by R. T. Donlon
“Please,” said the Chieftain, holding an open palm outward, “join us.”
She climbed each step slowly until she stood opposite the Chieftain. She bowed into minjori, keeping eye contact the entire time. Something struck her as odd in this moment. Perhaps it was the aura of taerji. Perhaps it was the ache of saying goodbye to her life in the North, but regardless, Ultara—the strong, sensible personality of the Highlands—now seemed frail, thinner even. She would have never noticed it from crowd level, but the disguise of cloaks and wraps could not hide the concern riddling the wrinkles of his face.
He took her bundled fist without another word, just as he had with Curala, and lifted it into the air. The crowd exploded into excitement.
“Two candidates,” said Ultara. “Each, I am confident, will perform the rights and responsibilities of the Warrior Elite with truest honor.”
Another roar.
“It is time to vote. Village leaders from each territory will tally your votes. When confirmation has been reached, your leaders will join me on stage to announce their nominee!”
This was it.
This was the moment.
Kyrah kept perfectly still. The Chieftain had moved up to the lip of the stage, raising his fists in the air as if to charge the crowd further. Curala stood adjacent with his hands clutching at the resting longsword in front of him. The tip of its blade carved a divot into the Eldervarn near his feet. He shifted his eyes without swiveling his neck to catch Kyrah’s attention. The snarl gave away his purpose.
“They love you,” he growled. His voice hung dead in the air between them. “But they don’t know who you really are. I know who you are. I know what you are.”
Foreboding, she thought, but the taerji kept her from thinking forward. The tally is all that matters.
Dersx, Taela, Reana, Razz, and her father had forced their way to the front of the swarming Portizu below. All stood there in nervousness. Taela had placed her hands on her hips. Dersx cracked his knuckles. Reana continually bit her lower lip. Her father, however, stood watching the stage with perfect stillness. Something unnerving caught Kyrah’s attention, something out of the ordinary. She kept her eyes fixed to him.
What is it, Father? she thought to herself.
A shimmer of blue flashed through his eyes.
No, she thought. Please…No…
In that moment, no one, not even Turisic himself, could have maintained the taerji state. Every emotion returned, flooded through her as blood runs through veins. Time stopped. The world around her creaked into a violent halt and, suddenly, she felt as alone as she had ever felt before.
GOD-STRENGTH (BEFORE)
“I have heard many stories,” said Kyrah, “even ones you have not told me.”
Jae and Taris Laeth sat close to their daughter, huddled at the corner of her bed, amused by her innocent confidence. Their bellies filled from dinner and the communal fire extinguished, the aura of the Laeth homestead now felt more than comfortable. It felt safe. These kind of nights—for the Laeths—were too few and far between.
“What kinds of stories have you heard?” Taris asked.
“Stories of heroes and monsters. Stories of brave men…and cowards.”
“And where have you heard them?” her father asked.
“From my teachings,” the girl replied, “and from the other children.”
The coy atmosphere suddenly shifted into sincerity.
“Have you heard the story of the Anestra?” her mother whispered.
Kyrah stilled as her father had, subduing the ego she had so confidently exuded moments before. That word—Anestra—possessed an intensity that her seven year old brain simply could not fathom. She leaned in toward her parents and rested her elbows against the meat of her thighs.
“What is that?” she asked. “The Anestra?”
Taris Laeth turned to her husband. Her buoyant appearance had all but disappeared now, flickering away in the swerves and dancing of the room’s candlelight.
“Our little girl is growing up too fast,” Taris said. “To think she’s already been through so much. You will make us so proud one day. Jae, tell her.”
“Of the Anestra?” he said. “Do you think she is ready for a story like that?”
“Father,” the girl interrupted. “I am ready.”
Taris reached a gentle hand to the side of her daughter’s face. A single coil of hair had escaped there, separated from the rest of her tightened braid. Taris’ fingers pushed it behind Kyrah’s ear. It felt stronger than a simple loving gesture. It felt important. It felt real.
