Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

The fight drained out of her; the thrashing stopped, and her nails, dug deep into the skin of his forearm, came free as her hand fell away. Jantyre released his hold and rolled off. Sibilla inhaled, sucking in the precious air, then coughed uncontrollably. The fit continued for some time, and when she regained some of her composure, she glared at him with a mixture of shock and hate. Her face was flushed, whether from the choking, coughing, or anger, he could not tell. Jantyre had moved to an armchair next to the bed while waiting for her to recover, and at her murderous glare, he laughed. A throaty, genuine laugh, and Sibilla fumed all the more.

  “You misunderstand me, sweet Sibilla,” Jantyre said. “This,” he gestured to the bed and lavishly furnished room, “is just for fun. I do not expect you to tell me the truth because we rutted a bit. I expect you to tell me the truth or I would kill you. Afterward, I would have to question your sister, Gildae. A bit young, but…” he gave a small shrug. “And if I feel she was also unforthcoming with the truth, well, after I’m done with her, I would move on to your brothers. Though, I might skip on the rutting with them. Do not take offense, it is just a personal preference.”

  “You’re insane,” Sibilla hissed, her faced even redder, and Jantyre was certain now it was from anger. “You dare threaten me and my house? House Serrathon will crush you and your insignificant house. You will regret—”

  “No need to get all worked up. It’s rather unattractive. I was merely making a point. I do believe you, my sweet. So, your dear sister’s virtue is safe from me, for now.” He grinned at her.

  “I will have your head, Jantyre. This I swear.”

  Jantyre lunged out of his chair, and the curtains and the fabric of the bed canopy fluttered as if a gust of wind had blown through an open window. Sibilla fell back with a yelp, then composed herself only to jump a moment later as a candelabra toppled onto the tabletop.

  “Now, now. I will pretend I did not hear that, just this once. Please do not say anything in haste that might irrevocably damage our lovely arrangement.”

  Sibilla stared at him, mouth agape, as though at a loss for words.

  “My sweet Sibilla, worry not. As I stated, I believe you. House Serrathon had nothing to do with the recent unfortunate events that befell my house. Let’s not let a trifling lover's quarrel get overblown.”

  “After this day, there will be no more House Curunir.”

  Jantyre sighed. “And what reason would you give for starting this crusade? Would you have all of this…” Jantyre gestured to the bed, “be known? That a daughter of House Serrathon debased herself with a ward of the lowly House Curunir? Oh, Sibilla, the things we’ve done. What would all your suitors think?”

  The look Sibilla gave him was of equal measure disgust and bewilderment. “You think there will be no reprisal because you would tarnish my good name? You threatened my life and those of my siblings.”

  “No. No. I threatened to rape your sister. Your brothers, well, I would find others so inclined to do the deed.”

  “You are mad.”

  Jantyre tilted his head in thought, then looked back to her. “No, not nearly.”

  Her body shook, and she looked torn between clawing his eyes out and running from the room.

  “Now, now. Don’t overreact. It was only a narrative of what would have occurred if you had not told me the truth, sweet Sibilla. Since you did, I would hate to see unwarranted conflict between our two houses. But, do what you must.”

  Sibilla grabbed her undergarments from the floor and dressed.

  “Oh, leaving already?” Jantyre gave an expression of mock surprise. “I thought we would go again.” He gestured to the bed.

  Once Sibilla had stormed from the room, Jantyre slumped back into the armchair, wondering if he had overdone it. She was his only line into House Serrathon, and he had just severed it utterly and completely. It was true that she had irritated him, but what did he care that others would defame the Curunir name? And the ranking game the league houses play… first house, sixth house, it was all drivel to him.

  House Serrathon didn’t have anything to do with the murder of his uncle and cousin, but his grandmother’s directive had given him the perfect pretense to set up this little tryst. He wanted word to get out that House Curunir was seeking retribution at all costs, but starting an outright war wouldn’t do. Sibilla had been right on that account. The Imperium would not allow for open conflict, but there were other ways for House Serrathon to destroy the House Curunir.

