by Alex Lang
He shot hasty glances to his right and left, and for a moment his movements mirrored those of Alderin’s. All around him, the wraiths were appearing.
“Blasted fool,” Kyris chided. He knew better than to get distracted. He forced himself to focus on Alderin. He just needed an opening to finish this and to escape the wraiths.
The windstrider had stopped his erratic movements, perhaps thinking Kyris had vanished for good. With the man’s back exposed, Kyris shifted out of the Gloom and attacked. Maybe it was the spike of dread that accompanied the use of his ability or perhaps the slightest scuffing of boot upon the stone paved road, but something gave him away. Kyris was met with a blast of air that staggered him.
Alderin spun with amazing speed, fear and surprise clear on his face, but that didn’t stop him from unleashing another torrent of air, which knocked the men away from each other. The windstrider handled it with more poise and grace, keeping his footing.
Kyris tumbled backward, turned it into a roll, and came up on his feet, just in time to intercept the windstrider’s attack of steel.
“What sort of foul art is this?! What are you?” Alderin hissed, but he didn't wait for an answer. He came at Kyris with a rush of sword strikes interspersed with attacks of wind.
Kyris couldn’t see the flow of air as he had in the Gloom. Though the blasts were not so powerful as told in the stories or to blow him off his feet, they were, however, strong enough to push and unbalance him. This made proper fighting rather difficult, and had Alderin been as skilled with the sword as his lofty titles would suggest, Kyris would already be dead. As it was, the best he could manage was to retreat and dodge by anticipating the assaults of air somewhat by reading the hand gestures.
The windstrider lunged at him, saber leading. Kyris parried the thrust but caught a blast, too close to avoid and stronger for the proximity, and it sent him reeling. On reflex, his mind made a desperate leap for the doorway to the Gloom, and he watched as Alderin's shadowy, insubstantial saber swiped through his torso with no ill effect.
With the Gloom came the wraiths. They glided and drifted towards him, giving him no time to reflect on how close he had come to spilling his innards. The wraiths had grown more numerous and substantial, no longer vague shapes or simple hints of twisted things. He ran, both from them and to put some distance between himself and the windstrider.
As soon as Kyris was out of easy striking range from Alderin’s blade, he fled the darkened world.
Kyris saw the uncertainty on the winstrider’s face as he reappeared. It was a look he'd seen before, when those of supreme confidence realized they’d encountered something unknown that just might be beyond their ability. He wondered if Alderin believed him to be a phantom, deathless and un-killable. If the man only knew the truth of it.
Whatever Alderin’s thoughts or fears, it didn’t deter his goal of skewering Kyris, as the windstrider charged forward to continue his assault. Kyris couldn’t help but respect the conviction. Others had run by this point.
He shouldn’t shift again, but what choice did he have? If this was a contest of steel, Kyris was certain he would prevail, but he couldn’t properly fight with torrents of air battering him. There was only one outcome of this battle if Kyris didn’t use the Gloom.
Kyris turned away. He charged across the road with all the strength his legs could muster, heading for the low stone wall with the wrought iron top.
“Coward!” Alderin roared, and Kyris couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder. The windstrider lived up to his title as he propelled himself forward, and with two long strides was within striking range again.
Just before Kyris reached the wall, he jerked left and entered the Gloom. Not quickly enough, as a searing pain cut across his upper back.
This time, instead of being met with the usual eerie silence, a cacophony of shrieks and wails assailed him. The wraiths swam, swirling and snaking through the air, coming towards him.
Familiarity didn’t make it any less disturbing. The spectral, pitch-dark claws, gaping beaks, talons, and snapping jaws of beast and man, and things he had no name for. They were a disparate collection of horrors, a frightful sight, but it was their cries that affected Kyris most, more than mere sound should. The keening told of such despair it caused his chest to ache. The screeches that spoke of such immense loathing and malice, promised such suffering and agony they staggered him as much as the air the windstrider threw.
