aeden paused, overwhelmed by the feeling. He leaned against the wall for support. The feeling of loss claimed him. It beckoned to his wayward heart and clung to his soul. The image of dark hair splayed across a pillow saddened him.

  The emotion passed and Aeden found himself rubbing at his eyes.

  He looked about, suddenly feeling ashamed. He straightened his back, remembering the reason he’d left the medical room. Without further consideration for sentiment, Aeden strode down the corridor, opened the door, and entered the Chamber of Light.

  The central dias rested silently at the center of the space, surrounded by neat rows of chairs, all under a massive chandelier. Today, the space was empty, save for one. Standing, half hidden in shadow, was Master Sigerica. She stood with her back to Aeden, admiring one of the murals on the wall.

  The oil lamp suspended over her head was quiet, offering no light. The mural itself was an ode to darkness. The shapes were colored in hues of indigo, azure, slate, and black. They painted a picture of agony and death. They appeared to depict the seven levels of hell, buried below a grand temple within an azurite city of green and blue.

  “Do you know where this is?” she asked casually, half turning to face him.

  Aeden shook his head.

  “It’s one of the Thirteen Wonders of the Fold,” she watched his expression change.

  Thirteen Wonders? How come he’d never read about them?

  Master Meidl continued, “It resides at the heart of Bryn Yawr. It was once known as the Temple of Gehenna, as Bellas’ Curse,” she looked back at the mural, “It’s now known as the Gateway to Hell. Rather dramatic if you ask me. It ignores the weight of history.”

  She continued to study the mural for a moment, before turning to him.

  “I was expecting you. I have something of yours,” her expression was neutral, but there was a hint of something more about her eyes.

  Aeden couldn’t place it. Was it curiosity? Excitement? Ambition?

  He didn’t give it any more thought as his mind turned to his sword.

  “Before I give it back, there’s something I’d like to discuss.”

  Master Sigerica gestured for Aeden to follow. He cast one last glance at the dark mural before following her to her office.

  Chapter 41

  “Salvare abolished the power of men by burying his secrets within the deepest vaults of Verold.” Lost Verses of the Book of Khein

  Sigerica Meidl, the Acquisitions and Ancient Uses of the Arkein Instructor, led Aeden away from the heart of the Chamber of Light. They swept up a set of stairs, down a small corridor and paused before an unassuming door. Master Meidl produced a key, fidgeted momentarily with the lock, before revealing the small space within.

  A solitary shaft of light spilled into her office, like molten copper. It filtered past the colored dust motes that hung in the air as if suspended by unseen strings. It touched upon the dust-covered shelves, filled with curiosities from the farthest corners of Verold. It uncovered a basket filled with loosely wound scrolls and a satchel with a unique set of tools. It highlighted the space beside a table, where a stack of books precariously balanced against the cool stone wall.

  It’s what the light failed to touch that most entranced Aeden.

  Hidden in shadow, basking in its own obscurity, was the elegant curve of a deadly weapon. The stray shaft of light, cutting through Sigerica’s office, stopped at the foot of the polished surface, as if the sun itself didn’t dare mark its features. The dust danced far from its scabbard. Even the soft fingers of reflected light shied away from its charcoal-hued hilt.

  Aeden took a step into Master Meidl’s office, reaching for the midnight sword. The air seemed to hum about it, he could feel it, now that he was so close. It sang to him. It beckoned to him. It called his name, Kan Savasci.

  “Interesting,” Master Meidl stated, stabbing at Aeden’s awareness, as she watched him carefully. “You hear it, don’t you?”

  Aeden retracted his hand and looked up, startled. He’d nearly forgotten she was there. He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Master Sigerica could discern the truth from his expression.

  “Then the whispers are true.”

  Master Sigerica was slowly shaking her head as if she were momentarily at a loss for words.

  Aeden tore his gaze from the Templas sword and studied Master Meidl. Her face was solemn and contemplative. Her posture was momentarily soft and womanly. Concern lined her eyes. Compassion touched the corners of her mouth.

  “What a terrible burden,” she muttered, before remembering herself.

  Sigerica drew herself upright. Her expression fell away.

  She gestured for Aeden to take a seat. The change was so abrupt that Aeden wouldn’t have caught it had he been looking elsewhere. Her movement was purposeful, filled with intent. He felt compelled to obey. He took a step toward the chair as he watched Master Sigerica move to stand by the window, peering outward momentarily, as if gathering herself.

  “Have you ever heard of the Pathach?” she asked.

  Aeden looked up, his fingers gripping the back of the chair. Thoughts of his sword slipped away, nothing more
than another swirling mote upon the air.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Memories of the Monastery of the Cave swelled within his mind. It had been the last time he’d seen the archduchess. The last time he’d heard her voice, savored her smile, glanced upon her beauty, upon her sadness.

  It was within its walls he’d heard the word. Pathach. The white priest had declared Verold unready. She had said it was too soon.

  The memory faded.

  “There’s a story, older than time,” Sigerica began, her voice soft, “It speaks of a woman of incredible power. A savior. A hero,” she took in a slow breath, looking from the basket of scrolls to Aeden, “It’s nothing more than the forgotten fragments of a dozen legends, pieced together, carefully over a lifetime.”

  Meidl fell silent. The dust motes stopped their slow, muted dance, and simply hung upon the air, as if waiting for the master to resume.

  “One of those legends refers to an ‘onyx sword, black as pitch, forged by the gods,’ and it had a name,” Sigerica met Aeden’s eyes, “It was called the Kan Savasci.”

  Aeden looked from Master Meidl to the shadowed corner where his sword resided. Curiosity suddenly tugged desperately at his sleeve, begging for his attention.

  “What does it mean?”

  Master Meidl glanced into the shadowed corner as if contemplating her response.

  “There are many translations for it,” she finally said, “but in one of the older tongues, it means: god killer.”

  Aeden didn’t say anything. Instead, he took in a slow breath. Feeling unsteady on his feet. He moved to sit in the chair, he leaned forward and closed his eyes.

  Years ago, before he’d begun his third coming-of-age trial, his father had mentioned the sword. It had been one of the last things his father had said to him. It was one of Aeden’s last positive memories before his village had been burned to the ground. Before S’Vothe had been visited by the deadly wrath of a draccus fiend.

  The kovor’s words now played through Aeden’s mind, clear as day, “There is a secret tied to that blade, one I cannot tell you until you’ve passed your final trial and become a man. Perhaps, upon your return we shall share a drink together, as father and son, and discuss its true name.”