Borne Rising

by Matthew Callahan

  Din’Dael closed his eyes. “The world has always had monsters. I did what I had to do to save my people. I live with what I’ve done. We all do.”

  “The others, they know?” A numbing glaze covered Will’s thoughts. Do not invest emotionally, din’Dael’s lessons said. Emotion only serves to undermine reason.

  Din’Dael nodded. “They find life more precious now than ever before. That is why we need you, William.”

  Will stared at him, not understanding. Emotion only serves to undermine reason. He drilled it into his head like a mantra.

  “Like you, our people cherish life above all else, now. For nearly a millennium they have struggled to rebuild, to reclaim an existence. But that existence is only within these walls. They will need that same level of compassion from their leaders in the wars to come.”

  Not like this. No way. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. “You’re insane.” Will took a tentative step toward the exit. “You want me to lead them? No. Never going to happen.”

  Din’Dael’s face curled in rage, then the room echoed with maddened laughter. He flung the sword down and closed rapidly on Will, grabbing his wrist. “They have not seen war, death on that scale, in years. Most never have. The force of Radiance has begun to reclaim its numbers, but not its fury in battle. They have grown”—he sneered—“afraid.”

  “Good,” Will said as he wrenched his wrist from din’Dael’s fist. “They at least have a soul, then.”

  “They need you, William. We all need you. Don’t you see?”

  Will glared back at him. “All I see is a monster.”

  Din’Dael didn’t appear to have heard him. “They are afraid. Of the world. Of their power. Of me. But you, William, you can be the symbol they rally behind. You can help them overcome their fear.”

  “Jesus, din’Dael. Do you hear yourself? They’ve never even paid me a second glance. They don’t want me here and that’s just fine by me.” Will couldn’t focus. A piece of him was slipping away. The Halls of Legend, the aerilite, the countless dead that led to the reformation of the Lightborne; his head was swimming.

  “Don’t be foolish. You are a legend to them, William. They fear you. You know a courage that they do not. You stood alone before Dorian and you did not falter. I witnessed this.”

  Will hesitated. “I think you must have been watching someone else, Jero. He never gives out praise like this. There’s got to be something else going on. “I was terrified.”

  Din’Dael’s face tightened. “You did not falter,” he repeated, forcing the words out through nearly clenched teeth. “In the face of imminent death, you chose life. Just like me.”

  Murdering innocents is hardly what I’d call choosing life. Will frowned and bit back the words. There was something in the man’s demeanor that made him pause, something pleading. He eyed the door, then glanced back at Jero. “I don’t understand, Jero. I’m not . . . I don’t understand what the hell you’re expecting.”

  “You may think me a monster, William. You may think the ends do not justify the means. But all I have done, I have done for the survival of our people. Make no mistake, war is coming.” Din’Dael let the words hang in the air. He clapped his bare fist against the shield in a jarring crash. “Dorian appeared to us himself, in the flesh. I know the man. He would not do such a thing unless he were convinced that he had already won. Which means we are already behind. Whatever his grand plan is, we are trailing. It is already in motion. We must move in force and we must do so quickly. We must regain lost time.”

  Din’Dael’s words were laced with urgency. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. He raised a hand—no anger in the movement, this time—and placed it upon Will’s shoulder.

  “You stood against Valmont. That is more victory than many within these walls can claim. You have earned your place amongst us. And, regardless of whatever you may think of me in this moment, I have faith in you. That, alone, would be enough for our people to follow you against the Necrothanian cult and whatever else Dorian will bring to bear. You do not have to approve of what I have done, but—if you truly do believe in preserving life—you will help protect our people.”

  Will peered at him, searching for whatever it was he knew he was missing. “There’s more to this than you’re letting on, Jero. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “There are elements at play that are crucial to the survival of our people, William.” His eyes searched Will’s face. “It may be hard for you to believe, but Dorian is hardly the worst of them.”

