“Wizardess Phaedra,” Turmond called.
Phaedra halted and looked over her shoulder.
“There’s more,” the boy said. He massaged his wrists, eyes locked on the floor. “I lied. I did overhear one of the communications between the spy and Lady Margeth.” He looked up, peeking between dark strands of hair. “The empress… she’s in Pharyzah. As a captive.”
* * *
Phaedra finished her report, making sure her words remained as flat as possible. There was no need to add any further emotion to the news.
Before her, Persea stood eerily still, her features as blank as a statue’s. It wasn’t like her. The old woman usually dealt with bad news rather quickly. And angrily. On the other hand, Phaedra realized, she was probably giving the Prince time to digest it all.
Sitting next to the Arch-Mage, Fadan blinked once, as if to signal he was still alive. “Please leave me,” he croaked. “I would like to be alone.”
“Majesty,” Persea protested, “we must plan our next move.”
“She has my mother!” Fadan shouted, a flash of pink rising to his pale cheeks. “My next move is to save her!”
“We can send a rescue team, but you have other responsibilities,” Persea reasoned. “You can’t just leave to save her yourself.”
“Responsibilities to whom?” Fadan challenged, rising to his feet. “To the Rebellion? Because they clearly don’t seem to want me.”
“To the empire,” Persea replied.
“I am not sending a rescue team,” Fadan hissed. “I am going to march an army to the gates of Pharyzah and tear the whole damn city down unless my mother is returned safely to me.”
“What army?” Persea asked matter-of-factly. “The two regiments Lord Hagon is training?”
“Clearly that’s all I have! It’s not like the rest of the Rebellion is about to pledge their allegiance to me. For all we know, the rest of the Goddess-damned Council is in league with Margeth.”
“Unlikely,” Phaedra chimed in.
Both the Prince and the Arch-Mage stared at her as if they had completely forgotten she was there.
“There would’ve been no need for such a covert approach if the rest of the Council felt the same way the Arch-Duchess does,” Phaedra explained.
“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have allies,” the Prince retorted.
“True,” Phaedra conceded. “But, in any case, the worst thing you can do right now is let her know what you’ve found out. There’s a reason your mother has been made a hostage. If Margeth realizes you’re on to her, she’ll use her hostage. On the other hand, if you keep quiet, play ignorant, it’ll give us time to mount a rescue. A couple of good soldiers, a competent mage, and a cloudy night is all it should take.”
“We’ve just taken the boy out of play,” Fadan said. “How is Margeth not going to realize we know?”
“Put the boy back into play,” Phaedra replied. “He’s a good kid. All he wanted was to give back to the people who helped him during the Purge. He never knew he was a part of an assassination plot. Offer him a pardon if he acts as a double agent, feeding Margeth false information.”
Fadan stared at Phaedra for a while, his mouth agape, then turned to Persea. “Is she a mage or a spy?”
“She’s an Archon hunter,” the Arch-Mage replied, chest puffing ever so slightly.
“Actually, I’ve recently been demoted to bodyguard.” Phaedra smiled. “But I’m making the most of it.”
7
The Threshold Chalice
The entrance to the cave system wasn’t much to look at. Eliran would’ve easily mistaken it for some abandoned basement whose trapdoor was simply missing.
“So, he’s in there?” Eliran asked.
“Never leaves,” Tarek replied. He was nobility, of the unlanded type. The kind of man who had been born to lead armies. If his family hadn’t opposed the emperor during the Purge, he probably would have gone on to a promising career in the Legions. As it was, he led the Radirian rebel cell like an annoyed public servant. Too comfortable to quit, but not invested enough to care.
“You mean you never see him?” Eliran asked.
“I mean he literally never leaves those caves.”
Eliran searched Tarek’s features for a clue that he was kidding. “That’s not possible.”
“Apparently, it is. At least for an Arch-Mage.”
“How am I supposed to find him? There have to be thousands of kilometers worth of tunnels down there.”
Tarek shrugged. “Can’t you magic folk sense each other or something?”
“What a silly idea… Who told you such nonsense?”
