by Alex Lang
Kyris understood then, connecting what he’d seen and what Caldir had said about the relic-ore within the quartz. The artificers were taking the power of the scions and imbuing them within the ore. Not just Allithorans or even those of the Tesrini, given the prisoners he had found.
“Allithorans power the lamps,” Kyris said, voicing his thought. “So, there’s a quartz torch out there, somewhere, that is being powered by you?”
“Several. I know not the exact process, but yes, this is what I was told.”
Kyris reached into a pocket in his coat and fished out his small light crystal.
The old man lowered his hands, revealing a swollen nose and blood-caked chin. “How did you get that?”
“Well, ‘spread to the masses’ you said. That includes me."
Kathmor scowled at the crystal.
“What? Did you think the light would burn me? Do you think… could it be?” Kyris held the crystal by the chain high, staring into it with mock reverence. “You don’t suppose that you, Inquisitor Kathmor, could be the providing the light for this? Oh, I would like to believe that. If you could only bear witness to what this little crystal has shined upon, the aid it has given me. The number of Allithorans that have met their end under its light.” The last part was an exaggeration, but Kyris laughed at Kathmor’s horrified expression.
“What happens if the one that powers the lamp…” Kyris waved the knife around as he searched for the proper words, then hovered the tip of the blade over the inquisitor’s misshapen nose, “were to perish? Would the crystals still shine?”
Kathmor peeled his eyes from the blade and looked at Kyris with clear loathing, but he answered grudgingly. “No, the crystals would cease to provide light. We lend our gift, but it cannot truly be taken from us.”
Kyris had a crazed thought then, of slaughtering every Allithoran he could find to see how many quartz torches would go dark across Vigil.
Kathmor was staring at him with an even deeper revulsion than before, if such was possible, and he realized he had been grinning madly. He wanted to share his new idea with the inquisitor, but the smile faded and instead, he asked, “Why give up your godblood gift? Why would you submit yourself to this?”
“It is the will of the Path. It is a way to continue to serve, even if my body is not able.”
“So, you've given up the gift to provide lighting to highborn.” Kyris wondered if Caldir knew of this, how the lamps derived their light.
Kathmor struggled to rise but slumped back down.
“Oh, you stay put. Don’t be so eager to meet your end. I’ve waited so long for this moment. No, not waited. Strove. I have trained, fought, stole, killed to get here. So that one day I could meet and best you in combat. But this is what I find? A sad, powerless old man. I need not have bothered. Why are you so pathetic now? Perhaps you always were, and it was only in a naïve child’s eyes were you anything more.”
Kathmor’s lips peeled back in a sneer. “I will not be spoken to this way! I am a scion of Allithor! I am your better in every way. I have lived a righteous life in devotion to the Light. My place in Aithel is ensured. Bah, I have had enough of this. Get on with it. Do your worst.”
“Do my worst?” Kyris said. “Eight years of life you've had that my family has not. How do I extract just due for that? Whatever I do to you would never be enough.” Kyris straightened, stunned by his own words. It was true; it would never be enough.
He walked over to the well-cushioned chair and dragged it towards the inquisitor, the scraping of wood against wood echoing through the room. Once he had the chair positioned in front of the old man, he slumped into it and stared at Kathmor without saying a word. The silence stretched.
“Do you remember me? At all? My mother and father? My sister and little brother?”
Kathmor met his eyes and spoke with absolute conviction. “All nightspawn, any with the taint of the Night Mother, whether kin or ally, deserve to be burned.”
“Gailen.” Kyris continued as though he hadn’t heard. “We lived on the outskirts of the village. My father was a carpenter, and my mother a seamstress. Does any of this sound familiar?”
“I have traveled extensively in the service of Allithor. Gailen? Eight years past. Wait… I—” Kathmor’s eyes lit up in recognition.
Kyris stood and shifted into the Gloom. Rage surged in him, and he felt it so keenly that there was no room for fear. He lunged forward and descended upon the blurry shape of the inquisitor, who was cowering at what he’d just witnessed. No doubt remembering when he’d seen the sight eight years prior.
