by JD Franx
Giddeon hurried past the gods’ temples located on either side of the Eye—buildings whose beauty he used to admire now gave him a shivering spine. Lady Cortina’s temple and monastery were attached to the northern side of the university where scholars had easy access to the school and the prophet scrolls in the Eye’s vault deep in the university’s basement. Once at the monastery, he headed straight for Zaddyk’s room where he’d visited many times. He’d grown very fond of the boy over the years and had watched him grow to be a very kind-hearted and patient young man. It would be a hard road ahead for him if he’d been converted to a prophet by the gods. Zaddyk’s cries of pain and torment reached his ears before he even entered the temple grounds. Opening the temple doors crushed his heart as the volume of the young man’s screams increased ten-fold. Without the spell to help calm his mind and filter the goddess’ touch, Zaddyk would be dead within hours.
All prophets had to be confirmed by a Master or ArchWizard of the Inari, the six wizards who were devoted to the goddess Inara and her secrets. As the head of the Inari, the responsibility fell on Giddeon this night. The confirmation spell would allow for the sanction of excess god’s power to flow to the wizard, allowing the prophet’s mind to calm and see the visions he was meant to. The wizard used his or her body as a means to channel the intense god-power from a prophet to a gem. It was believed that the prophet used the gem to balance his power and at times draw excess energy from it in order to clarify a prophecy or to push further into the future. Only the prophet knew exactly what to use the gem for.
No mortal being could survive even the softest breath of a god for very long. Only extremely rare wizards or priests could use the essence of a god for magical power and survive. Known as channellers, one hadn’t been born in living memory. Prophets were never wizards and certainly not channellers, so a wizard had to transfer Cortina’s power to the amulet before her energy burnt the prophet out.
When Giddeon arrived at Zaddyk’s room, his friend, Brother Donis, sat on a stool beside the young man’s bed. The new prophet had been tied down at some point so he wouldn’t hurt himself, or others, as he flailed about in agony. The old priest looked washed out, like he had aged several decades due to the experience of seeing one of his best students in such a state.
“How is he?” Giddeon asked, as he approached the bed.
The priest looked up, but didn’t stand. “He’s alive,” he answered, “but I never could’ve understood the need for the confirmation spell until seeing this. My Lady must have good reasons for doing this to him. How soon can you begin?”
“Saleece went to get the Salminius grimoire. She won’t be long. Do you know what happened to him, Donis?”
“No. He must have been praying in the chapel. There was a force from inside that blew the chapel’s doors off. It was a miracle no one else was hurt. When we arrived he was already unconscious on the floor. He woke within minutes and the terror began immediately,” the priest explained.
“Terror is the word for it. According to Salminius, once a prophet’s full power blooms, his mind is locked into the visions of the future, thousands of different futures bombard the mind, all at once. Until the confirmation spell draws the excess power from him into the amulet and attains a balance, he cannot control it. His mind will be trapped where he is now, unable to understand what is happening. I can’t imagine the horror he may be seeing. Salminius wrote that the prophetess Elea, the one he confirmed, told him that she had seen all possible outcomes to hundreds of years when her mind was locked away before being confirmed.”
“May the Lady Cortina help him then,” Brother Donis prayed. He had just finished speaking when Saleece burst into the room, panting, having run the whole way.
“I have it, Father, and I also brought some glyph paint. The markings for the spell are incredibly complex,” she pointed out.
“Then you better get started. You always were better at transcribing glyph-spells than I. Be sure to double and triple check them all before we begin,” he warned.
“Right away,” she answered, and began removing Zaddyk’s clothes in order to copy the glyphs from the grimoire to his skin. It took her almost an hour to complete, as she had to be careful of Zaddyk’s convulsing body and screams of agony.
“Done, Father. Whenever you’re ready...”