Kyris screamed in defiance, shutting out the discord.
His jerking motion before shifting had been intended as a feint, though it most likely saved his life. Reversing his grip on his weapons, he jumped on top of the low wall, pivoted, and pushed off into a high leap at Alderin, both blades angled down like fangs of a striking snake, albeit mismatched fangs. By Shar’s blessing, the windstrider had turned away from him, perhaps believing Kyris’ last seen movement meant he was attempting to circle behind again. Kyris shifted out just as something, a hand or perhaps talon, raked across his face. The world brightened, and the wraiths disappeared as he came down, still screaming, landing atop the scion of Kalaa.
Carried by the momentum, the two men fell forward and Kyris tumbled off, losing his grip on the shortsword. He bounced up holding his dagger out in front as a meager defense for an attack that never came. The windstrider lay motionless.
Kyris’ shortsword was buried deep in Alderin, between neck and shoulder. A matching, smaller wound was on the other side.
The fight was over. An uncontrollable shudder racked Kyris’ body. A wraith had touched him. The fear and revulsion hit him, and he dropped to the ground in a crouch. He had come so very close. With his eyes closed, Kyris pulled in long, deep breaths and slowly regained his composure.
A throbbing pain radiated from his cheek, but he ignored it. There would be time to tend to the wound later.
Drained and still a little unsteady, Kyris lurched forward to retrieve his sword. He moved the body on its side to better free his weapon and found Alderin’s expression calm despite the violent nature of his end. There was peace in death, Kyris thought, for some.
At moments such as these, he often questioned his judgment in using his ability. But then again, death was death, whether by steel or wraith. His spirit was destined for Mythaas either way. Still, no matter how much he told himself this, Kyris couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that meeting his end at the hands and claws of the wraiths was far, far worse than the stab of a dagger.
Kyris pushed the doubts aside. He was alive, and while the fate of his spirit may have been a foregone conclusion, there would be no peace in life until he fulfilled the vow he'd sworn.
With considerable effort, he managed to pull the shortsword free of its scabbard of flesh. He was searching for something to wipe his blade clean when figures appeared down the street but not from the direction of his planned escape route. Thanking Shar for small favors, Kyris retrieved his satchel and made his way to the corner to begin the long path that would take him home.
Chapter Three
Kyris traveled upon the Ryles, the wide river that snaked through Vigil, separating the Old City and the upper districts of the bluff from the vast warrens of the east. He guided his skiff towards the middle and let the current do its work.
With the rush of battle over and the fear of the Gloom abated, a weariness settled in, and Kyris struggled to stay alert. The lulling sound of the water and the gentle bobbing of the skiff only made matters worse.
The clouds had blown away, leaving a clear view of Mezu Vur, the dead moon, the corpse of a goddess hovering high. Its pale yellow light competed with the silvery glow of the false sun. Kyris, as he did every time he gazed up at the night sky, searched out the sphere of darkness that was Mezu Vos, discernible only by the lack of stars. The malevolent twin sister of Mezu Vur. The void moon, the maw of oblivion, the dread goddess that was the source of all things foul, and thus, Kyris’ progenitor. He felt no kinship staring into the blackness, and the wraiths w
ere anything but affable. Still, while most avoided looking to Mezu Vos, preferring to pretend it wasn’t there at all, Kyris sought it out, as if to challenge the goddess to show him something, anything.
Kyris caught his eyelids drifting closed and bolted up. Deciding now wasn’t the best time for godly provocation, he turned his attention to more earthly objects of interest. The brilliance of the Gilded Quarters appeared ahead on the eastern bank which sent him paddling towards the opposite side to hide in the shadow of the high walls of the Old city.
He continued floating downstream, past the varied districts of the city and underneath the stone arches of the behemoths that loomed over the water’s surface, three of the seven great bridges that spanned the Ryles.