  Jantyre smiled thinking of the discord that might arise from all this.

  “You dally,” a woman’s voice said.

  Jantyre’s eyes shifted to the source, a figure standing on the other side of the room that had not been there a moment before. Aolwyn the Storm-maiden, chosen of Kalaa, and last of the great rukh riders. Her long hair was pulled back, braided and secured with a headband. She wore a tattered tabard over ancient scale armor, trouser, and boots, with a curved sword at her side. The only difference from the common depictions Jantyre had seen of her was the large slash that ran diagonal across her chest from shoulder to hip, tearing fabric, armor, and flesh. She appeared as she always did, if a bit more stern of expression. Jantyre supposed apparitions of centuries-dead heroes didn’t have many options in clothing. He wondered how that worked.

  “Perhaps I was wrong about you,” she continued.

  Jantyre lolled his head back in exaggerated exasperation, then rolled it to settle on the woman. “I will resume our grand quest in due time. But first, I have certain errands to attend to.”

  “I will not wait overlong.”

  Kalaa’s waited twelve hundred years, he thought, you can wait a few months more. “All this is to clean up—”

  Aolwyn was gone. Who knew apparitions could be such nags?

  Back to the business at hand, Jantyre thought. House Maldorian would be next. He sighed. It wouldn’t be as fun. They had no daughters.

  Chapter Twenty

  Velledon waited near the gilded doors of the Lighting Chamber, standing near a group of fleshmenders as the ritual commenced. The walls of the massive, domed room were white and smooth without a single seam. In the center of the chamber was Allithor’s Aegis, his Soul. The pillar of white, like the bone of some colossal creature, extended from ground to ceiling and far beyond, towering over all of Vigil, suspending near the top the globe of hallowfire, the Silver Sun and Allithor’s Glory.

  Though if that were truth, it made what was about to happen all the more interesting from a theological perspective. It was thoughts such as those that had caused him no end of trouble in seminary.

  It had been some time since he’d last come to witness the most sacred ritual of the Path of Divine Flame.

  His gaze roamed over the surface of the pillar. Unlike the walls, the portion of the pillar within the chamber was covered, etched with the runes and glyphs of the gods. He recognized some symbols from his work and studies with the artificers. He had concluded long ago that the Spire was simply a very large relic. It was what had given him the idea of the quartz torches—he wasn’t the first to try, just the first to succeed.

  Gathered at the bottom were twelve of the most powerful scions of Allithor, the highest echelon of the Path, the archon lead among them. All were equipped with the most powerful relics further enhancing their divine gifts. Eleven of the keepers stood behind an equal number of stone podiums arranged in a circle. All except the archon, who stood closest to the pillar, in front of a rune-covered panel in the floor.

  Velledon watched as his father went through the motions, speaking the words, while lesser of the Order lined the walls, chanting hymns. Archon Lothander was adorned in the crimson robes of the lighting ritual like all the rest, though his were more finely detailed and trimmed with gold.

  The archon held high the Staff of Radiance as if showing off the sunburst design atop, then he slammed it down into the slot within the panel at his feet. His staff began to glow, the silver surface turning a bright white. The pillar was
opened now, unlocked and ready to be empowered by those gathered.

  Each of the other keepers placed their hands upon the podiums in front of them. Constructed of gray stone, they were blocky and a stark contrast to the white of the chamber. It was an obvious sign that the podiums were not godscraft, not of the original design, but made by his ancestors—a necessary alteration and modification after the fall of the other two Spires. If not for this addition, this stopgap measure, the Silver Sun would have extinguished long ago.

  To Velledon, the podiums represented their first step—the core belief of the Artificers of Falduin, that they, too, could create artifacts of power.