Giddeon spent the next hour working the intricacies of the long dormant spell. The weaves of raw magic had to be placed exactly right so that upon completion the excess power would transfer through him to the gemstone amulet. Very few spells called for complex weaves in current times, but there were a few that did still exist. Saleece, the only one present capable of seeing the web-like threads of magic draped over and around both Zaddyk and Giddeon, stared with an open-mouthed smile as her father finished the last few threads of detailed weave. If done wrong the goddess’ power would rip Giddeon apart as it passed through his body to the amulet. A god’s help always came at a heavy price.
With all the weaves in place Giddeon prepared his body for the transfer of power.
“Styra Innan, Styra Innan,” he chanted, as power began to move from the marks on Zaddyk’s body through the weave and into himself. A strange, confusing energy flowed to his body and then passed into the gem. The assault on his senses was staggering, as the goddess’ power nearly overwhelmed him at first. He adjusted, quickly slowing the draw of energy thundering through his body.
The ancient medallion’s dark blue sapphire, smooth and egg-shaped, with a prominent star-shaped flaw, sparked and began to glow as the power left his body and entered the stone. Surrounded by a diamond-shaped cage of braided gold and silver wire, Giddeon stared in amazement as the filaments softened, wrapping themselves around the gem as if for added security. When the amulet could hold no more energy, he brought the spell to a close. The screaming and violent convulsions assaulting Zaddyk for the past several hours came to an abrupt end. He slipped into a deep sleep as Giddeon completed the second spell, locking the power inside the gem.
“It’s done,” he said, as a wave of dizziness washed over him and he fell to the floor. Saleece and Brother Donis jumped to his side and helped the ArchWizard into the bed next to Zaddyk’s.
“Here, old friend. Rest here. It’s late, and you both may stay here until he has recovered,” Donis offered Saleece, as he covered Giddeon with a heavy wool blanket.
“Thank you, Brother Donis,” Saleece said, noticing Giddeon already was asleep. The priest bowed as he left, so Saleece picked up the grimoire and started to flip through the pages, searching for whatever references the book had in relation to what they had just experienced. It was well after midnight, but she would sleep once her father was all right. Remembering the gem, she placed the large sapphire-centered amulet over Zaddyk’s head. Careful not to disturb him, she laid it on the centre of his chest, then sat down with the book and watched over both her father and the new-born prophet.
Chapter Forty
I have led my country and this kingdom to war on two separate occasions, three if you count the necromancer rebellion. Standing on the battlefield and leading your men has always been our way, the Cethosian way, the Bale way. Myself, my father, my grandfather, and his father before him have all fought side by side with our men. We have bled and died on the field of battle. “Always lead your country in every way, even to war. You cannot ask others to die for you if you are not willing to die for them.” This creed, my father told me, was what led Cethos to become the power it is and remains to be, to this very day.
I do not have a son, though that matters little in Cethos. Our laws state the oldest royal child will ascend to the throne. My daughter, Corleya, is now at the age of majority. My wife and I have done our best to mold her into a responsible princess and future ruler. However, I will not have her risking her life on the battlefield and because of this, we have stepped up the search for a worthy commander to rule by her side. There are many women warriors, wizards, and mercenaries in Talohna. In some countries, mor
e than men even. But they are not my daughter and they are not the last of the Bale line. She needs a leader to fight in her stead when it is time; war waits on no man and rears its ugly head when it so decides, not when you are ready to fight it.
KING JORAN BALE, ROYAL JOURNAL
5024 PC.
CASCADE CITADEL
CORYNTH, CETHOS
King Joran Bale was furious. Again he walked in on his daughter and only child, training like a serious soldier with the bladed whips she had been given when young. When she was four years of age, representatives from the Southern Kingdom’s country of Salzara visited the castle for the first time in recorded history. At the banquet table that first night, a story was told about how all warriors from that country trained using certain weapons with such vigour and dedication that it bordered on religion. The weapons they spoke of were either thinly bladed chains, or braided leather whips, depending on whether you were male or female. The leader of Salzara, King Tiago Vhorez, who hadn’t travelled with his ambassador, had commissioned a special set of whips for his own daughter when she had been born. When the Salzaran princess was two years old, assassins from another country managed to penetrate the inner keep of King Vhorez’s castle. The king was wounded, but survived. His wife and daughter weren’t so lucky. Both had been killed long before help could reach them.
