by D. C. Payson
“Yes, I met Eobax,” said Domin, his footsteps receding. “He was well-made. Enbor ymad nal Brod Simarron.”
“What did he say?” Thezdan asked in a whisper.
Lothic leaned in close. “It was a blessing. It translates as ‘May the Great Shaper grant that he be recast.’”
Domin came back toward them, his golden beard reflecting some of the candlelight.
“Thank you for your words,” said Thezdan. “My father was a good man, a good leader.”
Domin placed a clutch of candles on the table and set about lighting them. “And you, young Guardian,” he said, looking up at Thezdan, “you bear the Eo title. Tell me: where do you lead your Clan in this difficult age?”
“I am not an Eo, nor is Sithic, as you knew him, still Prime,” Thezdan said, shaking his head. “I am Thezdan, a Searcher; and he is now Lothic, Prior-warrior.”
Domin let out a deep laugh that reverberated off the wooden floor and walls of the building. “I have never understood your titles. Has he who was once Prime really ceased to know the things that made him a great warrior? Is he to be trusted less in matters of war than the youngest En?”
“Domin, much has changed,” Lothic interjected.
“Indeed it has,” said Domin. “But has time really extinguished the warrior’s fire within you? And you, young Thez, who once led men well enough to be called Eo, are you not what you once were? Will others no longer follow you if you lead?”
“Bren Simarron, we have important things to discuss,” said Lothic. “Let’s—”
“I would hear his answer, first,” said Domin, cutting Lothic off. “Tell me, Searcher, will others no longer follow you?”
Thezdan was lost in the candlelight, his mind replaying the flight from the Trebain to the forest. He tried to pull those memories forward, imagining what it might be like to be to lead his Clan again. “I do not know,” he answered finally.
“I see,” said Domin. “Then you should keep searching.” He turned toward Lothic. “Tell me, Sithic, what has made you come to see me after all this time? What is so urgent that you would follow me to the gates of Riverstride?”
“It is urgent, yes, though much of it remains outside my understanding. Eodan brought a lost woman to our settlement yesterday. He had found her alone wandering in the western forest. She claimed to be Princess Elleina’s granddaughter.”
“Was she?”
“I believe so, yes. She wears an artifact, a magestone artifact.”
“Magestone?” Domin repeated skeptically. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Domin.”
“This artifact, what did it look like?”
“Like the symbol on the royal crest.”
Domin rumbled pensively. “Does she show any powers?”
“Actually, she does,” said Thezdan. “Her necklace shines brightly when she’s in danger, and she seems to have remarkable facility with language. She was able to understand the Sylvan despite not being a Guardian.”
“I believe she also shares the ancient Guardian-Vorraver connection with Eodan,” Lothic added.
“I see,” said Domin, pausing to think. His breath hummed like wind passing through a cave. “Then there can be no question that the girl is who she claims to be. Her artifact sounds like one of the fren sin alburred, the three key pieces, that contain the blessings of Gahaella and Brod Simarron. It would not offer its powers to someone unless they descended from the Vorraver bloodline.”
“There is more, Domin,” said Lothic. “Another woman appeared shortly after the Vorraver did. She announced herself as Balyssa, and she claimed to be the one who had summoned the girl.”
Domin’s expression changed at the mention of Balyssa. “So the spirits stir? I met Balyssa during the early days of the human Revolution. She is Keffig yor Kalon, one of the Spirit Dancer’s Handmaidens, and she was indeed involved in Princess Elleina’s flight. I have never known to where Balyssa sent Princess Elleina. I am not surprised she returned with one ‘of Ellenia’ and not the Princess herself because humans live such short lives.”
“But why now? Is there a reason she is here now?” Lothic asked.
“Surely,” said Domin. “The Keffig do not typically insert themselves into the affairs of the living. Their task is to ensure that the cycle of spirit release and return to the Spirit Winds continues, and that is a process with which very few things can interfere. For a Keffig to have appeared suddenly, with a bearer of a key piece, is an ominous portent.”