Kyris was standing within Kathmor’s shadow-form, unable to affect the man in any way, so he watched as the inquisitor struggled to stand, using the wall to pull himself up. He waited until Kathmor was standing and shuffling towards the door before reappearing beside him.
Kathmor gasped, flinched back against the wall then sled to the ground again.
“I remember. I remember now! Nightspawn!” Kathmor pointed a shaky finger at him. “How could I forget? Abominations! I can sense the taint. I felt it when you used your dark power. Yes, your family should have burned. You should have burned. You did burn.”
“Ah, there's the hateful visage I remember so.” Kyris gave an ugly smile, crouched down, and with casual ease, jabbed his knife into Kathmor’s right shoulder.
Kathmor let out a cry and tried to wrest Kyris’ arm away, but the old inquisitor didn’t have the strength.
Kyris twisted the blade, then yanked it out and stormed away, fearing he might lose control of himself.
“You burned,” Kathmor muttered. “I remember now. I burned the entire house.”
“Obviously not,” Kyris sighed. “I have to say, Kathmor, this has been most disappointing.” He approached again and slid his blade into the inquisitor’s left shoulder.
The old man cried out in pain anew.
Kyris stepped back and tried to compose himself. He hadn’t meant to stab Kathmor that last time. At least, he hadn’t thought so. It just happened, his arm acting on his own accord.
Kathmor was mumbling something under his breath.
“What are you saying? Speak up.”
The inquisitor sat up, back straightening. “It was necessary. It was all necessary to protect the empire. No, not just the empire but the entirety of the world. The taint of the Night Mother is ever present. Left unchecked, like a blight, it spreads, a malignant growth across the lands. Allithor, the Light, is the only thing that keeps the dark at bay, but her influence remains, her tainted offspring remains. We, as children of the Divine Light, must continue the work. We must seek and stomp out the foulness, where ever it may hide. The people have short memories. They forget the horrors of the past, but we do not. We, the inquisitors, never forget. What we do is not easy. It is hard. But to fail, to have a lapse in resolve, would be to allow the blight to spread, and this, we cannot have. So, you foul wretch, do what you must, but know that you and your kind will all burn.” Kathmor had started delivering a sermon, but he had built up furor as he spoke, and the last was so vehemently shouted, it sent spittle into Kyris’ face.
“Is that all there is to you? Burn, burn, burn?” Kyris asked, wiping his cheek.
“I am an inquisitor of the Light! I am the cleansing flame of Allithor,” the old man exclaimed, and those words, spoken with such a familiar fanatic conviction, summoned a vivid image to Kyris of this same man, younger but still aged, shouting, spittle flying. 'Burn, nightspawn! By the cleansing flames of Allithor, burn!' he’d shouted, as he held out his staff, and white hungry flames burst forth.
Kyris sank his blade into the the inquisitor's chest, slipping it between two ribs. Kathmor groaned, then coughed violently, blood bubbling from his mouth.
“You’re nothing. You won’t be remembered. Your greatest accomplishment will be the hand you had in shaping me, for unleashing me upon this world. You proclaim me a servant of darkness, then that’s what I shall be. I will bring an end to you and your c
herished Path. I will enact a cleansing of my own. Do you hear me, Kathmor?!”
The old man continued to cough, specks of blood splattering his tunic. “I go to Him,” he rasped.
Kyris cried out at the realization of what he had done. “No! You can’t die. Not yet. This is a better death than you deserve.”
Kyris paced in front of the dying man, watching him struggle for each labored breath.
After several moments, Kathmor slumped to the side, fallen into unconsciousness only, given his labored breaths.
“I know what to do,” Kyris said to himself. He crouched next to Kathmor and grabbed hold of the man by the arms. It wouldn’t work. His limit was twenty pounds, but he would try anyway. Perhaps he’d gotten stronger or this rage he felt would allow him to go beyond his limit.