  Together, the twelve channeled their energy, their fire, into the podiums, which fed into the staff and was thus directed by the archon into the pillar. The air in the chamber thrummed with the power, and Velledon could not help but feel a sharp stab of envy. Such power, to be held by one man, what must it feel like? If the archon so wished, if gripped by a moment of madness, he could incinerate everyone in this room with holy-fire.

  Lines drawn up the pillar began to glow. As time dragged, the exertion and strain on the keepers became obvious—they leaned on the podiums, their shoulders slumped. An old woman fell to her knees, her red robes sagging around her, but she kept her hand fixed upon the stone. Another, an ancient husk of a man, collapsed. No one stopped or went to his aid. The ritual must not be interrupted.

  The archon spoke the words, “May Allithor’s light burn eternal,” marking the completion of the ritual. Then the healers of Ormoss rushed forward to the two downed keepers. By the man’s appearance, he would not be long for this position, or this life.

  The archon leaned heavily against the staff. The Silver Sun was renewed. It would continue to burn brightly before everything would have to be repeated in another fortnight. This was the duty of the archon. A duty which had been performed since before the time Vigil was a city and Tesrin a realm.

  The lighting ritual took an extreme toll on those who participated. It drained them. Wrecked their bodies. It took the constant administering of the healers of Ormoss to keep them living as long as they had. It was a constant struggle, a battle of rituals; the lighting versus the mending. The ceremony slowly killing while the blessed of Ormoss regenerated the flesh… and, when necessary, replacing.

  It was a losing battle, though. There was a limit to what the Ormossans could do. The strain and the natural course of things eventually won.

  Velledon looked upon his father, not a handsome man but strong of body still at fifty-two years. He did not suffer from vanity and hadn’t ever requested the Ormossans apply their craft to fix his hawkish nose or to soften the harsh lines upon his face. It all about the Path with him, and there was room for naught else.

  There was a time when he’d wanted to be like his father and the rest. A Keeper of the Fire and Faith. But Velledon was not a godblood. He held not the divine spark. Could never be a keeper, and thus could not be archon. His younger brother, Lathian, would likely hold that title one day. Velledon had risen far though, the pinnacle for one not a scion, and in truth, as lord governor, he held more sway than most heads of the other godly orders. There were those that believed he’d gotten the role as a consolation prize. Perhaps in the beginning it was thought he would strengthen the position of those within the Path. Having the archon and governor be of the same blood, some thought they would be of the same mind. Velledon had proved them very wrong in their assumptions.

  Within this room, the most favored and powerful of Allithor stood. But what were they? Glorified lamp tenders. It would be better to rotate those who participated in the ritual, to have all scions of Allithor shoulder the burden, but it was not tradition to do so. Keepers strove, labored for the honor of being one of the eleven. And then there was the archon himself. The Staff of Radiance was required for the ritual, but it was also the symbol of the highest office, so no archon would willingly hand it to another for fear of ceding their right to rule. There were other possibilities to employ… ones that Velledon could not voice, for even a lord governor and son of the archon could find himself hanging from a gibbet.

  Velledon stood by the chamber entrance and waited for his father, his head bowed slightly as the man approached. The ruler of the Tesrini Imperium nodded to his son in acknowledgment, and Velledon fell in step, with two warriors of the Vigilant Order, champions of the Path, following close behind.

  “I cannot recall the last time you attended a lighting ceremony,” Archon Lothander commented.

  Velledon cleared his throat with a cough. “Ah, yes. My duties have kept me busy of late.”

  His father made no reply, but there was disapproval in the silence, Velledon felt. They walked down the grand halls of the Citadel, their footsteps and the single tapping of the staff echoing off the arched ceilings.

  “Lathian has requested more troops be sent,” Velledon said to break the lull. This was not what he’d come to talk about, though he was curious. “His campaign is already a success. Why does he push farther instead of returning?”

  They stopped within a domed pavilion. It was night, the sun having set during the ritual. The light from the Silver Sun was much brighter than the night prior.

