He leaned over and examined her notes. “Samsara this had better not be what I think.”
Sam cringed, she’d hoped that he wouldn’t notice which text she was reading. “It’s part of my commencement research, I am certain it will be immeasurably useful to our Watchers in the field. Especially when we find your Lost Tribe.”
Madan thumbed through her papers. Out of the corner of her eye she watched his ever cautious eyes examine her work.
“This research is prodigious Samsara, I have never seen such detailed records of man’s magical lineage.” he paused. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but I thought your thesis was on the exodus, what good is a tome on hex removal?”
She felt that his inquiry into her work suggested that he was not mad at her. Though she was almost always welcome in his study, sometimes her father turned unreasonably cold, particularly when he was researching his own pet projects. All the other times, he was immeasurably helpful in assisting her.
Perhaps this was one of those times, she thought.
“When I was researching the thirteenth tribe of man, I found that before their disappearance, the reported number of magic born children far exceeded that of the other tribes. At first I thought it was an anomaly, but the records point to their disappearance reflecting the increasing interest of the Nemeton. We know that all magic born are located almost at once after birth and taken into custody by the Grove. Unless they are sheltered, hidden by some illusion.”
“Breeding cults,” he responded.
“Precisely, but there is no record of intermarriage or procreation between the thirteenth tribe and the others. They were isolated to the Greatwood. While the other tribes melded together, they remained pure, passing down what I believe was…”
“An immunity,” his eyes bulged.
“What I can’t figure is, does the Grove know? I can’t find any record of what happened to the magic born from the thirteenth tribe. Not in our records, or the records released to us by the bards.” she stopped and looked at Madan who was carefully scanning her papers.
“Father, I think the thirteenth tribe had developed an immunity to the Bane of the Fallen. The last record I found stated that six out of every ten children born in the tribe presented signs of magical influence. Then they vanished, but only after the Nemeton issued the order for the Watchers to cease operations. I think they found a way to break the curse, or at least a way to dampen its effects. The Nemeton had to have known this.”
Madan’s eyes betrayed the disturbance he felt. “If the Nemeton had moved against one tribe, it would be cause for war between man and the Fae.” Sam knew he would take a special interest in her work. His obsession had long been the whereabouts of the thirteenth tribe of man. The Lost Tribe was one of the black marks on her people’s reputation. It was under Madan’s grandfather’s watch that the tribe had vanished. Under the agreement between the Nemeton and the forefathers of the Seræphym, part of their penance was ensuring that mankind was always under close watch. When the tribe went missing, the Seræphym were blamed. Madan had spent the better part of two centuries unceasingly searching for the Lost Tribe. Sam was certain that her father would show an interest in her findings.
“The Spear of the Morning Star, pureblood of magical man, the bones of the Fallen king, the heart of the one who rules. Sam what is this list?”
“I’m not exactly sure yet, it came to me when I was sleeping. In the dream I was in the archive, going over my notes and I just started to write a list of ingredients for a spell. I wasn’t sure if it meant anything at first, but when I looked into it.” Sam shuffled through a few papers, her mind was moving faster than her mouth. “According to Bataivah all hexes require a sacrifice on behalf of the caster to break the curse. Have the Nemeton ever revealed the original caster?”
“Sam this is forbidden research, you know this, better than most.” he said to his daughter. Sam noticed sweat dripping off his brow. “Did you show this to anyone else?”
“Of course not, do you think it could be connected to the relic the Watchers found? What was it called, the stone of Fal? As soon as our Watchers retrieved the stone, the Penitents showed up on the shores of Hyperborea. It can’t be a coincidence. I think their leader, this Ensí Ubara must be descended from an offshoot of the thirteenth tribe. We have numerous reports stating that his power is magical in nature.”
“Sam is this all of your work?” he asked.
“Yes, I haven’t had the time to transcribe…” she said before she was interrupted.
Madan gathered all the papers and her notebook.
“Father!”
“It’s forbidden!” he replied before taking a deep breath. “I won’t let you risk your future by entangling yourself in…”
“In what? In your forbidden research?” Sam retorted.
“Exactly!” Madan yelled.
Sam scoffed. Her father rarely raised his voice let alone yell at her. “I thought I would make you proud. I thought we could solve the problem together. If we find the location of the thirteenth tribe will it not clear our names?”
Madan sighed.
“Samsara listen. I am proud of the work you’ve done here, I am. But this work will only bring you pain. It is my responsibility to right the wrongs of my Father, it should not be yours. I am the only one who can fix this.”
Sam frowned. “Father, look I know the consequences. I also know what this could mean for our people. Freedom, isn’t that what you’ve championed for your entire life? How can you be so short-sighted?”
“Father, I only meant to help our people.”
Madan yelled. “By condemning them to another thousand years indentured to the Grove?”
He paced, “Look I understood Samsara, I know because that was my intention. But we cannot wrest ourselves from bondage if we anger the one holding the leash. The Nemeton holds that leash, and they do not suffer reckless actions. Least of all actions that seek to plan a recipe for the one thing that could eliminate their power. If this information had Fallen into the wrong hands...”