Kyris felt for the presence, took a deep breath, then tried to enter the Gloom, pulling Kathmor with him. For the briefest moment it seemed like it was working, but with a violent jerk he was rejected, the sensation sending him reeling.
He let out a growl of frustration. There was only one other option, one other person who could deliver the proper punishment to Kathmor. Kyris cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier.
He leaned in close, pleased to find the inquisitor still alive. “Good. Don’t you dare die, you bastard. You will not go to Allithor, you hear me? I have another destination planned for you.”
It was the dead of night, and as Kyris rode upon the wagon back to Vigil, he couldn't maintain the intensity of his rage. The futility of what he was doing sank in, sapping the demented drive that had fueled him since seeing Kathmor in the cottage.
His empty gaze drifted up to the stars, and even in his weary state, the old habit had him seeking the missing patch of light that was Mezu Vos. He was labeled her spawn and servant but never had he received any guidance. Was the Night Mother pleased by his actions?
“Well, nothing to say for yourself,” Kyris said to the sky. “You can go rot, you blighted cunt.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the still form of the inquisitor, wrapped in blankets. It was a twisted jest that he’d had to dress the man’s wounds, but it was fruitless. Some part of him knew from the very beginning. The last wound he’d given Kathmor was too severe, and the man too old. But in his crazed state, he held out hope that he could get Kathmor back to the city, back to Jahna, alive… So she could pull him to the Gloom, letting the wraiths have him. Then the bastard would be denied his reward in Aithel.
If only he’d had enough strength to do it himself, Kyris lamented, but Jahna had always been the stronger one.
Lulled by the sound of the wagon wheels, the weariness overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes.
The thin branch whipped towards his face. Kyris brought his arm up just in time to take the lashing, saving himself from a mouthful of leaves.
“That’s not fair, Jahna! You dung-faced weasel,” Kyris yelled as he increased his efforts to chase after his sister, his feet pounding down on the forest floor.
Jahna laughed as she ran ahead, seemingly not winded at all, easily outdistancing him with her long-legged stride. She bounded over and around obstacles in her path like a sure-footed doe.
It’s not fair, Kyris thought, why is she taller and faster than me? He was her big brother; older, if only by an hour.
As he ran after her he traced her path, following step for step, though not as gracefully. The forest ground sloped down, and whether from sheer will or momentum, he realized he was gaining. That is, until Jahna glanced over her shoulder and redoubled her efforts when she saw his proximity. She pulled away, and as they neared the bottom of the hill where the ground leveled, she leapt, bursting out of the trees and shrubbery, her arms high in triumph.
“I win!” she declared.
Kyris staggered to a stop next to her, struggling to catch his breath. He was happy to note that Jahna seemed more winded than usual.
“You cheated back there. You could’ve seriously hurt me,” Kyris complained.
“Don’t be such a moaner. Besides, you almost had me.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” she said, grinning at him. “But a wager is a wager. You’re fetching the water tonight.”
Kyris groaned but couldn’t keep a smile from his face for long.
“Come on,” Jahna said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get back. If we’re late, Mama will be worried, and Papa will be upset that evening meal got delayed.”
As the pair approached their home, a thatched-roofed house on the outskirts of the small village of Gailen, they saw three horses tied to the oak that grew out front. The animals were draped in deep crimson caparisons emblazoned with a white sun symbol. Visitors were a rare occurrence for their family, and none had ever had horses like these.
The twins looked at each other, struck by the same thought, and the same fear. They ran towards the house but once close, they slowed and crept to an open window where they could hear their father’s booming voice.
“They often play in the woods. They’ll be back, and you’ll see, all this is but a misunderstanding. You’ll see. You’ve been misinformed, perhaps even misled,” Perin, their father, said. There was an odd edge to his voice, a tone Kyris had never heard from him before.
“Yes, we will see,” a male voice replied. His manner of speaking was curious and accented. “If someone did intentionally mislead us, simply so that we may settle some personal grudge… Well, that would be a very unwise thing for them to have done. But, while we wait, please continue.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. Our family has lived in the valley for generations. We’ve never had any dealings with scions or… otherwise.”
