All evidence showed that the magi who had traveled from Skyshrine to Terra on that fateful day were scattered in time. But the distribution was not random, just the interval of time was. Somehow, their appearances were arranged in the order they had stepped through the gateway. His friend Iedrias had arrived at the expected time, according to the Academy’s records.
After weeks and weeks of research, they had discovered a fault within the Item’s fluctuations. An error that had never once been noticed before. One of its energy waves had been misaligned. With the assistance of ten more mysticists, Iedrias Dallor had restored the Item to its original frequencies. Only then had they been able to get all of Skyshrine’s inhabitants back to Terra, and they never once traveled back, in fear that this disaster would happen again.
But the rest of the Missing still reappeared from time to time. Almost fifteen years after Iedrias’s arrival, Ellyra, the woman he had shared a life with for a little while, returned. And so did his son. Farooq, the geomancer Luthan had briefly known, had followed them too. His name was still written in Academy texts.
The Academy had changed, but the core values were still the same. Knowledge above all else. Above justice. He recognized that, because when Lord Sharr had come to conquer the land, Luthan too had chosen the magi legacy over Bravoure.
But how had they expected him to react when, upon his return, Luthan had been faced with the fact that Ellyra was dead? That his son, Tiberius, was now a fully grown man who resented him? He had not even spoken to him in the past eight years. That his wife was still missing? That part still shook him.
Mist’s curious neigh lured him back on track. Luthan shook his head and gazed ahead. He could clearly see the end of the trail. As he reached a flat platform ensconced between the mountain’s cliffs, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to face. By the triangular gates carved into the cliff stood two massive columns made of Fallvale’s emerald glass. Glyphs of gold were engraved into the columns in Old Elven. Luthan dismounted Mist and sauntered toward one of the pillars. His hand instinctively trailed a sequence of glyphs.
Luthan read the words aloud, “Hyer liggr arfleifdth okkar.”
Here lies our legacy.
He turned to the gates. They were sealed shut, but every mage in Fallvale knew the one way to open them.
“Dvāram udghā'Taya!”
The first phrase he had ever learned in the language of the Ancients.
A crack in the mountain’s cliff, followed by the shattering sound like the northern ice floe splitting in two. The gates slid open, slowly, dust from the cliff tumbling onto the ground.
Luthan entered a large hall that extended into the mountain, lit by luminescent veins of volcanic waters drawn from far beneath the ground. The veins extended along the walls in geometric pathways that led to the edge of the temple. Luthan walked further until he reached the altar at the center of the path. An ornate pedestal with a single rest at its heart. An empty socle. He hovered his hand in an arc above the altar, and inscriptions of the distant past shimmered. Luthan could not read them, nor could he decipher even one letter, but this was the way to summon the Sphinx, guardian of the Wayfinder.
Luthan turned around upon hearing their footsteps behind him. A large lioness-like being of golden light sauntered gracefully to him. Their head was of an elf, their wings were of an eagle. Luthan’s instinctive reaction was to bow before this magnificent creature.
“The Seeker has traveled time to meet with the One,” they announced. Their voice, a whisper and a bellow at the time. A chorus of entwined voices of a crowd of men and women.
The tall elf raised his head and let himself be gazed upon. There was a specific way to talk to the Sphinx, Luthan remembered. A creature of such might deserved to be addressed most exceptionally.
“The Seeker requests access to what the One must keep,” Luthan said.
The Sphinx reached Luthan. They were now standing in an arm’s reach of the elf. They reclined their back and sat like a patient cat, waiting, gazing upon their interlocutor.
“The Seeker knows what he must do,” the Sphinx declared.
Luthan nodded.
“Does the Seeker accept the challenge of Courage, Honesty, and Wisdom?” the Sphinx asked.