“But it's not just! Our ancestors had no choice, no freedom of will. When will is taken from you, how can you be held accountable? They cannot judge us by the actions of our ancestors.”
“Can they not? They hold men accountable for their heritage.”
“We are not men!” she cried.
“No we are their creation we are as flawed as they are. The Nemeton will never see it otherwise. If we place one foot out of line, they will relinquish what little freedoms we’ve been granted.”
Sam understood the gravity of the situation. She knew she was breaking their ridiculous law. The Bane of the Fallen was the foremost center of the Nemeton’s power over mankind. She had hoped that if she located the Lost Tribe she could prevent war from occurring. That would prove her people were no threat.
“The return of magical man must never again occur,” said Madan. “If the Kings of old were to rise again, our people would once again suffer the burden of enslavement.”
“Father, we are slaves now! We simply serve a different master,” said Samsara.
Madan looked at her, his face was stern and his tone curt, “We serve, so that all may live in a world ruled by peace Sam. Our covenant with the Grove ensures that our people can never again be perverted by those who would seek to use our gifts. It ensures that war remains buried in the past!”
Samsara had heard it thousands of times. The dark recesses of her people’s history were well known. The Seræphym were not born of the Goddess, they were the corrupted children of Atum and his Fallen Kings. Though the Fae had overlooked their past, man perceived their existence as a slight. Had it not been for her great ancestor the Morning Star, Atum would not have Fallen before exacting his revenge upon the Earth.
“If we make sure that the curse is never broken, do we not achieve that aim?” she challenged. “The only way to prevent conflict is to remove the weapons. If I was able to uncover this much, how close could the domi
nions of man be to discovering that the blood of the thirteenth tribe is immune to the Bane? Father, this research is important!”
Madan collected papers. “You think if we just present this to the Nemeton they will believe we were doing it in their best interests? Sam, you can’t afford to be this naïve! It has been six thousand years since man had a connection to magic. The Lost Tribe has been missing for over four thousand years if any of them survived they would have been captured by the Nemeton.”
“We can’t afford to take that chance!” she cried. “Damn the risk, you are due to present your findings on their last location, these findings could exonerate us, our entire people could be free. Does anything else matter?”
“Sam I forbid you to continue this. I demand you relinquish all of your research this instant.”
She couldn’t believe what he was saying. “No, I won’t do that!”
“I do this not as your Father Samsara, but as your Sopher. Do not force me to do what I must if you do not cease I will be forced to have the Guardians place you in detention. I will not waiver on this Samsara.”
Sam stood. “You’re damning our people to life of slavery. That’s on your conscience.” She unfurled her wings.
“Samsara!” he yelled.
“Don’t bother I’m late for my instruction with Sariel.”
Her wings thrashed blowing parchment around the room and knocking out the flames of the candles as she ascended to the berth in the top of the tower. In seconds she was airborne. She headed for the Watcher garrison. Though Sam was a Keeper, she’d received a special dispensation from her father to train with Sariel, the head of the Watchers. She flew with reckless abandon towards the training yard, landing in its center in a fit of juvenile rebellion.
“Sariel, I’m ready for my instruction.” she barked.
He laughed, “Is that so little wing? Well grab a spear and let’s go to work.”
Samsara grabbed a spear and thrust past his head with a warcry. Sariel watched the spear tip fly past him. “Something’s ruffled the feathers this morning.”
“That’s an understatement,” she responded before lunging again.
Sariel parried, “Good thrust, but your eyes betrayed you.”
No matter how hard she tried, she could not strike him. Each miss aggravated her more.
“Samsara, what have I told you about anger and combat?” he asked.
“That anger aids the heart,” she said before thrusting and missing again.
Sariel parried again trapping her spear in his defense. His forearm smashed against the hardwood and snapped the pole disarming her. He pressed with his spear advancing on her, watching her footwork. She dodged each assault with ease. “Good, good, but you’ve forgotten one thing.”
“What’s that?” she said smugly.
Sariel thrust towards her head in a feigned attempt before exacting a sweep of her legs. Samsara tumbled to the ground defenseless. “Anger aids the heart. When we focus it towards a noble purpose. Anger alone is not enough, we must keep poise. We are masters of our emotions, not slaves to them. It is the principle at the center of the heart of a warrior.”
He bent down and gave her his hand. “You know this? What has unseated you from reason?”
Samsara frowned, “I had an argument with Father.”
“An argument? Seems you lost?” he said.
“He’s such a hypocrite. Why is he the only one who gets to bend the rules?” she asked.
“I suppose that is one benefit of being a leader. I know I have done it. I do it right now. You’re a Keeper Samsara. You should not know how to wield a blade or spear as I do, yet you do. Because your father and I saw fit to bend the rules. It’s not like you don’t know the rules, or know why they are there. You’re the brightest student on the Acropolis, but you lack one key lesson.”
“Oh? And that is?” she asked.
“Patience,” he said. “Your heart is no doubt in the right place, but to fix the issues our people face, all of us must be patient. Your father does all he can for us. He can’t make it all disappear overnight. No one can erase six thousand years of history in one night. You have to give it time, dedication.”