The king of Salzara soon realized King Bale had a daughter the same age as his would have been. When the ambassador left for Corynth, the king sent the whips he had made for his own child along with the ambassador to be offered as a gift for King Bale’s daughter, Corleya. Mesmerized by the story and the weapons as she got older, Princess Corleya refused to allow anyone to take them from her. At ten years of age, while practising with them, she cut her cheek deeply enough that it healed with a long, neat scar. King Joran took the whips and his daughter refused to speak with him until they were returned. His wife didn’t help the situation. Being from Salzara, where both men and women are granted the right to fight for their king or noble, she always seemed to encourage what King Bale considered to be unladylike behaviour.
With her sixteenth birthday only a month and a half ago, it seemed that Corleya had increased her training by three times. Every time he looked for her, the king would find her in the royal armoury’s training room. The Queen’s brother, the owner and active leader of the Bounty Merc’s Guild, had even found Corleya a new lady-in-waiting, a young Salzaran woman of twenty years named Alia Ryanez. The king firmly believed that the young woman had been bred, born, and raised with similar whips attached to both of her hands. King Bale had finally come to the end of his patience. He was putting a stop to the outlandish behaviour, no matter the cost or the consequences.
Standing inside the door of the arm’s room, he watched as his daughter and her lady-in-waiting sparred using the exotic Salzaran whips. Designed for practise, the razor-sharp blades and braided gold wire inlay had been removed. Even so, if struck, the whips would still leave a raised welt on the flesh, but they wouldn’t leave any scars.
The king watched the mock fight, as he grew angrier by the minute. His energetic daughter dodged an attack with fluid grace as Alia’s whip shot forward with a crack of air, just missing her face. The force of the whip caused air to whistle through the princess’ long black hair. The tight ringlets uncoiled and then sprung back with a bounce.
Alia was a full three inches taller than the princess, even though both young women weighed the same. Taller and leaner, the Salzaran woman was much faster than the princess, but as Corleya’s whip landed a snapping blow on Alia’s bronze skin, her wince of pain made it clear the young royal was much stronger. King Bale had seen enough.
“Corleya!” The two girls separated from each other in an instant. “That is enough! I’ve told you repeatedly that a lady does not roll around and sweat like a breeding swine in an attempt to learn how to fight.” The princess turned to her father, her temper more than a match for his own.
“Father.” She bowed, her lady-in-waiting followed her lead. “What do you have such a problem with? Both Mother and Uncle Joelsa believe there is nothing wrong with a woman learning to fight. You want me to sit on the throne as Queen one day, then let me lead as our family have always led,” she said, but the king was unmoved.
“Your grandfather and I both led men into battle because we had no choice. All three Wildlands wars required every possible sword we could acquire. You cannot begin to fathom fighting a war with savages who believe dying on the battlefield with the blood and flesh of their enemies in their bellies makes them immortal. They are more fanatical than the bloody Northmen and ten times as savage. I saw them try to devour the organs of slain men in the middle of battle because they think that it gives them the strength of that fallen warrior and the blessing of their gods. Do you really feel that is the place for you, for any lady, noble or not?”
King Bale was well aware that stubbornness ran in his family’s line, but he was still surprised by his daughter’s answer. “It is the place of any leader to be there in that situation, especially the ruler of Cethos,” she said. “‘Always lead your country in every way, even to war. You cannot ask others to die for you if you are not willing to die for them.’ Our family has lived by that creed from the time the very first Bale took Corynth’s crown fifteen hundred years ago. Yet because I am a woman, I should be treated differently? You cannot ask others to die for you if you are too much of a coward to face death beside them. I will never ask someone else to do something I am too afraid to do, especially when I am Queen. You have grown too comfortable ordering others to do things you are too lazy or too afraid to do yourself, father.”