  Valmont isn’t the worst? Will searched his memory but could come up with no other villain who had ever visited the same horrors upon Aeril in any of the stories he’d heard. He waited for din’Dael to go on, but the man did not elaborate. There’s always something with this man.

  Will gave a defeated sigh. “Training or not, I don’t know what you expect me to do against Valmont. I’ve seen you in action, Jero. I’m not anywhere close to that. My ability pales in comparison to yours and—I don’t mean this to sound harsh—you yourself have been unable to defeat him.”

  Din’Dael relaxed and gave an easy smile. “This is true. But with our powers combined, we shall stand a chance. More than that, you should not give me so much credit. I hold something you do not.”

  The Lightborne held up his left hand to Will. It glowed emerald. Will heard Dahla’s familiar cry, and a split second later, the great bird swooped into the chamber. She sped past him and perched on a nearby suit of armor, wings outstretched at full span. Din’Dael closed his hand into a fist and an inaudible pulse began emanating from it. “What do you know of the Relics of Antiquity, William?”

  An unconscious tremble ran through Will’s body. His eyes were fixed on the green glow coming from din’Dael’s hand. Gone were the previous moments’ doubts, the quiet fear that din’Dael’s revelations had instilled in him. “Truthfully? Nothing.”

  Jero din’Dael smiled at the answer. “Not going to regale me with legends and fairy tales?”

  Will shook his head, swallowing every question racing through his mind. “Not this time.”

  “Very well, then.” Din’Dael chuckled and dropped his eyes to the green glow of his hand. “Velier of the Crimson Twilight saved this world and all worlds. He was a mortal man who touched the gods, who was embraced by the Hesperawn themselves. He saved existence, William, the very thing itself. But in doing so, existence, reality, fractured. It is said that the Ways are the final vestiges of the old world, a decaying remnant of the time before Velier’s Gift.

  “When he was embraced by the Hesperawn, this mortal man was imbued with their power. He used that power to fuel the World Tree, the Tree of Ages, and grant life a second chance. His own life ended in the effort. But the power of the Hesperawn remained, imbued in that which had touched their eternal power. Velier’s raiment, as it were, contained small traces of the immortal essence, of the power of creation itself.”

  Velier’s raiment? “You mean the Relics of Antiquity are, what? Clothes?”

  Jero din’Dael raised a bemused eyebrow at Will. “Velier and the Thorns of the Rose were not the benevolent warriors that The Veleriat makes them out to be, William. They were a band of thieves, rovers who were immortalized in epic because of one good deed.” He smiled and motioned with his glowing hand to Dahla. “No one has ever documented what every Relic is. I, personally, am acutely aware of only two. The one I hold is known as the Emerald Eye.” A gleam of his old madness shadowed his face. “It was a ring, before. Now it is something more.”

  Will stared at the glowing hand. Morella was right. “And the second one?”

  “Patience, young William.” Din’Dael’s eyes burned white as he stared at the emerald fist. A small pulse in the air quickened. “The Relics are said to each bear a unique trait, known only to the wielder.” He smiled and looked over at Dahla. “But what they all share in common is the powers of their amplification. Whatever abilities the user possesses, a Relic of Antiquity will amplify beyond wh
at they could ever imagine. One bearer, one Relic, that is the way of it. Blood will bind a Relic to a man. But an attempt to bind oneself to multiple Relics will result in the combined force of the powers obliterating the host.”

  Din’Dael lapsed into silence and peered at William. Will waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have reached the end of his lesson. The pulses of power faded away and the glow in din’Dael’s flesh ceased. Dahla, suddenly uninterested, flew quietly back up the stairs. Din’Dael followed her after replacing the shield and sword.

  “Wait, the second Relic. Jero, you said you knew of two?” Will called to the retreating figure. “You know another?”

  Din’Dael turned back to him, a strange, zealous grin on his face. “I said patience, didn’t I?”