With a wave of a hand, Tarek told her it didn’t matter. “In any case, most of the ancient city is walled off by cave-ins. You should run into him sooner or later.”
“That’s your recommendation? I should wander in the dark until I bump into him?”
Tarek turned around with another shrug. “You know how to find the safe house, right?”
“Yes,” Eliran replied. She turned to watch him leave. “You’re a huge help.”
Tarek did not reply. He simply waved goodbye as he disappeared behind a couple of pine trees, leaving her alone. Eliran returned her attention to the cave entrance, shaking her head in annoyance. One expected a little more help if they were the person in charge of saving the goddess damned world.
Eliran flexed her fingers and a sphere of blue light, no bigger than an apple, flickered into existence. It flew into the tunnel, lighting the way ahead, Eliran following in its track.
Just about every city in the empire had its underground counterpart; hollow remnants from a time when dragons ruled the world and mankind was forced to hole up in the ground in order to survive. The entrance chamber was a wide area, certainly designed for temporary storage of any goods entering or leaving the underground city, but Eliran quickly found herself navigating narrow hallways. As she crossed the cracked, uneven tiles of the ancient floor, Eliran pictured the thousands of people who had once inhabited this place, toiling in these cramped, damp tunnels and caves. For them, this had been home, while the surface was a dangerous place they’d be lucky to keep away from. It had been thousands of years ago, but how many people had fought and died so humans could claim the surface? So that people like her could take it for granted?
I guess every generation has its own fight, she thought.
The worn-out steps of a stairwell led her deeper underground, the reek of stale air growing stronger with every step she took. Three tunnels fed into a small chamber at the bottom of the stairs, trickles of water running down the bumpy, fissured stone walls. Her sphere of light danced in the air, taking peeks at each of the tunnels. Ruined low-relief sculptures partially covered the tunnel’s walls, depicting brave Harvest Watchers combing the sky for incoming dragons.
It was so surreal that such a world had once existed, that life had once been this dangerous.
“Arch-Mage Mansakir!” she called.
An echo was the only reply she got. This was going to be a long day.
Choosing a tunnel at random, Eliran began her search in earnest. The first few passageways she went through were narrow and short, but soon she found hallways as wide and long as any Augustan avenue. Every now and then the tunnels gave way to large chambers or tall cave openings. The place was so vast Eliran began to doubt she would be able to find her way back, let alone the old archaeologist.
“Master Mansakir,” she kept calling at every turn. “Master, are you there?”
Eliran decided to go down a couple more levels. Traces of archaeological expeditions became apparent. Some walls were covered in scaffolding and temporary wooden pillars had been placed in tunnels whose ceilings seemed about to collapse. If they were the work of Mansakir or some other, previous expedition, she could not know, but it was encouraging enough to spur her forward.
That was until two whole hours passed.
She could feel her voice growing hoarse from shouting the ol
d Arch-Mage’s name every few feet and her patience was wearing thin, but what else could she do? Go back to Persea and ask for another guru in sacred artifacts?
A sound caught her attention. It seemed like running water, as if a brook was nearby. Maybe it was an ancient sewer, either somehow still functioning or reactivated by some explorer. She followed the sound, turning a couple of corners until she hit something and nearly fell on her back. Rubbing her nose, Eliran inspected her surroundings but saw nothing. Carefully, she extended an arm until she felt something, a flat, invisible surface, like a wall made of the purest crystal, except it felt unnaturally warm to the touch. Eliran ordered her sphere to move back and forth. Whatever the barrier was, it couldn’t stop the ball of light.
A static kinetic shield, she thought. Impressive.
A Mage had put this here. One who didn’t want to be disturbed. Thankfully, disturbing Arch-Mages was Eliran’s foremost talent.
“Master Mansakir!” she shouted, pounding on the barrier. “Master!” She sent a jolt of energy and watched its blue tendrils ripple across the invisible wall. “Master Mansakir!”
“What is the meaning of this ruckus?” an old voice echoed. The Arch-Mage turned a corner and came into view the next instant, black robes flapping around him and an angry frown twisting his eyebrows. “Stop that right this moment!”