“Exactly what in Perdition are you referring to, child?”
With her anger clearly beyond her control, Princess Corleya held nothing back. “You expect me to sit on the throne and order people to do distasteful things as I sit back and what? Make babies? I’ll have the respect of all the Cethosian people, Father, noble and common. I will never order my people to hunt down a monster, that will in all likelihood kill them, when I am too afraid to kill it myself,” she snapped. Disrespect and embarrassment rode every word that tumbled from her mouth. King Bale stared, speechless, surprise etched into his normally stoic face.
“You didn’t think anyone knew, Father? Everyone knows. You stay here safe behind your castle walls and send several groups of Uncle’s men and even an assassin to kill the DeathWizard that threatens us. Not so long ago, you would have gotten off your self-righteous ass and done it yourself.” She spit the lasts words with heavy contempt. The king wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. Insulted and hurt, his anger turned to fury.
“That’s enough!” he hissed through clenched teeth. Four heavily armoured men of the royal guard entered the training room, the urgency in his voice demanding they act. “Guards, take those weapons from my daughter and escort her to her room. Keep two guards by her door and two in the courtyard below her damn window. Arrest her lady-in-waiting and put her in the dungeon. Be sure she doesn’t escape,” he ordered, not hesitating for a moment.
“Father!” Corleya shrieked. “She’s done nothing to you. What is wrong with you? She only did as her princess asked of her,” she pleaded. “Stop, Father. Please!” Seeing a side of her father she never knew existed, the princess stared at him with disgust.
The pressures of prophecies, the DeathWizard, and other outside influences hung on the king like dead weight as he tried to protect all that was dear to him. There was only one way to make his daughter understand the seriousness of his commands.
“I will not, Corleya. I have warned you both several times to stop this nonsense and still you persist.” Beginning to suspect where her father was heading, horror crept onto her face.
“You can’t, you… You bastard,” she whispered.
“I can, little girl, and I will. Alia Ryanez, for disobeying repeated and direct orders from your king, I hereby sentence you to death.”
“No!” scre
amed Corleya, as she lunged to attack her father. A guard grabbed her around the waist, restraining her. “How dare you do such a thing. You’re not the man you used to be. You’re no longer even a man, let alone a king. I promise you, Alia, I will try to stop him, I swear.”
“Calm yourself, Princess,” Alia said, with a tender voice. “If it is the god’s will, then so be it. Just remember all I have taught you.”
Turning to her father with tears in her eyes, Corleya snapped, “You wait until Mother hears about this, you coward…” Without thinking, King Bale swung, slapping his daughter and knocking her from the guard’s grasp. She fell to the floor, dazed.
“You will know your place and so will your mother. I should’ve put an end to this outlandish behaviour years ago… You… You foolish little girl. Now it is ended. Take them both where I ordered,” he barked at the four guards. At the end of his patience, King Bale watched as both young women were led away, one already locked in dungeon chains.
It wouldn’t be long before a very angry queen would succeed in hunting him down, so the king headed to the last place she would look, he’d even dodged the First Pillar on the way. The private garden on the roof of the castle’s main structure had been built hundreds of years ago. Though no one knew, it was a place he came to often, if for nothing else than the peace and quiet along with the cool shade of some of the larger plants. The drifting mists of the two waterfalls that fell from the mountains above his head to the moat below always layered him in a sense of calm. At fifty years of age, King Bale had never seen a more stressful time of his reign, that included fighting his first war when he was seventeen years old, less than a year after he became king.
Assuming the throne upon his father’s death just after his sixteenth birthday, the young king was forced to lead his country and the Blood Kingdoms to war. The two-year-long campaign ended with victory, only to again have to go to war four years later, against the same enemy. Three-and-a-half years it took to end the threat from the Wildlands the second time, and King Bale made sure they would never threaten his country again. Five years after, he was forced to make the decision that put them where they were today, with a DeathWizard roaming free somewhere in Talohna.