The guardian of the Solar Temple was a creature older than Fallvale’s first memories. They had coexisted with the Ancients. Legends say the Ancients had tasked the guardian to protect this Item of Power, for its nature offered too much power for mortals to use. Only through a test through the Wheel of Virtues should this Item be granted. No one knew how the Sphinx chose the virtues to test, but it was always tailored to the one seeking the Wayfinder. They say the Sphinx can look at someone and gaze directly into their past, present, and all probable futures.
“The Seeker accepts the challenge,” Luthan stated. He knew he was about to answer a series of hard questions.
The Sphinx’s eyes glowed. They gazed through Luthan for a moment, seeing, observing, counting. They spoke without moving their lips. “Why does the Seeker think Bravoure needs saving?”
Luthan did not have to think far for that one. “Bravoure was a place of glory. Of unity. The Bravoure I remember would have never called for the slaughter of a race. The Bravoure I know would have never conquered a defenseless land like Iskala and massacred so many innocents.”
The Sphinx’s eyes remained glowing. “But the Bravoure the Seeker remembers is from a time long gone. Kingdoms change. People find new purposes. Even Terra changes form. What makes the Seeker the judge of what should and should not be?”
Luthan winced. He looked at his feet for a moment of thought. “I...the Seeker fears Bravoure’s fate hangs on but a single thread.” The Sphinx did not react. Were they waiting for Luthan to elaborate? “There might be a way to save this kingdom. People are torn, divided. Finding the true heir to the throne might be a way to unite everyone again. They will—”
“The Seeker bases his motive on an assumption,” the Sphinx inferred.
Luthan did not look up. “That is correct,” he mumbled, admitting it to himself more than to the Sphinx.
“The Seeker must understand that this Item can only be received by those whose purpose is clear. If the Seeker’s purpose is unfathomed, the One cannot grant his request.”
“I know,” Luthan said with a stutter. “I just think—”
“The Seeker’s true purpose must be established. It must be spoken.”
“It’s just that...Bravoure has gone through so much. It is time to restore peace. Let people live their lives without fear, without the shadow of war over their heads.” Luthan’s voice almost broke at the end of that sentence.
“Is the Seeker looking for Bravoure’s redemption or his own?”
Luthan’s breath halted. His features sharpened into a frown. He looked at the Sphinx in their gleaming eyes and asked, “I beg your pardon?”
“Does the Seeker find responsibility in what has become of the Golden Kingdom?”
Luthan swallowed hard. Of course, he did! His wife’s voice still echoed accusations in his mind. He had abandoned Bravoure. He had left a whole kingdom to die. And for what? Self-preservation? To be cast into a paradisiac prison only to return scattered across time? Had it really been worth it?
Oh, that guilt and blame. Toxic emotions Luthan really could not bear to feel right now.
“Of course, I feel responsible,” he confessed.
The Sphinx’s eyes stopped glowing. They leaned in forward, their face right in front of Luthan’s. “If the Seeker were given the chance, would he abandon Bravoure again?”
That was the worst part of it. The Seeker would do it all over again. Because his arcane values weighed heavier than his duty to the kingdom that was never his. Knowledge had to be preserved. The magi legacy had to be saved. That is why Luthan had run. That is why Luthan had abandoned Bravoure.
Luthan shrugged. That ambition, the spark that maybe he could do something to fix this, it l
eft him then. It slid along his numbed limbs and slipped away. Luthan did not heed the Sphinx anymore. He walked past them in indifference until their voice called to him again.
“The One understands,” they said. “But does the Seeker?”
Luthan passed a nervous hand through his hair and looked over his shoulder, back at the Sphinx. What kind of answer did the guardian want? Was it not evident that Luthan would never pass that test of Courage or Wisdom with the coward that he was?
“The One will repeat their question one last time. Why does the Seeker think Bravoure needs saving?”
The tall elf pursed his lips, letting his emotions slip into a catatonic shell where he could ignore them. He should have acted. How ljosalfar of him, watching a kingdom fall from afar.