“Arch-Mage Mansakir,” Eliran said, bowing slightly. “I am Enchantress Eliran.”
“What do I care?” Mansakir scowled back at her. “Go away.”
“I’m afraid I cannot,” Eliran said.
“Of course you can. Just turn around and leave. I’m sure even an Enchantress could pull that off.”
Eliran allowed the jibe at her low academic level to pass. In the Academy, rank was everything, but Eliran was no researcher.
“As much as I enjoy disobeying Arch-Mage Persea, this time I think it would be a bad idea.”
That gave Mansakir a pause. He scratched his white beard. “One of Persea’s assassins, huh? What do you want?”
“I need your assistance. I’m currently—”
“Can’t do it,” Mansakir cut her off. He turned around and started back towards the corridor he’d come from.
Eliran spread her arms. “I didn’t even say what I needed.”
Mansakir looked over his shoulder but did not slow down. “Doesn’t matter. I’m busy.”
Eliran had yet to meet an Arch-Mage who didn’t claim to be busy all the time. “Master, this is important!”
This time, Mansakir did stop. He turned around, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you under the impression that what I’m doing here is trivial?”
“Is it about preventing the end of the world?” Eliran asked flatly. Mansakir simply stared back at her. “Didn’t think so.”
Silence hung in the air, stretching for an uncomfortably long time. It was enough to make Eliran second guess her taunt until a smile broke through Mansakir’s thick beard.
“Persea always did know how to pick them,” he said. “Very well. Come.”
Eliran felt a shift in the air as if someone had opened a window for the briefest of moments. When she reached for the invisible barrier, it wasn’t there anymore. She followed the old archaeologist through tunnels brimming with artifacts either awaiting to be catalogued or prepared to be packed and moved. Chisels, brushes, and trowels gathered around sections of wall or small holes on the floor.
“You do this all by yourself?” Eliran asked. “No assistants?”
“Hm? Oh, no,” Mansakir replied. “Assistants require supervision. They’re more distraction than help.”
They arrived at a large chamber. Scaffolding was everywhere, reaching up to the domed ceiling. A pair of statues flanked an altar at one end of the room. Right next to it was a cot where, Eliran assumed, the old man slept. If he slept at all.
“What is this place?” Eliran asked, her sphere of light climbing to the ceiling and allowing her to inspect its intricate decorative patterns.
“A Temple of Fire,” Mansakir replied, sitting at a table lined with wooden statuettes. “Late period. Ancient Cyrinians worshiped the fake Fyr in here.”
“The human shaped one?”
Mansakir nodded and indicated the seat across from him.
“I never did understand that,” Eliran admitted. “How that cult came to be.”
“There’s no definitive answer, I’m afraid. Now, what is it you need?”
Eliran searched the contents of a pouch tied to her belt and produced a parchment. “As I’ve said, I’m one of Persea’s Archon hunters.” When she looked up, a pipe had materialized in Mansakir’s hands and he was using magic to light it up. “During a recent… let’s call it a scuffle, with the Circle, I discovered a sacred artifact in their possession. It was no forgery, I know that much. It is also quite valuable to them. I need to know why.” She handed the parchment to Mansakir. “Persea was sure you’d be able to identify the artifact. I drew it the best I could.”
White puffs rose from Mansakir’s mouth as he inspected the drawing. “Interesting,” he muttered.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Eliran added. “I am also in possession of another artifact. A dagger, imprinted with the memories of Head-Archon Astoreth. In one of the memories, she uses that cup. More specifically, she drinks from it.” She paused. “And then kills herself.”
“Really?” Mansakir asked. Curiously enough, he did not sound the least bit surprised. “Did she stay dead?”
Eliran tilted her head. “That’s usually how it works.”
“Is it?” The pipe shifted inside Mansakir’s mouth, the wood clattering lightly over his teeth. “Have you ever heard the Tale of Dagmar the Wise?”
Eliran shook her head.
“It’s an old legend. About the Sacred War.”