“If you think you are ready for a story like this,” her father continued, “then we will tell you, but be forewarned, my daughter, it is not for the faint of heart.”
“I am ready, Father,” she said.
“Very well, then I believe you are. You have heard the story of Turisic, yes?”
Kyrah nodded.
“You know that Xan, his own brother, tricked Turisic into saving a mortal woman named Taezel Raelsch, thus sacrificing his own immortality?”
Kyrah nodded for a second time.
“It is one of the greatest love stories of all time,” Kyrah said.
“Some would say he was tricked by mortal beauty, that a god should never sink as low as Turisic did,” her father explained.
Kyrah sat up in her bed, propping herself straight against the frame. She had always thought that Turisic’s love for Taezel had come from a place of true intention.
“But he loved her,” Kyrah continued. “Is that not what we all want? To find someone worth loving?”
“But love is not all we need,” Taris explained. “A people only thrive in the Range if they understand what makes them thrive. For us, it is pain.”
“But,” Kyrah continued, “love should conquer all, should it not?”
“The story is not about Turisic’s love for Taezel. It is about Turisic’s punishment—a thousand years of torture in Xan’s Dead Lands. It is there that Turisic learned how to embrace pain, how to use it as a weapon. The same kinds of things Velc teaches you.”
Jae Laeth leaned forward from his chair. His eyes grappled with what he would say next.
“But the stories you have heard from Velc are false,” he said. “Xan did exact punishment on Turisic—indeed he did—but not in the Dead Lands. Xan sent Turisic to a place where no one returns—a place not even Xan dares to go—the Anestra…”
The Myth of Turisic and the Anestra
The shackles bore into his wrists. Deep red droplets of blood toppled from the gashes in his skin and fell to the ground.
“A half god!” Xan scoffed. “How dare you refuse the command of Albrien! You chase the beauty of a Light woman and, for what? Sexual desire?”
The god’s voice shook with rage, trembling the ground as they walked.
“Taezel Raelsch is nothing more than a grain of sand washed away by the tides. You chose that over the strength of gods! You insolent, foolish squelch!”
Turisic listened to Xan, but felt no remorse, no guilt. He had made his choice.
“You leave me no other option,” Xan said. “I shall banish you from the Range forever. You shall never again hear the sweet, sweeping tidal sounds of the Western Bay or lay your hands on the canopies of Midland jungles. You will never see the sun at full noon, nor the moon at twilight. These things are reserved for gods who know they are gods. Banished. Forever. Because of a mortal!”
Turisic lowered his eyes. What he had done, he understood, was seemingly unforgivable.
“How pale and fragile you have become,” Xan barked. “Look at you!”
A scoured mop of black hair pinned to Turisic’s head. He brushed a few stray strands away from his eyes with a swivel of his head and a few of his bound, bloody fingers. Behind the hair, a revealing pair of entrancingly dark eyes kept forward. Weary circles had already begun forming underneath them and his already pale skin had grown even more ashen now, drained of any color.
&nbs
p; “Your body is failing you,” Xan said. “You knew this would happen.”
Turisic’s once strong and healthy frame had quickly descended into a delicate framework of thin muscle and bone. He appeared more like a crude version of himself now—yet behind all the new frailty and fatigue—a single spark of god-strength still glimmered deep within him—a concentrated and powerful current that could not be overlooked.
“You are my brother, Turisic! My brother! How could you do this to us?”
Turisic turned to Xan with anguish flooding his eyes. He had never felt this much contempt for another. The hatred behind it all sent nervous tingles itching through skin and flexed muscle.
“You are no longer my brother,” spat Turisic. He growled as he said the words. “Not if you do this.”
Xan narrowed his eyes.
“Even in the wake of such insubordination you cannot see your faults. I no longer feel guilt for you. You have made your choice. Your exile will begin and end…in the Anestra.”
