Shadow Kalloire

by Skylar Gentry

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Pain. A broken body. A fractured mind. Darkness engulfed the space between reality and beyond. Euphoria had been replaced by the gloom of emptiness; harmony by discord. The Origin could no longer reach Kalloire. What should have been a calming and peaceful transition was a torturous experience filled with fear. It was not the way it was supposed to be. The path to the spiritual plane had been severed. Kalloire had been set adrift, and without the Origin’s guidance, incapable of healing the trauma caused by Ka΄Phar. The ancient one had failed in her most sacred duty. She was passing from one plane to another. And with her, the collective would soon follow.

  As she drifted through nothingness, the ancient one questioned the collective’s insistence that mortals be kept at a distance. Perhaps if they had stood together, the child mystic would still be alive and Ka΄Phar may have been defeated. But instead, the decision had been to allow the child to confront Ka΄Phar. Only a mystic should confront another mystic had been the agreed upon consensus. The ancient one conceded the collective’s intuition was likely wrong from the start. They were blinded by their own infatuation with survival and their arrogant disregard for others.

  The ancient one’s consciousness drifted between We and I. Instead of thinking as the many, she was beginning to reason for herself. Like Shadow. Shadow! Although badly wounded she was very much alive. How? A notion surfaced. Can the actions of one make a difference? It was a forbidden concept. Even mentioning the possibility of individualism was grounds for removal. That’s when the ancient one recalled that an isolated few had chosen just that, expulsion rather than support the collective’s decision about Shadow’s fate.

  Yes! The ancient one remembered there were others. Their banishment had been ordered forgotten. There was to be no mention of them after their separation. But as her discipline wavered, the memory of them was as clear to her as on the day it had happened. Inadvertently, allowing Shadow’s death had resulted in what the collective feared the most—the spreading of an inconceivable concept—I am. The ancient one was beginning to think as they did. Her mind continued to drift.

  She teetered on the brink of lunacy, struggling with maintaining the integrity of the collective while considering what her existence would be as an individual. But ever since the others had entered stasis, the ancient one knew what it was like to be separated from the collective. She had been alone the entire time. Would this be any different? she asked herself. Are my thoughts a betrayal of the collective mind? The We had been mistaken to not intervene in Shadow’s capture. Mistaken about her death and mistaken about another mystic being able to stop Ka΄Phar. Wrong, wrong, wrong! As the collective’s guardian it was her burden to make difficult decisions. She could either choose to die as a We or stand as an I, alongside the light-bearer and the other I’s. Why had she not seen it sooner? Blind!

  During the chaos of war, Kalloire had slowly died—light-bearers were hunted to extinction and one tribe after another fell—all while she waited for the birth of another testalar to replace the one she had been forced to sacrifice in service to the collective. Even without her abilities, the ancient one had grasped she should have interceded sooner. She just hadn’t realized it at the time. Wisdom was power. And she had vast knowledge that if shared with mortals may have changed the war’s outcome. Like Ka΄Phar’s weakness.

  But after Ka΄Phar blanketed Kalloire in darkness and the collective fled, she remained the ever-obedient guardian by not interfering. Guardian. I am. The ancient one felt an itching sensation spreading through her arms and legs. Guardian, she repeated.Then she remembered her testalar resided inside her. Shadow had seen to it. Shadow. The first shadow raven and first of the I’s, and who had been forsaken by her own kind. The ancient one’s thoughts were moving quickly now.

  Soothing warmth radiated through her broken body, healing bones and rebuilding her mind. Blatant disregard for the collective’s plan of inaction took hold of her psyche. With her recollection of The Forgotten, and knowledge of Shadow, she now had the necessary elements to formulate a powerful counterstrike. Ka΄Phar must be unaware of her daughter’s survival, she concluded. Why else would hatred still consume her? There was still much she needed to understand. But a clear path had been laid before her. Her journey to the Origin had unexpectedly started with fear and the disappointment of failure. However, it somehow concluded in the same manner it always did, with the rebirth of a transitioning soul.

  The ancient one was committed to her understanding that the only way to save the collective was to become an I. She would choose to stand apart. And in doing so, risk the collective’s wrath as had been shown to Shadow. She had revealed no hostility toward her and could have easily taken the ancient one’s testalar to heal herself. Perhaps Shadow’s selfless act made her more of a We than an I, contradicting the belief that a collective mindset was far superior. The ancient one thought about this as her body continued to heal. She saw everything in a new light as when a newborn first opens their eyes.

  Born from darkness, Shadow was created with an individual mindset and by no fault of her own punished for it. The irony of it was not lost on the ancient one. If celestials and the remainder of mortals stood a chance of prevailing over Ka΄Phar, then they must do so by forming a new alliance of I’s, that would be bound together under the same shroud of darkness, but forever connected by the one true light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  With what sounded like the cracking of a whip, a scavenger’s tail seized Simtoren around the wrist. As the tail constricted his eyes bulged, displaying a rattled look. The scavenger used a powerful torque of its body to propel Simtoren against the wall. He hit hard, losing his grasp on the polearm. Simtoren quickly recovered and drew his sword. But, instead of charging the scavenger, Simtoren draped his forearm over a banister built around stairs that led to a lower chamber. He howled like a madman as he lowered his blade. Blood squirted from his wound. He watched his severed hand fall and hit the stairs with a squishy thud. Fire raged in his glistening eyes.