Finally, he came upon and maneuvered into a canal that took him into the internal eastern districts. Here, the fiery glow of the Hammerfell forges lit the waterway, and the pinging of the hammers could be heard even at this late hour. The pyre houses of Brightgate followed, their stacks billowing endless smoke and ash, the flames within serving a very different task.
The water-bound portion of his journey ended in Marshlanding, where no one would give a lone figure in the night a second glance. Two more hours of trekking through the streets brought him back to the dwelling he shared with his sisters; two rooms at a modest inn located in one of the far outer districts of Vigil, worlds away from the Curunir estate.
Kyris eased the wooden door closed and with great care made his way through the room, wincing whenever a creaking floor board thwarted his attempts at stealth. A candle lantern had been left on the table, next to a jug of water and some stale bread. Tasi, always thoughtful.
The door to the girls’ room was ajar, and he moved towards it but hesitated at reaching the doorway. He didn’t want to wake them, didn’t relish having to relate the failure of the night, but the injury to his back required Tasi’s tending. He wouldn’t be able to dress the wound himself.
“I sincerely hope it’s you, Kyris, creeping around out there,” his sister whispered from within the dark of the room.
He sighed. It seemed to him the most infallible and effective alarm against intruders was poor construction and neglect, though Jahna’s hearing was sharper than most.
“Yes, Jahna,” he said, then entered the room, letting the light from the candle spill in. The space was small and sparsely furnished, with just two cots and a short table between them. On the table was a pouch that held Jahna’s wood carving tools, and arranged on the surface was a modest sampling of her work, mostly birds. She had been sculpting a lot of birds of late. Set against the wall along the floor was a row of neatly aligned books.
Jahna was sitting up in bed, leaning against her pillow. Her dark hair was up and secured by a comb. Attached to it was a black veil that covered the entirety of her face. She’d waited up.
“How did it go?” Jahna asked in a whisper.
Four dead, a highborn and a scion among that count, and the prize unclaimed, he thought, but said nothing. Instead, Kyris let out a heavy sigh and sat on the end of her bed.
Tasi, in the other bed, stirred within her blankets, turned away from them, then muttered something in her sleep.
“That bad? Tell me,” Jahna said, her voice no longer kept low.
Tasi turned back around and propped herself up, shielding her eyes from the light. “What’s going on?” Her golden curls were a wild mess about her head.
Kyris smiled at the sight. “Nothing. Go back to sleep, Tasi.”
Ignoring Kyris, she stretched and pulled herself from the small bed. “What happened to your face?” she cried.
He’d forgotten, having become used to the dull, throbbing pain. Bringing a hand up to touch his right cheek, he flinched; it felt swollen and hot to the touch.
“What happened to your face?” Jahna echoed, though she made it sound more like a demand than a question.
“It’s nothing. A scratch.”
Tasi got up and left the room, reappearing a moment later with the lamp, a cloth, and a cup of water. She wet the cloth and dabbed at the wound. He clenched his jaws at the bright flare of pain.
Her eyes widened, and she gave him an incredulous look that conveyed her recognition of the source of the wound. Kyris had only felt the touch of the wraiths once before, but it had been Tasi who tended that injury, too.
Kyris pleaded with his eyes.
Tasi frowned in acquiescence.
“You let someone cut your face?” Jahna asked, a note of disbelief in her voice.
“Ha, I’m glad you think so highly of my skills that I would have to permit such an offense.”
“In my eyes, you are as fleet as a finch and strong as an ox.”
Kyris frowned, unsure if his sister was mocking him or herself. Both, perhaps. “Yes, well, that as it may be, tonight was… difficult.”
Kyris related the calamitous events of the night to them, leaving out only his close encounter with the wraiths.
“That’s terrible,” Tasi said when he was done.
“Yes, Marlek will be sorely displeased,” Kyris said.
“I meant those killed. The guardsmen, the lord, and his nephew.”
“Yes, well… I’ll not shed a tear for any highborn,” he said, though avoiding Tasi’s eyes.
“Does your personal war extend to the whole of the Tesrin elite now?” Jahna asked, her tone accusatory.