Turisic balked at Xan’s words. Had his brother really meant to say that? The Anestra?
“Impossible,” Turisic grunted. “The Anestra is not real. We all know that.”
“It is very real, Brother. You didn’t know?”
The shock in Turisic’s eyes lit a deviant grin across Xan’s merciless face.
“Ha! It seems as if you were never really part of the inner circle after all.”
Turisic stopped his stumbling walk and faced his brother once more. His brother’s words swung at him like fists.
“How can you keep something of this magnitude from the rest of us! The Anestra is the most dangerous of places—”
Xan had calmed, extending the maniacal smirk even further across his jaw.
“The rest of us? Brother, we only kept it from you! The others all know. Well, everyone but Zynt, of course.”
Somehow, knowing that bit of information pained Turisic more than anything else Xan could have said.
“Do not act as though you have done nothing wrong!” Xan continued. “You understood the consequences of your actions. Albrien has been more than willing to offer you freedom. You had your chance to remain a god, but you chose humanity, so you will die as just that—human.”
“It is a choice I made willingly,” Turisic pushed back. “A choice offered with only one desired outcome is not really a choice at all, is it?”
Furious with the response, Xan ripped at his brother’s blood-soaked wrists, returning him to the direction of the distant abyss in the distance.
“Keep walking.”
The two moved in tandem. They had been traveling for days now, shuffling up mountains and down into valleys, stumbling across lonely grasslands and the waters of tranquil, inviting shores. Xan never faltered in his stride. He missed no chance to steady himself, to find his balance. This was the way of the gods—endless energy—but Turisic, on the other hand, stumbled frequently, nearly collapsing onto sharp rock and grainy sands over and over amidst the journey. He had been weakened by the human flaws his body had now absorbed, creaky and sore pains riddling every joint and every one of his muscles, yet he persisted, grinding teeth and pulsing jaw against the intensity of a mortal death.
“I’ll have you know,” Xan continued. “Your punishment cannot end with just your banishment. When you are gone, I will find that girl and I will slit her throat. I will keep her in the Dead Lands forever, tortured for her role in this. I will take her entire bloodline so that the name of Raelsch will be erased from the Great Range forever. She deserves every ounce of pain I can muster for taking you from me. I promise you that, Turisic. The name of Taezel Raelsch will burn.”
Turisic grimaced. The human in him ached for her—his love. He wanted her more than anything. The idea of Xan taking that away boiled something particularly vile at the base of his throat.
“If you touch her—” Turisic barked, anger finally pushing from his mouth. “I will find you and you will know the true meaning of pain.”
Xan turned from his position ahead of his brother, locking eyes.
“You will have no say in the matter. The Anestra is a monster in itself. You will see. This world will mean nothing to you after even a few hours’ time there.”
Yes, Turisic had heard the stories, the rumors, the warnings. The Anestra was not a quantifiable place, supposedly bridged only by a rip in time.
Was this true? he thought.
If the portal was real—the doorway into another realm—and if the gods of the Range had discovered it, then they had already made a critical mistake. Simply knowing the pathway exists meant they were closer to uncovering mysteries never meant to be uncovered. The gods had been mingling with forces beyond their control, forces infinitely more powerful than whatever power they controlled here.
“Have you known all along?” Turisic asked. “Have you known the Anestra to be real?”
Xan crossed his arms behind his back, interlocking the grasp of his right hand to the wrist of his left.
“We’re almost there,” his brother spoke, slowly.
There is still hope, Turisic thought. There is a look in his eyes. He does not have to do this. He does not want to…
The mountainous landscape had suddenly shifted into something more like a desert. No swirling sands or gusts of dry air billowed through these parts, only the sight of mammoth, scarred boulders littering the flat clay expanse of land. A gray quality had filled the air. It held a sort of thickness in his chest. Miles out in the gray, a few shuffling bodies slowly traversed the landscape. They wandered with no sense of urgency, just dull meandering.
“Xan,” Turisic called. “Where are you taking me?”