  “Simtoren is a survivor!” he wailed.

  His drastic act to avoid being paralyzed left Elinor stunned. Only one other time had she witnessed a similar act of courage. Both had occurred under the same circumstance of life and death but for different reasons. Morbis had given his life to save Elinor. Simtoren was trying to take it. Elinor’s focus switched to the scavenger, watching it stumble forward while it gasped for air. Its entire lower body was moistened by blood seeping from the mortal wounds that Simtoren had inflicted. She felt anguish as she watched her friend struggle. Whether made of light or conjured darkness, the reaction to death was always the same. Elinor finally understood what the child had meant when stating she loved all Kalloire’s children. Evil isn’t born. It’s made, she had told Elinor.

  A vociferous voice boomed from above, coinciding with another bombardment that rocked the temple. “It is not enough to exist. One needs purpose.” She looked up to see her father again, standing on an upper floor that overlooked the birthing pool. His appearance was translucent. She could see rows of books behind him, brightened by the immense glow radiating off his body. In a compassionate tone his voice boomed again. “What is yours?” he asked.

  The storm was directly overhead. The tree trembled and Elinor again heard the sound of splitting wood. She considered several responses to Morbis’s question, but somehow only one seemed appropriate. In a meek and strained voice, she blurted, “To be worthy of the life you’ve given me!”

  Morbis’s polearm struck the floor, releasing bolts that filled the space with dazzling light. “You are more than worthy, little mouse,” he declared in reverence of his daughter’s fighting spirit.

  Vibrant energy moved from the root system up through the tiniest of branches, and outward. Lightning pounded the tree in excess. What appeared initially as unsightly knots bulging from the tree’s branches suddenly burst, exposing colorful and aromatic blooms that easily unfolded under the strain of heavy gales
. They spun on their stems, catching thunderbolts, and releasing nectar that was channeled down the trunk and then absorbed. Inside the temple, light pulsated as the Eternal Tree was replenished in an ageless phenomenon. Neither mystic nor celestial could predict the storm’s timing, but both revered the tree’s rebirth as a sign from Kalloire.

  An arc from Morbis’s polearm struck Simtoren, sending him headfirst over the banister. Another entered the scavenger, giving it a burst of life. It hobbled forward, sniveling. Barely able to keep her eyes open, Elinor stared at her father. It seemed like an eternity since she had fled the cave where she had watched him take his last breath. Seeing dazzling bolts strike surfaces in crisp snaps, she understood he had never left. Even in death, Morbis had continued his steadfast vigilance over his daughter, waiting for the moment when she needed him most. That moment had arrived. Elinor was facing certain death and even more troubling was that she had given up entirely. Her confidence and self-worth had dwindled to the point of no return. What Elinor didn’t understand though was that by following her instinct to return home, she had made a pivotal decision in the war for Kalloire. Elinor, Daughter of Morbis, last of the light-bearers was on the verge of reaching her full potential. If only she could reach the water.

  With the use of only one hand, Simtoren managed to use his sword to tear a piece of cloth from his cape. He bandaged his wrist. The bolt that hit him had been painful but was not intended to kill. It did however return his better judgment. What the Blood Queen had taken from him was miraculously returned by Morbis. Pain and suffering were no longer driving his decisions. Simtoren was not only struck by an energy bolt, but by the reality of his true intention. Morbis had been right all along. Until the night when he had watched Elinor bathe, Simtoren never suspected his devotion to her was anything more than an innocent crush. And in the midst of satisfying his craving he had done the inconceivable; betrayed his friend Morbis, and his oath as a Lancian warrior. Then there was the matter of Elinor. Simtoren was not only mortified by his dark craving for her, but by what he intended to take from her. Handing the coruscant to the Blood Queen paled in comparison to taking Elinor’s innocence by force. As he peered over the top step his shame came full circle.

  The scavenger, Elinor’s friend and the protector he should have been, was helping her toward the water. He didn’t understand why she so badly wanted to reach the pool, but one of the Blood Queen’s beasts was helping in a way he had never been able to. His courage had been supplanted by self-pity when faced with hardship. First, he succumbed to his infatuation with Elinor, then he agreed to help the Blood Queen. Simtoren had fallen victim to the same ageless plight that affects many; compromising one’s morals in the foolish pursuit of narrow-minded pleasure. His heart sank when he watched Elinor’s limp body dip below the pool’s stagnant surface. If only there was a way to make amends, he thought.

  “Fulfill your oath,” replied Morbis.

  Simtoren’s eyes gleamed as though he was waiting for the answer to an enduring secret of profound meaning. His gaze intensified. But Morbis never uttered another word. He remained on the balcony looking resolute, holding his polearm across his chest, and seemingly waiting for Simtoren to respond. And respond he did. There was no great mystery to be solved or a need for profound declarations. Simtoren had in mind exactly what Morbis required of him.