“Perhaps then it is as we were told,” said Lothic. “Balyssa claims that a cult of the Still Lord has established itself here in Aevilen, and that it is working to summon a Champion.”
“Kron Diggur … ” said Domin gravely under his breath. “For the Rokkin, even discussion of him, he you call the ‘Still Lord,’ is a grave offense. You say that a Keffig has warned you that one of his Champions is to be summoned? I dare not believe it.”
“Yes, I also thought it impossible at first,” said Lothic. “But perhaps it makes sense. How else does one explain the Party’s depredations? Perhaps the Party is, as Balyssa claims, a front for the Still Lord’s cult.”
“The Party?” Domin echoed, his tone growing tense. He turned to the side, leaning against the warehouse racks. “The Party is a cult? The Party … Kron Diggur … NO!”
Suddenly the giant Rokkin dropped to his knees, the floorboards cracking under the force of the collision. With a massive blow from his fist, he shattered an empty barrel beside him.
“REDYAR!” Domin boomed. “My mind burns, Sithic! My mind BURNS!”
“Watch out, Lothic!” Thezdan exclaimed, grabbing Lothic’s shoulder and pulling him away.
“Falbor nal Brod Simarron!” Domin groaned, gripping his head in his hands. “I am weak-minded, Sithic! I knew, years ago in Ymreddan, that the Party was supporting Redyar from outside. Now he still lives, which, as even back then he was showing the grod yor balog, the death glow, should not have been possible! But you have brought me the explanation!”
“The Cult,” Lothic murmured.
Domin let his hands fall. He slouched, his heavy breathing making the candle flames tremble. “We are forbidden to speak of Kron Diggur because this has happened before. Generations ago, the Elder Fargius discovered a way to extend his life. He took blessed fildreman arrod, the high lifestones mined from the caverns of Ymreddan, and corrupted them with the dark magic of Kron Diggur. Those energies bound his flesh together again, but they also came to control him. Eventually he was not a Rokkin at all, but a soulless golem bound to an evil god. Through the promise of extended life, other Elders were persuaded to give themselves over to Kron Diggur. It was only Uleric, Senior Elder of the Council, who stopped it.”
“Wait,” said Lothic. “Uleric, whose statue fills the entry hall?”
“Yes,” Domin replied. “Our most honored ancestor. As Fargius and other Elders were turning from the Brod Simarron, seeking eternal life through the desecration of His gifts, Uleric chose to be an example of the old ways. Already gripped by the grod yor balog himself, he sat in the main hall and meditated. For weeks on end, he barely moved, and all in Ymreddan—from the young to the Elders—could watch as day by day his deathlight grew stronger. And then, finally, he crumbled, his cloak found resting upon the shards of his former being. He reminded us that this was the way of the Rokkin; this was what the Brod Simarron had intended when he shaped us!”
“But what became of the cultists?” asked Lothic.
“A great and harrowing battle inside the halls of Ymreddan itself. It is why we treat the blessed lifestones so seriously, and why you and I were exiled over the one found in your quarters.”
“I had not put it there!” Lothic protested. “I would never have betrayed you!”
“I know,” said Domin. “It is clear that it was Redyar. He follows the path of Fargius, I am sure of it now. He is not conducting the corrupting rituals in Ymreddan; he could not keep suc
h a thing secret. But once you told me the Party masked a cult of Kron Diggur, the evidence all fell into place. They are his conspirators. It was there in front of me all along. Ymreddan may be in the grip of the darkest of the Dark Lords.”
“Then we may be in terrible trouble,” said Lothic. “Balyssa told us of another Champion, Aevilen’s Champion, that may be able to save us. But to get to it, we would need to reassemble a divided key, one piece of which is in Rokkin hands.”
Domin rose from his knees and stood at his full height. “She is right! We must rouse the draeggor, the beast that slumbers deep in the great mountain! With it at our side, we will wipe the stain of Kron Diggur from Ymreddan and Aevilen both!”
“But if Redyar is indeed aligned against us, I cannot see how we could possibly get the Rokkin piece,” said Lothic. “We cannot ask for it, and we do not have the strength to take it.”