In his day, Turisic had travelled to every corner of the Great Range in search of many things. He had seen the boiling waters of the Burning Sea, the endless rolls of land in the place called the Hills, the eerie abyss called the Chasm, the merciless Wind Desert, and even the Western Bay—where his fate had led him into the restraints of his own brother—but never had he seen an expanse as desolate as this. Suddenly a chill broke through him—a shiver running down the small of his back.
“You mean to tell me that Turisic—the great explorer of the Range—has never laid eyes upon a place as beautiful as this?”
Xan cackled a horrible bark of a laugh.
“If you do not open your eyes,” Xan continued, “you may miss the important details.”
Sweat rolled down Turisic’s forehead, dripping from the bridge of his nose to the pointed end of his chin. The humanity within him had taken nearly full control now, filling him with hunger, fatigue, doubt, anger…
“Go ahead. Say it,” Xan chuckled.
These were the Dead Lands.
“You have taken me to the one place you never could while I was alive. You have killed your own brother!”
“Is it not a masterpiece? Not many see what I see here—the beauty in the cold heart of it all.”
Turisic remained silent. The clay under his feet refused to move. They walked until his legs could no longer hold his body. Just ahead, a formation of black rock in the shape of an X sat at the edge of a lonely rock face.
“There it is,” Xan said. “The portal to the Anestra. Start digging.”
The time for dialogue had passed, so Turisic bent down, falling to his knees and began scooping clumps of clay out from the X-marked area. The clay felt like mud between his fingers and strained like dirty water as he clawed farther into the ground. His fingernails clumped with it, yet he continued to tunnel through a layer of discolored sand, fattened earthworms, and a clear sort of ooze that resembled something like mucous. He clawed at it until his body was covered, matted in blood, clay, and sweat.
“Do not work too hard,” Xan mocked. “You will need every bit of strength you can muster for the other realm.”
At those words, Turisic peered out over the pit at Xan, who stood about six feet above him, arms crossed against his chest. He wore the hood of his robe over his ears, da
rkening the pale skin of his face. His hair fell in curly strands vertical to his forehead—the same color as that of Turisic—but longer in length. His gray eyes offered nothing but a sense of emptiness, yet shimmered anyway in the gray air of the Dead Lands.
“This is the difference between gods and mortals. Look at yourself—crawling in a pit at your brother’s demands,” said Xan.
“A real god would not toy with the powers of another realm. If you keep opening the gate, something is bound to come through.”
Xan squinted his gray eyes and chuckled.
“The gate is only one-way. Nothing can break through. Albrien has assured me—”
“Where there is Light, there is always Darkness. Albrien, of all the gods, should know that.”
Turisic’s fingernails scraped hard against something just beyond the clay-dirt. The surface of the object felt like wood, but more durable, something Turisic had never seen before. In the dim light of the Dead Lands, Turisic could not decipher what it was exactly, but it was warm to the touch…and alive. It responded to his touch—shyly, at first—then as if it had recognized the warmth of Turisic’s fingertips.
“Open it,” Xan barked.
“What is it?”
The wind had picked up, which deadened their voices.
“It’s magic,” Xan said. “A curse. Even if something could climb out of the Anestra, it will never break through that. Never.”
Turisic scraped against the mud until he located the door’s handle and pulled. A small suction sound popped a seal and revealed a glistening barrier of the same mucous-type substance he had been clawing at for hours before. An array of colors glistened from its exterior, but the void beyond—the Anestra—held nothing but a deeply set tone of black, swirling with fat swells of smoke.
“You have failed us for the last time,” Xan called. His robes glistened in the wind, fortifying against his unnatural strength. A smile no longer slithered across his face. He simply stood erect, staring down at Turisic for the final time. “As much as it pains me to see you exiled, it must be done. We can no longer trust you. I would wish you luck in there, but you will have none. It is a place filled with only monsters and pain. I am very sorry, Turisic.”