He had to act this time. Yes, he was looking for his own redemption. He was proud to admit it. Not in the eyes of gods or holy beings, but for the one person he had failed more than most. Ahna. For once in his life, duty called louder than he could ignore. He had to give the Sphinx something, an answer, an admission. Perhaps that was what the guardian wanted, because for one to move forward, one must acknowledge the past.
Luthan took a deep breath and turned to the Sphinx. “Because we failed. I failed. I left Bravoure to die once, and I’m not doing it again. I left my wife to die, for Arcanis’s sake! If this is my last chance to save this version of Bravoure, then so be it. I’ll take it, for the people’s sake, and hers, wherever she is.”
And at that moment, as his eyes wandered to the altar behind the creature, he noticed the Item that rested on its socle. His eyes met the guardian’s again, and he could swear they were smiling at him. The Sphinx disappeared like a fading image printed on the back of one’s closed pupils. Luthan hurried to the altar and seized the Wayfinder, the emerald glass-like pyramid with decors of gold that fit in the palm of his hand. The Wayfinder lit upon his touch, and Luthan phrased his one intention.
Take me to the Bravan King’s legacy.
A dozen cloaked men stood in the darkness, by the crater that had been dug to gut the ruins of Antaris. More of these men kept digging at the bottom. They would stop soon, for they had just uncovered part of everything they had worked for.
The priestess walked with difficulty, limping, toward the edge of the crater. She had been shot in the leg by her latest encounter, the dark elf with powers unknown. Blood trickled down her leg, leaving the scent of iron hanging in the air. Her entire body began to fail her.
When the priestess reached the edge, her gaze landed on what was below. Despite the darkness, the crater’s bottom was lit by torches of blue fire so they would burn longer. She could see clearly the black surface of something buried down there. It was smooth, and it reflected the flames.
A chilling breeze caught her by the spine. Fright spread through her veins, and all the little hairs on her neck stood on end. He came close to her. The cloaked men who noticed him fell silent and could only look at him.
He looked better than the last time she had seen him. His skin had regained an almost natural color. His eyes were no longer hollow. They were back to the blue she had once known. What had he done to restore himself in such a way? How many deaths had it required?
“You look well, Lord of the Night,” she complimented.
“You don’t.”
The priestess snickered and winced. She leaned on her scepter to hold her balance.
“I needed extra energy before waking Him,” the Undead King added. “He’s been buried for decades. I will require more than my own lifeforce to raise him.”
The men digging at the bottom of the crater uncovered more of the beast that slept below. It was a claw, darker than the night that surrounded them. And the smell that came with it was unbearable, more sickening than standing near the Undead King.
He noticed her distress. “Now, Sister, is this how you greet the Avatar of Mort?”
The priestess lowered her arm. “How long until He is ready?”
“Until they completely excavate Him. When that is done, our work will begin.”
Hours passed, and the Sister of Mort remained by the Undead King’s side. He observed his men as they uncovered the fiend buried for all these years beneath the mountain. She slowly grew accustomed to the smell, as though it was the only thing she had ever known. Or maybe it was because she was losing too much of her senses. Her vision had already faded. The wound on her leg flared more by the hour. The blazing pain had made her body numb.
The Undead King turned to her, scrutinizing her, gorging his restored eyes with the vision of a dying woman. His lips stretched into a crooked smile. There was but one thing left to do to alleviate her pain.
He held out his hand and clasped it under her neck. Her skin fumed upon his touch. His blue eyes lit with a funeral flame, and her lifeforce was slowly sucked out of her veins. He consumed her blood through her pores, her breath, and the energy that flowed within her. She let out a scream that died with her. When she was entirely drained of any life, her face had been crushed on itself, her bones showed, and her eyes leaked like tears on her broken cheeks. The Undead King held her body above the crater and released it.
The light of the sun and water of the Azul would do to sway Ahna back to her senses. Jules made her lie on her back while he splashed her face with cold water. His tense attitude said everything about his mood. He paced back and forth between the river and Ahna and grunted simultaneously. Luky sat by himself, his arms hugging his knees, silent.