“There may be another way,” said Domin. “Even if Redyar has turned, I am sure that some of the other Elders remain true-cast Rokkin. We will go to the Elder Council.”
“What?” said Lothic, startled by the suggestion. “Even if we could, what good would that do?”
“Every Elder is told the secrets of the alburred keys and the draeggor when they ascend to their seat; such has been the case since the last time the Champion’s Gate was sealed over a millennium ago. There is also an oath that is taken that requires the Council to give audience to any Sylvan or human bearing one of the key pieces. This is how we will proceed. We will have the Vorraver girl request an audience, and she will stand before the Council and tell them what you have told me. The Elders will award her the key piece … and perhaps Redyar’s treachery will be revealed!”
“Wait,” Thezdan interjected sharply. “You would send the girl before the Council when we believe that the Council’s head allies himself with the Party? The moment she steps foot in Ymreddan, she will be killed!”
“You do not understand our oaths,” said Domin. “She will be safe. Elder Ormold and the entire warrior caste will ensure it.”
“And what if Ormold has turned? What if he too is corrupted?”
“He is not. I have known Ormold for seven times longer than you have been alive. He is the one Elder I would never doubt.”
Thezdan shook his head. “I cannot … !”
“If we were to try to gain an audience with the Council,” Lothic interrupted, “how would we go about it? Are you sure it’s even possible?”
“We would have to take the girl to meet with the Ambassador in Riverstride,” said Domin. “He would bring word back to Ymreddan that she has requested an audience.”
“Do you think we can we trust the Ambassador?” asked Lothic. “Would he tell us if an audience were safe for the Vorraver girl?”
“Ullor? He was once as you were to me, Sithic: yor Domin barrog Simarron. He was the first apprentice I shaped. He continues to visit me even though the consequences would be severe were he discovered.”
Lothic nodded. “That is certainly reassuring.” He looked over toward Thezdan. “Eodan, will you at least agree to a meeting with the Ambassador?”
“Perhaps, but would it be possible to meet outside the city? At your house, Domin?”
“No, Eodan,” said Domin. “I cannot be a part of the initial meetings; I am jobbur, unwelcome. Ullor would risk his position by accepting a formal invitation from me. The only way for this to happen is for you to arrive at the embassy with the girl and to request the meeting directly. Do not worry; I can provide you cover to get there.”
“That’s it?” Thezdan said, his frustration rising. “We just walk up to a Rokkin warrior in Riverstride and demand a meeting? And trust them not to alert a Party patrol?”
“As I said before, it would be against Rokkin tradition to do so,” said Domin. “We handle our own affairs. Turning you over to Party patrolmen would be bidroddam.”
“Dishonorable,” Lothic clarified.
Thezdan sighed. He put his elbows on the table and leaned over in a slouch. “You’re convinced, aren’t you Lothic? You think that this is the only way?”
“Yes, Eodan,” Lothic replied. “For now, yes.”
“I don’t like it,” said Thezdan. “It comes with great risk for Julia, and the result is too uncertain. But I know that she cannot sit idly by, as that will bring her no closer to her return home … We should go back to the fort with Domin. We’ll talk to Julia and Balyssa and see what they say. If they approve, then we can go to Riverstride tomorrow.”
“What do you think, Bren Simarron?” Lothic asked.
“I think he suggests a wise and measured approach,” said Domin.
“Very well,” said Lothic. “I will go with Domin and show him the way. It is getting late, though; perhaps we should wait out the morning at Domin’s house.”
“No,” Thezdan replied. “It is still several hours until dusk. We should be far enough west by then to be clear of the Night Reapers.”
“But the three of us cannot leave together,” said Lothic. “It would arouse too much suspicion. Even with a meager, thirty-minute delay, the later cart would be at great risk.”
“Given your leg, I think Scylld and I might fare better than you and Domin should trouble arise,” Thezdan replied. “But I’m not worried. It should be easy for me to make it through the western plains by nightfall, even with the delay.”
“Perhaps you should go ahead, Eodan?” asked Lothic. “Even with a night in Domin’s house, he and I will be back at the Fort before midday tomorrow.”