  For the first time since they had been talking, his father turned fully to face him. “There have been rumors that someone is brokering talks between the tribes in attempts to form a coalition. Your brother seeks the truth of the matter. If it proves true, then he will ensure such a pact is not achieved.”

  “Why was I not told of this?” Velledon asked, and the moment the words were out, he wished them back. Not because he sounded like a child, but because he already knew what his father would say.

  The archon tilted his head. “Why would you be? These matters do not concern you or the council.” There was no malice to his father’s tone. He was merely stating the facts. The High Council may govern Vigil, but it was the Path that commanded the armies, and it was the archon that ruled.

  “Of course, Archon.”

  “Now, if there is nothing else, I am weary from the ritual.” His father turned away, and Velledon almost let him go without voicing his true reason for being there.

  “Yes… there is one other matter. I came to inquire about the latest shipment of relics and subjects due to the artificers. They have not arrived as—”

  “Ah, of course. All such shipments have been ceased.”

  “What? Why?” Velledon asked.

  “Temporary, subject to further investigation. There has been talk of improprieties.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes, there are those within the Path that believe oversight is required.”

  Velledon fought to keep his tone neutral, his anger hidden. “And are you among those that believe oversight is needed?”

  The archon looked at him. “I am. Only the torches should be constructed. What you have accomplished with the Artificers of Falduin is… miraculous. It will usher in a new era for Tesrin. The Light will shine further than ever and with it, Allithor’s might and influence. Truly, the Brightfather worked his will through your hands. You have done more than anyone could have expected.” Lothander’s voice rose in volume as he spoke. “However, what you seek to do now will only tarnish the purity of the work you have already done. What you suggest is a perversion. I have already given you more leeway in this matter than I should have because you are my son. I have gone against my better judgment. To use the ancient runes, the language of gods in such a way…” The archon turned away, and even though Velledon could not see his father's expression, he knew it was one of disgust. “Going forward, representatives of the Path will be on site to ensure that all delivered relics are properly smelted and that only torches are constructed. No more Bound will be provided.”

  “But—”

  Archon Lothander gripped his staff with both hands, his eyes flashing with something bordering on loathing. “No. Do not waste your breath. My mind is set. You have done your part. Now, l
eave me, and do not speak of this again.”

  Velledon bowed his head low to hide the rage he was certain was plain on his face. Once composed, he rose and left, returning to his quarters.

  Back in his own chambers Velledon vented to Lord Rexam. “Foolish old man, mired in his thinking, trapped in the old ways. Why can he not see the potential?” He paced around the room, his face hot with anger. “The torches are only the beginning. Only a hint of what is possible. I had hoped the success would bring about more latitude but instead, we are further restrained.”

  Lord Rexam stood, unmoving, as he always did. He’d at least taken off his gruesome helm, revealing his craggy, broad, impassive face. His skin had a gray pallor, and he was hairless, absent even brows. A steel skullcap was fused upon his head. Velledon supposed the man could will the hair to stop growing beneath. Lord Rexam was the ugliest Ormossan Velledon had ever seen. It was a statement, of course, a denouncement to his brethren who used their godblood gifts for vanity.

  “Have you nothing to add, Rexam?”

  “This was not unexpected, my lord,” the Loddsteel enshrined warrior replied in his low, ponderous tone.

  No, it was not, Velledon thought bitterly. They, the artificers, had already taken precautions. Moved and setup new hidden facilities. Though it didn’t lessen his outrage any. Had he really expected any different? Perhaps he had once held out hope that his father would awaken to the possibilities, that the old man would see the artificers and Velledon as valuable tools to aid in the combat of the Waning, but it was not meant to be.

  “Where is Gilvys?”

  “I know not.”

  “He should be here by now,” Velledon muttered to himself. His assistant had a better ear to bend. Talking to Rexam was like talking to a statue.

  Velledon collapsed into his desk chair and closed his eyes. After deliberating for a moment, he addressed the armored champion. “The plan… I think it’s time to implement it.”

  “Of course, my lord.”