  Loneliness. It was absolute. The place where Elinor found herself was unpleasant. And dark. And empty. All was quiet except for the sound of wind being channeled through an opening. The void felt unnatural. Elinor had no sense of direction. She waved her hand in front of her eyes. It reminded her of being on Zi’s back while flying through the shroud blind. Elinor knew her eyes were open. To be certain she touched her face. She sensed her arm moving but felt no contact. Her hands moved over her body like there were spiderwebs clinging to her skin. When she was still unable to detect her presence, she lost control. Panic ensued as she continued clawing at her skin. She screamed in frustration. Nothing else could be heard but the sound of whistling wind. Elinor shrieked again. Her voice was as silent as the dreaded thoughts circling her head. Am I dead? she wondered. Elinor tried to recall her last memory.

  Simtoren. The scavenger. No! Poddy.

  Seeing her father was the last thing she remembered. During her frequent bouts of insecurity and thoughts of letting go there was always one notion that lingered in her subconscious. There was no doubt Elinor struggled with the belief she was inferior. But what haunted her most was the idea she would fail; that she would never be able to live up to her father’s expectations. With the pressure that had been placed on her as the last light-bearer, it was her responsibility to keep fighting. Through it all—the destruction of Kalloire; the deaths of those close to her; the feeling of abandonment; and the seemingly impossible mission given to her by Morbis—Elinor had one perception that weighed heavily on her psyche. Confidence could be restored and as difficult as it may have seemed, she had it within her to move past the terrible loss of loved ones or her sense of being left behind. Not being good enough, however, was something she needed to reconcile with herself.

  Like the child had explained, Elinor suffered from survivor’s guilt and her belief that she had failed Morbis. If she was ever going to move forward by letting her past go, first she needed to learn to accept herself before she would ever be able to help others. Without that, she would be closed off emotionally. There still had to be others, she considered. The notion of other survivors gave Elinor optimism. She may have been unable to save those that had died at Brim Hall, but she assured herself to keep searching. All the signs were there. And she knew exactly where to begin.

  Instead of her continual drift in one direction, she somehow had managed to turn herself around. Looking back from where she had come, an opening was visible. Bleak light cascading through it allowed Elinor to regain her sense of direction. Around her a structure materialized. Elinor watched columns with spiraling shafts rise from the ground. A circular ceiling appeared overhead with stone and glass inlays that formed geometrical shapes. At the center of the open-air rotunda, an ancient one sat with her hands folded, appearing tense and at a loss for words. Her eyes were half-closed as she stared into the distance. Elinor recognized her purple complexion and dark attire.

  “No! There must be another way.” Aysgarth knelt before the ancient one. “You cannot ask this of me.”

  “The future is all that matters now,” responded the ancient one.

  “What future?” he shot back. His tone was harsher than he had intended. “How can you expect me to do nothing while everything and everyone that matters to me is taken?” Aysgarth shook his head. “No, Shadow. I will not allow this to happen. There is always another way,” he insisted.

  Shadow. Of course!

  Her appearance was much different than what Elinor had seen previously. Her face was undamaged. There were no scorch marks on her horns; they were lustrous and smooth. Youthful skin released a subtle glow under light emanating from candelabras. Forgiving eyes and how she gazed at Aysgarth with her head slightly tilted were indicative of someone in love. Elinor smiled when Shadow’s slender fingers caressed Aysgarth’s cheek. His face softened under her gentle touch.

  “Corvin,” she said softly, “you must trust me.”

  “I do trust—”

  Shadow placed her fingers over Aysgarth’s lips. “My death is inevitable. Yours is not.”

  “I am not a stranger to war. Let me protect you.”

  “You will. By doing what I ask. The tribes will not rest until I am dead. As long as I am here, there can be no peace. This too has been foreseen.”

  Aysgarth became highly emotional. “Legatius are not all knowing. Your kind have been wrong before. I refuse to believe our fates are written in stone.”

  “You know I stand apart from the collective. What I see, they are blind to.”

  “Please,” Aysgarth begged, “I would rather die than be locked away without you.”

  Shado
w joined Aysgarth on the floor. “Time will pass differently for you. You will not suffer. If Kalloire is to survive, if there are to be other shadow ravens like me, we must submit to the tribe’s demands. You need to accept this reality. If we fight, you will die. If we do nothing, we both die. There are two paths before us, Corvin. One leads to an eternity apart. I could not bear that. The other—” Shadow struggled to maintain her composure.

  “Why not go to the mystic?” Aysgarth asked while holding her tightly. “Explain to her what you have seen.”

  “She is as blind as the others.” Shadow pressed her lips against Aysgarth’s. They embraced under a sky quickly becoming saturated by pale light. They both watched as the moon emerged from behind Raven Rock’s highest peak. Shadow continued. “When the time is right, a light-bearer will come for you.” She longingly gazed into Aysgarth’s eyes. “You remember what to do?”