“I suppose you’re right, but how do you know when patience isn’t right? Suppose you could fix it all with one big revelation? What would you do?”
He took a moment, “If such a situation presented itself, I imagine I would trust the wisdom of my elders. Elders like your Father.”
Samsara discerned his pragmatic approach was how he’d assumed command of the Watchers. Sariel was a noble Seraeph, and Samsara adored him as a mentor. He’d taught her how to wield every weapon the Seræphym used. Without him she’d be stuck routing around the Archives or polishing old relics in the Reliquary.
“Thank you Sariel, as always your calm demeanor defeats the bluster of rage,” she joked.
“I’m glad you see that rebellion and conflict, while it has its place, is not something we should rush into headlong. A calm mind will often overcome the hotheads of those who’ve Fallen to anger. Now come along, grab a claymore and let’s have fun.”
Samsara grinned. Though he’d helped to calm her down, her mind lingered on her findings. She may have been forced to hand over the physical research, but her mind was a steel trap. She’d be sure to continue looking into the manner. If the need arose, she’d be prepared to face it, claymore in hand if need be.
Chapter Four
Ubara Tutu, the Ensí of Penitent’s Vow
Righteous wrath they do invoke,
Man seeks to shed their yoke,
Underneath the ash, thorn, and oak.
The shores of Hyperborea were more beautiful than he imagined. He had done the impossible. No other tribe of man had dared to sail the wind to the hallowed lands of Hyperborea, for fear of being punished by the Nemeton. They called themselves the penitents. Men of courage, valor, and righteous action, burdened with glorious purpose. They rose to fight the injustice of being denied their birthright.
“Descendants of Elohim, sons of the fiery solar wind, we have broken open the gates of Eden!” said the Ensí, Ubara Tutu. “Let loose the cannons and take back what’s rightfully yours.”
The men howled and hurried towards their stations. Each one of them had left their homeland. They had forsaken everything they ever knew for greater good. Wind whipped and howled as the airships cruised at low altitude. Every ounce of ingenuity had been squeezed from the alchemists and engineers to summon the monstrous metallic beasts. Not since the Age of Elohim had man dared to brave the sky, but Ubara had known the only way to enter land of his ancestors was by way of the wind.
“Prepare to fire,” the commander called out to the gunners.
Ubara braced himself, as the mist cleared he saw it, the ancient city of Formene, glimmering in the morning light. “There men! The prophet’s words were true, the seals of magic that once contained Eden are now broken, a testament to our faith. All who have fallen. Those who sacrificed their lives for this day, shall be remembered as saints. Three hundred years of searching of wandering, persecution and the false tongues of the heretics who follow the demonic Goddess of the Tuatha Dé will be repaid with the blood of the Fae!”
The men cheered and their battle cry sung a righteous song of their crusade across the morning sky.
“Atlanteans, the Kings of Kemet, even the Inquisition of Sumer did not cease our advance to our holy birthright. Today make the Hyperborean King and his insidious children tremble. Make them shake and flee in terror as we set loose the cannons and proclaim once and for all that we are free men, the sons of Elohim!”
“Elohim! Elohim! Elohim!” the men cried.
“Let loose judgment upon the wicked, shake the walls of their city, so they remember the one true God!”
“Fire,” cried the artillery commander.
Ubara closed his eyes and listened for the inevitable crash of exploding metal impacting the stone walls of the city. He had played the scenario out
within his mind countless times. The world would never be the same.
The first explosion reported to his ears came not from the deck of his airship. It came from the ships protecting his fleets flank. It was not cannon fire but the explosive gaseous sound of the airships primary fuel compartments. Then came the second, then the third. Ubara whirled to face the onslaught. He could not believe his eyes. One by one the airships burst into balls of wild flame.
“Axial Fire!” cried the artillery commander.
Ubara froze, his faith had not prepared him for what he was witnessing. Balls of blue flame ascended from the city of Formene laying waste to his fleet before they could fire a single shot. Guardians of the Seræphym landed upon the decks and laid low the men who took up arms against them. Blood splattered and bones cracked as the penitents fell to the flaming blades of the descendants of the Morning Star.
“Elohim!” Ubara screamed the name of his God before being enveloped in blue flame.
His eyes shot open to the sound of the timid knocking at his chambers door.
“Enter,” he said through grinding teeth.
The door opened revealing a meek servant girl. “My Lord Ensí, I’ve brought food for you to break your fast.”
He motioned for her to place the tray she carried beside his bed. His body was covered in a cold sweat. He watched her move, her form was as perfect as any woman. Ubara did not keep many women in his service, they were reminders of feminine power. A power he despised with vehement. Though he had lived an unnaturally long life, propelled through time by his mastery of the dark art of thaumaturgic magic he was still a man, and men had desires. He despised his desires, suppressing his natural urges to keep a chaste life in service of his God. He did this for his people. Still, he craved the wonders of the flesh. He limited himself to indulging in his lust in private. Ubara watched the slave stride across his chamber floors. His eyes groped at her body peering from within his gaunt and haunting visage. He felt his loins burning, he had not felt a woman’s warmth in over three centuries. The sway of her hips recalled memories of his former life, a life of lechery and self-indulgence.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 5