“Why not? The guild houses, the High Council… They’re all just lackeys to the Path. If I declared their overlords my enemy, then surely that extends to them, as well.”
Jahna scoffed. “Might as well swear all the world your enemy, then.”
“If that’s what it—”
“Marlek will be upset?” Tasi cut in, an obvious attempt at diverting the conversation before the same old argument reared. “Couldn’t you explain to him what happened?”
“What happened? That I was bested by a lock? That I killed a lord out of reflex? And a windstrider in making my escape? I’m sure he’ll be most understanding.” At Tasi’s dejected expression, he placed a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, Tasi. I’m just upset with myself. I should have entered the Gloom when I heard the guardsman at the study door.”
“No,” Jahna said. “Is that the lesson you learned tonight? To be more careless? Someone would have discovered the lord's body, the alarm still raised, and given the size of the estate you described, you wouldn’t have made it halfway out before the wraiths appeared. If the windstrider found you then, by your own assessment, you would not have defeated him without use of the Gloom. Given your account, I’m surprised you didn’t see them. Very surprised.”
“I was finished and gone before any of them appeared,” Kyris lied, giving Tasi a pointed look. “I was careful… as always.”
Jahna remained silent, but it was a silence that spoke of barely restrained condemnation. Kyris imagined the deep frown underneath her veil. Though he couldn’t see her face, he’d learned long ago to read her mood by her hands; currently interlocked, the right seemingly attempting to crush the left.
The quiet dragged as the three sat there. Kyris was about to rise when Jahna spoke up. “We should leave.”
Not this again, he thought, suppressing a sigh. “No,” he paused, mindful of keeping his tone light. “We can’t spare the coins to travel. And we need to be here.”
“We don’t need to be in the city, you want to be here.”
“We all agreed to—”
Tasi’s glare cut him off. The volume of his voice had risen and was only heading louder. He was too tired and in no mood.
Tasi sat on the bed between them, placing a hand on each of theirs. “Ky is back and safe,” she said to Jahna. Turning to him, “We’ll figure something out. Everything will be fine.”
Kyris wondered when his adopted sister had become the mediator between him and his twin. He gave Tasi’s hand a squeeze, then stood.
“Yes, of course. Jahna, we’re close, I can feel it. This is only a minor setback. I�
��m asking you to trust me a little further. I can still do this, and I won’t let anything happen to you or Tasi.”
“Of course I trust you, you dolt, and it's not us I worry about.” Before Kyris could reply, she continued on. “All right, now tell me. What are you going to do about Marlek? He won’t be happy that you’re returning empty-handed.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly leave empty handed,” Kyris said, as he fished out the two books from his satchel and handed them to Tasi. It was a weak and obvious diversion, but he didn’t want them to worry about Marlek.
“Books? You stole books from Lord Rhistell?” Tasi asked.
“Only two,” Kyris replied, a little defensive. “He had so many, I didn’t think he would miss them. I suppose he won’t miss any at all now.”
“Velloras, The Founder: An Account of the Life and Times of the First Archon, Second Edition.” Tasi read the title of one book, then the other. “The Misadventures of Mogis Mythe.”
Kyris leaned over to look at the covers. He hadn’t exactly selected them with care.
“Oh, joy, ancient history and… what, your autobiography?” Jahna teased. Despite her dismissive words, Kyris knew she would have Tasi read her both books in their entirety, cover to cover, at least twice.
“Yes, well, I didn’t have the time to peruse his complete collection.”
Tasi handed a book to Jahna. Her hands explored the embossed cover, opened it, then flipped through the pages, landing on a random one. She ran her fingers down the page as though trying to feel the words. Then she brought the book to her veil and inhaled deeply.
Jahna had always loved books, with their mother teaching the two to read as young children; an oddity in their small village. She’d spent countless hours with her nose buried in a tome. But since being blinded, she’d had to settle for having books read to her. Kyris used to do it when they were younger, but Tasi had taken over that role.