  Will went up the stairs behind din’Dael, uncertain of what to think. The trail of bodies at the man’s feet was staggering. Yet Will forced himself to remember that the rules of his own world didn’t exist here. Aeril was different. They’ll skin you while you scream, his brother had said once. They try to carve out whatever it is that makes you you. This world fed on power and the powerful fed on the weak. If din’Dael had spoken honestly, then the people who had sacrificed themselves to rebuild the Lightborne had believed in the cause. Was that enough, though? Could he excuse the countless deaths at din’Dael’s hands, so many innocent lives, simply for that belief? I just don’t know.

  Dahla had returned to her high perch within the chamber, her head flicking back and forth with its predatory gaze. Once Will had cleared the alcove, din’Dael retrieved the glass that served as a key and sent another burst of power through it, returning it to its original form. Setting the cup back on the table, he turned and made for the dark stone door at the end of the room. Standing before the small carving, he gestured to Will.

  “Come, try your hand at opening it.”

  Will did as instructed. Mirroring din’Dael’s previous actions, he splayed his fingers within the small rent and channeled his Flare into the door. He was met immediately with a fierce response. It seemed to latch on to the Flare and pull at him with such a force that Will let out a startled cry.

  “Do not allow it to drain you completely, William. Find your balance. You control your power.”

  What began as a surge of outward power suddenly became a struggle to hold it back. Will grit his teeth at the resistance, the sensation somewhat similar to overextending his Shade. Back when that was possible, he thought with frustration. The pull hurt, an aching strain. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Finally, he managed to regain control. Just as he found a level, balanced state, the door fractured and split. The stone shot out and up, allowing just enough room for a man to walk through.

  “Excellent,” din’Dael said casually while he strode through. “Most excellent. Come, come, William. You don’t want to be stuck holding doors open all day.”

  Will removed his hand and shivered. Despite the physical separation from the wall, he could still feel the strange pull on his insides. Every step felt like he was wading through molasses. When he passed beneath the door, his ears rang in a piercing hum. He forced himself to move faster. He entered the chamber beyond and nearly panicked when the tether still remained. Frantically, he sought to sever his connection to the door. He scrambled after din’Dael and the farther he moved from the door, the less binding the connection became. After a few steps, it severed easily.

  “Well, that was new,” he muttered, flexing his fingers and shaking out his hand. He took a deep breath and relaxed a bit at the faint smell of incense and woodsmoke. For the first time, he surveyed the room they had entered. He had expected a twin chamber to the previous hall, filled with treasures and alcoves. Instead, he found a gigantic cavern filled with countless books.

  No, more than books, he realized. Nearby was what appeared to be a smithing anvil and forge, long cold. Past those were piles of ancient leather and wooden mannequins of all shapes and sizes. There were gems and cutting stations and shelves of ingredients and reagents set before glass flasks. It was a production room of such magnitude that Will let out an involuntary gasp.

  In the center of the room was an enormous structure that reminded him of an oversized cradle. It sat low on the ground and was filled with lush blankets and cushions, embroidered with such finery that each piece was its own work of art. Whatever was meant to be held within, however, was absent. Din’Dael was striding straight for it, humming again. Will rushed to follow.

  “Before you ask,” din’Dael said humorlessly when Will approached, “this was the personal chamber of Shigei O’Saq, the Guardian of our Order.”

  Shigei O’Saq. Will’s eyes grew wide. I’m within the chamber of a dragon. Of a god.

  “It was here that he spent the majority of his time, only emerging when it was most necessary.” Din’Dael’s words were hollow and laced with spite. “He was a brilliant strategist and researcher but preferred to remain secluded from his students. Very few ever earned his attentions.”

  They passed to the far side of the room, Will biting his tongue to fight back the flurry of questions. What Mad would give to see this. He grinned as he scanned the room. It had everything his brother could ever dream of and more.

  Din’Dael led them to another of the dark doors at the back of the room, this door nearly hidden by a small curtain. The door itself was smaller than the two they had previously come through, and din’Dael bade Will to its far edge.

  “Do you recall when we first arrived here, William? The journey through the gates of the Sapholux?”

  Will nodded. Hard to forget. He shuddered at the memory.