* * *
A long, long time ago, when the gods still walked among men, Dagmar was king of Radir and the bravest of Ava’s warriors. For decades, he kept Fyr’s armies at bay beyond the Cyrinian March. Impressed and grateful to her warrior, Ava came to Dagmar one night and asked what he wanted as a reward. Dagmar told his Goddess that there was little he could ask for. As a king, he had wealth, and as a warrior, he had the respect of others, but there was one thing he did not have. The love of a woman.
Intrigued, Ava asked how that was possible. Surely the famous Dagmar had no shortage of suitors. But Dagmar replied he did not want any of them. He had only fallen in love twice in his life, but it had not been reciprocated. Ava said she knew exactly how to reward him for his brave service, and from that day forward, any woman he fell in love with would also fall in love with him.
And so the years passed. The Sacred War raged on with no end in sight. Many women crossed Dagmar’s path, but none could touch his lonely heart.
One day, Dagmar was invited to the wedding of Dathimor, king of Saggad, with Briseid, princess of Engadi. Upon arrival, Dagmar attended a pre-nuptial banquet in celebration of all the guests. Being regarded as the greatest among Ava’s warriors, Dagmar was offered the great honor of being seated next to the bride. Briseid was as beautiful as she was shrewd, as funny as she was kind. Before the night was over, Dagmar knew he was in love, and just as Ava had promised, so was Briseid.
The following day, Princess Briseid cancelled the wedding and went south with Dagmar. As the Sacred War continued, Dagmar and Briseid were married and had three children. They were happy, even though their hearts ached every time Dagmar had to go to war.
However, Dathimor had not forgotten Brideid’s offense, and he had not forgiven her. After coming south to aid in the war, Dathimor spent a night in Radir and poisoned Briseid.
The poison was slow to act, and Dathimor was well on his way back to Saggad when Briseid fell ill. Each day, the bed stricken Briseid seemed to only get worse. Dagmar sought every physician in the land. He brought sages from Arrel and shamans from Samehria, but none could cure his wife. Unable to find help among the mortals, Dagmar called upon Ava. He begged
his Goddess for help and even threatened to abandon her cause if she didn’t. Despite all her powers though, death was not something even Ava could stop.
Desperate, Dagmar decided to do the unthinkable. He sought Kallax, one of Fyr’s closest allies and the God of death. Seeing the mortal who had defeated his armies so many times approach his dark fortress all by himself, Kallax grew curious and granted him an audience. Crying and trembling, Dagmar begged Kallax to save his wife, but Kallax explained that Dagmar was wrong. He was not the god of death, but the god of the Threshold, controlling the veil that separated the world of the living from the world of the dead. He said there was nothing he could do to stop Briseid from dying, but he could still help Dagmar if he agreed to betray Ava and join the Dragon legions of Fyr.
Feeling shame burn deep in his chest, Dagmar agreed and asked what Kallax could do. Kallax showed him a beautiful purple cup with countless Glowstone gems encrusted on its surface. He told Dagmar that it was his latest and greatest creation. An artifact that allowed mortals to safely traverse the Threshold, the veil of death, in either direction. With it, Dagmar could enter the underworld, find his dead wife, and safely return with her to the land of the living.
Dagmar’s eyes widened in awe of Kallax’s creation, but Kallax warned Dagmar that once he and his wife touched the cup, their lives would belong to him, and if Dagmar refused to keep his end of the deal, Kallax would send them back to the realm of the dead.
Defeated by pain and sorrow, Dagmar returned home and waited for his wife to die. He kissed her cold lips and laid her to rest, then returned to Kallax and asked for the cup, promising to betray Ava and fight for Fyr once he returned to the land of the living with his wife. Kallax agreed, grinning, and gave Dagmar his cup. Swallowing his sobs, Dagmar held the cup of Kallax, crossed the veil of death into the underworld…
And never returned.
Too late did Kallax realize Dagmar’s deceit. Furious for having lost his priceless artifact, which could have turned the tide of the Sacred War in favor of Fyr, Kallax entered the underworld to chase Dagmar.
The Shadow Of Fallen Gods Page 13