Thezdan recalled his unsettling intuition that something had happened to Julia, that she’d been in mortal peril. Then he heard the voice in his head again. You are late, Guardian! Aevilen will be mine!
“Something is happening,” said Thezdan. “With each moment the danger for Julia, for everyone, is growing. We cannot spare any time at all; we must all go tonight.”
“That is the resolve of an Eo,” said Domin, smiling. He turned and made his way over toward the barred door of the storeroom. “Come, Lothic; his mind is made. Let us go.”
“As you wish, Eodan,” said Lothic, resigned. “But do not risk being seen by the by the Night Reapers. Remember, you can do no good if you are dead.”
“I will follow in half an hour,” said Thezdan. “We’ll meet back at the Fort this evening.”
Domin unwrapped the chain and pushed the bolt aside. He opened the door slowly this time, scanning the alleyway and road beyond.
“Mor boddir nal Brod Simarron,” he said, turning toward Thezdan and raising his massive hand in a clenched fist at his side. He then stepped out into the afternoon sun.
Lothic followed and pushed the door closed behind them, leaving Thezdan alone in the storeroom. Thezdan let out a long exhale and turned back toward the glowing candle at the center of the table.
“Don’t fail me, light.”
The sounds of heavy footsteps and clanking chain mail filled the cathedralesque throne room, punctuated by a sudden thud as the chest hit the floor. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows of the second-floor gallery, casting long shadows from the statues of Aevilen’s heroes above. Two young Rokkin, their chest-length beards hanging over colorful dress tunics, stood at attention on either side of the chest.
“We present these blessed fildreman arrod to you as a gift of friendship between our peoples,” said Redyar from behind, lifting a raised fist in salute. Over the woven gold of his Senior Elder’s shawl flowed his giant, silver beard, a trophy grown over a centuries-long lifetime. Its strands matched the two long, silver streaks that ran from his eyes down his cheeks.
Grimmel leaned forward in his throne and admired the box. Even half full, it would be an excellent harvest indeed.
“Thank you, Elder Redyar,” he said with unctuous gratitude. “Your gift will heal many of Aevilen’s sick and wounded. Surely there could be no greater token of your great and enduring friendship.”
“Of
course, Revolutionary Grimmel. May our friendship last as long as the mountain stone.”
Grimmel stood and waved his hand, dismissing the human and Rokkin soldiers gathered in the room. “Leave us, all of you. I wish to have private audience and counsel with Elder Redyar.”
Redyar nodded at the assembled Rokkin, who then turned and filed out. When the heavy door closed behind the last departing guard, Grimmel rose from his throne and descended several stairs to where Redyar stood.
“It appears you have done very well,” Grimmel said, his tone pleased but no longer obsequious.
“I am working the miners hard, as you instructed,” said Redyar. “It is not without risk. Already some of the Elders question the impact of our pace on the structural integrity of the shafts below Ymreddan. I may not be able to keep them in line for long.”
“It does not matter,” said Grimmel. “We are very close to our aims; we will not need their assistance much longer.” He gestured toward the chest. “Now, show me what you’ve brought.”
Redyar reached down and pulled open the top. The red crystals inside radiated a soft light, and they were large—larger than usual. The Master would be pleased.
“Outstanding!” Grimmel hissed, his gaze fixed on the gleaming treasure. “Are there any great lifestones?”
“Not in there, Lord, though we have finally found another.”
Grimmel looked up, his nostrils flaring. “Where is it?”
Redyar reached into a pouch under his tunic and brought forth a very large, radiant stone. Unlike the others, this one shone with a brilliant, prismatic light. “No finer fildreman arrod has been found in a century,” he said without emotion. “This one would have grown to be an Elder, surely.”
Grimmel reached out and received the crystal. He turned it around several times, examining it from all sides. It was flawless, a thing that in the hands of the Master would yield such pure, magnificent power that Grimmel’s mind swirled even to consider it.
“Grimmel,” Redyar interrupted. “My deathlight is getting brighter. I will not survive much longer without assistance.”