  “The process here is much the same as then. Precision timing. Precision force of strength. No room for error, understood? On my count.”

  Will placed his hands against the door and waited. At the end of din’Dael’s countdown, he Flared, sending a surge of lightning into the door while his mentor did the same next to him. The door quavered and shook before opening and sliding into the walls. Will lowered his hands and flexed his fingers. Three barriers of entry to this one room? He couldn’t stop the foolish grin of anticipation that split his face.

  The dim room was quite small compared with the previous chambers. At its center was an altar of carved marble, upon which a lush golden pillow rested. Approaching, Will saw the hilt of a broken sword resting atop the cushion. It was the color of charcoal, the rough, matte darkness a sharp contrast against the brilliant cushion. The snapped remainder of the blade was wide and rough, and the hand guard had rough catches all along it. The quillon was wide and barbed. A piece of fabric had been folded and curved to replace the missing blade, giving the crude hilt an elegant appearance.

  Din’Dael clasped his hands behind his back, stiffening slightly. He stood an arm’s distance from the altar. “What you see before you is one of the most prized possessions within the Sapholux, William. This blade is known as Flint.”

  Will chuckled despite himself. “Not the grandest of names.”

  “The Shard of Night, William. The Dawnbreaker. The Immortal Blade. What you see before you is Velier’s own sword.”

  Will’s head spun. “Jero, this . . .”

  “Yes, William. This is a Relic of Antiquity.”

  5

  Shadowborne

  “Son of a bitch!” Madigan gasped and gingerly removed his mangled arm from the trap. Everything hurt. He’d always thought himself a quick study, but this? And here I’d thought Grandda’s damn lessons were bad enough. Training like this was something new, something verging on truly abusive. Mad grit his teeth. Just another goddam day in paradise.

  His other wrist throbbed angrily, but that was nothing new. Months had passed since he’d broken it and still it plagued him. Not for the first time, he missed Will and his damn blood fangs. He just flat out missed Will. That was a pain that never faded. Dammit, kid. Where the hell are you?

  He cradled his arm, his mind reflecting on those last, horrible moments with his brother
so long ago. One second, he and Will were gaping in horror at the appearance of that damn bastard Valmont. The madman had smiled at them, the bored, disinterested smile of a psychopath. The next moment, blackness. Mad’s world was darkness and dirt, the earth filling his mouth and nose.

  He could still feel the grittiness of it all between his teeth.

  Oh yes, Cephora had saved him, had stolen him away through whatever damned means the Earth Warder could. In the same stroke, she’d abandoned his brother to die. Mad didn’t care what her reasonings had been, that was the simple truth of it. Cephora had acted and, because of her, Will was . . . gone.

  He’s alive, I know it.

  His gaze fixed on the blood, Madigan felt the familiar tug of loss and anxiety pull at his heartstrings. Except I don’t.

  He shook the thought from his mind and eased some weight back onto his bloody arm. Not the time or place. He scanned the surroundings, breathed a sigh of relief, and waited. At least it doesn’t look like she heard me.

  Assessing his damaged limb, he scowled. The infusion of Shadow and glass had burst out in a silent explosion, heading straight for him. Thankfully, he’d managed to shield his face from the rush of energy and shrapnel. When the trap had sucked his hand back into it—the twisting power and rough material encircling his arm and slicing into his flesh—he’d feared he might lose the limb. He’d only just armored the limb in his Shade, barely forcing the foreign material out and away from his body. Had he not . . .

  Ileta takes too many goddam liberties with her training.

  Grumbling another curse, he continued his slow crawl forward. He clenched his teeth against the pain in his arms and kept his body as low to the ground as possible. His Shade was a misty aura, probing, testing, searching for any additional challenges his instructor may have left. He avoided two more before finally reaching the edge of the wood.

  In the center of the foggy clearing sat the object of his search for the day. Even with the overcast cloud cover, the sun briefly reflected upon the dull metal of the ring upon the dead log. Fallen haphazardly to the ground next to it flapped the leather glove.