“You could have been killed!” Jules shouted at both of them. He could not possibly imagine that. He had lost Ahna once—he could not lose her again. Was she not supposed to be a powerful archmage who could damned well defend herself, even against a dragon or any of the shadow monsters they had encountered in the past?
Ahna sat straight and wiped the cold drops out of her eyes. She was feeling much better now. Less woozy, more alert. Her head still rang from that terrible migraine.
She had to make great efforts to collect her thoughts. And everything she had seen in that short moment in the confessional, the clerical mind prison.
“How long was I out?” she asked Luky, ignoring Jules.
Luky shrugged but did not dare to answer.
It must not have been long because none of the undead creatures had returned after that explosion of light.
“What happened?” Jules pressed. His blue eyes were soft, but his gaze was still stern. Was he really mad or only appearing to be?
Ahna exhaled a couple of coughs. She shook her head slowly, trying to piece her memories in the right order.
“I saw them, the undead,” she said, then paused and squinted. “There was a woman, a priestess. It was like she had...control over them.” Ahna raised her head to Jules, remembering a key detail about her encounter with the priestess. “She had a holy symbol of Mort.”
Jules came at a standstill and crossed his arms. “What the fuck is that, Ahna?”
Wow, that tone. What in Hell was up with Jules? “Gods, shrike, calm down. We’re alive!”
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you go! And you”—he turned to Luky—“are in so much trouble, furball.”
Luky looked down. He hated people calling him furball.
“Mort is known as the Baron of Death,” Ahna explained, dragging Jules’s attention back to her. “He comes from old legends about lesser gods. Pagan legends, really. The priestess said something about...an awakening.”
Jules remained stern. “That doesn’t help me at all.”
Ahna pursed her lips and frowned. “Jules, they have it wrong. They think it’s some kind of divine Avatar of their god. But I know it’s Cedric, and I think that he is the one buried under the mountain. I don’t know how or when that happened, but whoever her people are, they believe it’s their god returned.”
Jules collapsed close to Ahna. The mention of Cedric, a name he had not heard in gods knew how long, was too much for him. He rested his arms on his knees and buried his face,
his forehead crashing against the back of his hands. He took a deep breath, processing Ahna’s words. That undead problem? Now he knew the source. He looked up again and searched for Ahna’s purple eyes.
“So you’re saying Cedric is the reason why all of this shit has been happening? This eternal night thing?” Jules made circles in the air behind them with his index finger to point at the distant night.
Ahna fell silent, but it was not because of Jules’s questions that her voice failed her. It was because of the spiraling thoughts of her moments in her mind prison. The transmission from the Arc of Light. The vision of her mother. The revelation of a new plane of existence, higher in the Fabric of Realms. The mission she had been tasked with.
Ahna let herself fall again on the grass. She closed her eyes, letting the light of Sol cover her eyelids with warmth. More of her vision circled in her mind. What her mother had said about her magic, its purest form… She had no idea what it meant. She took a deep breath and addressed Jules again.
“My magic is gone,” she confessed, her eyes still closed.
Jules instantly veered toward her. “What?” he blurted, baffled by what Ahna has just revealed. And he was getting angrier. Did she know her magic was gone when she made the decision to see the night for herself?
“Ever since I got back from the moon, my magic is gone.” Ahna bit her lower lip in hesitation. “The Arc of Light somehow did something to me. It…changed me.”
Jules remained silent, taming his anger, and Ahna joined in with the stillness. He had so many other things to think about. The Wolf Pack. The plans to take the Castle of Gold once and for all. That whole story of time travel and getting lost, scattered across time. Two years of trying to fight for whatever was right, he had almost lost sight of it all. Ahna losing her magic, Cedric somehow still existing here, at the source of the undead problem, it was all too much. Jules let out a long exhale and merged with the silence again.
Tempest of Bravoure Page 8