“Do you follow the Path and honor the gods?” the man asked.
“Of course. Allithor lights the way.”
“Oh, but I see no altar to the Brightfather, or to Ormoss, or any of the others.”
After a long silence, Carina, their mother spoke up. “We honor the Tesrini gods, but we also pay respects to the old ones.”
“Of course. We should all respect the dead. Those who stood against and fell to the Night Mother. But it is confounding to me why one would not wish their spirit to ascend, to be granted solace in Aithel. The old ones can’t help anymore. But it is your choice. There is no law against it. I truly do not understand you Inlanders. Salvation is offered to you, like a plate of food to a starving man, but you refuse to partake. Ah, but listen to me. This is no sermon. As I said, you are allowed your ways. Archon Lothander, in his wisdom, knows that you cannot force a mule. All will find the way of their own accord.
“Do you know why we have come to your valley, to this distant region of our great empire, so far from proper civilization? It is because here, where perhaps the radiance of Allithor’s light is… not as bright, where the ignorant throw off his protection, in these places, the blight takes root and festers and thrives. It is here, in villages like Gailen, where the keepers of the Divine Flame will do great work.” The man finished speaking and was met with silence.
“Mama!” Emin, Kyris and Jahna’s younger brother, cried out.
“Shh, child. Everything will be fine,” their mother consoled.
Kyris didn’t dare peek through the window, though he sorely wanted to see how his family was, and see what these men looked like.
At the sound of Emin’s voice, Jahna made to rise, but Kyris stopped her. She gave him a hard stare and mouthed the words, “We have to.”
He thought for a moment, then nodded.
They rounded to the front of the house, Jahna calling out, “Mama, Papa, we’re home.” Though she tried to sound unremarkable, Kyris could detect the strain in her voice.
They stood out front, waiting, and it wasn’t long before the strangers emerged with their family in tow.
The first man Kyris saw was tall, even taller than his father. His face was weathered and drawn, with deep lines across his forehead and cheeks. His head was shaved c
lean, but he had a full black beard streaked with gray. He wore a red tunic with the same white sun symbol over a shirt of chained links and walked with a white staff crowned with little branches that formed a basket of sorts.
Upon seeing him, Kyris knew he was the one in charge, and the one who’d spoken within their home.
He was followed by another man, similarly attired but younger and with a sword at his waist. Emin was ushered out, his face red from crying. Their mother and father came next, followed by the last soldier, a portly, middle-aged man.
“What have we here? The young Jahna?” the leader asked.
Jahna stood, back straight, and answered, “Yes, that’s me.”
“Ah, good. I am Inquisitor Kathmor, a keeper of the Divine Flame of Allithor. I have received disturbing news concerning you, young lady.”
“Oh? And what might that be?” Jahna challenged, her voice cracking only a little.
Kyris gaped at his sister’s boldness facing this fearsome man.
The inquisitor gave a grim smile.
“It has been reported that you have demonstrated unnatural abilities, abilities that are not of the blessed gods. In short, young lady, dire allegations have been laid against you and your family.” At Jahna’s confused expression, the man continued, losing his patience. “Nightspawn, child. Your neighbors claim you to be blighted.”
“That’s stupid!” Jahna retorted. “Who said that? Was it old man Krag? He’s just mad ‘cause he thinks I stole his pie, which I didn’t!”
Jahna hadn’t; she’d had Kyris do it, but he didn’t think it was prudent to bring that up.
“This is a serious matter,” Inquisitor Kathmor said, glaring down at her. “But worry not. We have ways to discern whether or not you have the foul taint within your blood.”
“Fine. This is all a mistake, you’ll see,” Jahna said, echoing their father. “You will find that you’ve been lied to.”
“Yes, I surely hope that is the case.” Again, the grim, tight smile that only reached the edge of his mouth. “Come, let us all go back inside, yes?”
