“Behold the Dym,” Oryn said, his elderly frame made more ancient in the ghostly light. “We rarely come here. Only the most astute and scholarly do so and even then I must accompany them. The Dym will not open for anyone other than Lockwood’s leader—I alone have that power and right.” The hunched Giant said it as though it were a well-practiced mantra. Then he stepped carefully into the darkened interior and Sorin followed, the heady scent of old rot and withering leaves engulfing him.
When the darkness overcame him, the urge to flee the claustrophobic suffocation nearly overwhelmed Sorin. But he would not be dissuaded from answers and remained in place, waiting for the Giant to explain further.
Instead, Oryn slammed his staff against the ground and parted the inky void with warm yellow light that emanated from his wooden rod. The burst of light pushed back the shadows and revealed the broad inside of the Dym. The walls and ceiling were black, the brambles and vines so thickly enmeshed not even the tiniest hole to the outside world was seen. In the middle of the dirt floor rose a natural rock pedestal from the same pale granite of the mountain. What sat on the pedestal was clearly the source of the malice that thrummed throughout the Wyr; it brought such a bitter hollowness to Sorin he gritted his teeth in response.
It was a book the likes of which Sorin had never seen.
The tome was made of black leather that was cracked and faded from its years in existence. It was bound by swirling arms of silver, but the metal had long since tarnished. The pages were cut at odd widths, giving the tome’s end a jagged look. There was nothing animate about it, but it felt alive with some horrid purpose. When Sorin did not look directly at the book, a faint black nimbus surrounded it, a depression in the light beckoning him forward.
Bile rose into Sorin’s throat. “What is it?” he mumbled.
“It is the Magna Kell—a vile work of the worst sort. It came earlier than Aerom’s book and for a darker reason. It was used to sway those of weakness, and it helped enslave my kind to the forces of darkness that instigated the War of the Kingdoms. The language is archaic and beautiful, resonating so deeply within some readers they become entranced in—even addicted to—the book. Vicious, evil words fill each page, able to eloquently move a reader to their darker impulses. We have kept it over the centuries, although only a few have truly looked at it. It is my responsibility to care for it and remind others how far we have grown from those days of death, destruction, and puppetry.”
Sorin could barely believe it. He was standing in the presence of history, of folklore incarnate. The Magna Kell was an atrocity of enormous magnitude; it was even mentioned in the Codex as being instrumental in the idolatry worship during the War. Its sickness was legendary, conceived by a creator whose evil attempted to destroy the entire world in an act to free itself from imprisonment.
“If this is what you say it is, why do you maintain it?” Sorin was drawn to it as he wanted to flee from it. “Why let it exist at all if its purpose is so ill? I can feel it myself.”
“Because its power no longer holds sway upon the world. It is a part of our history, our culture, and it serves as a constant reminder that though dark times may come to pass, we must be stronger still and not fall prey to them. To destroy such a book may destroy that reminder. The feelings you have are honest and sincere, but the Dym protects it—I protect it.”
“You brought me here to read it?” Sorin asked, his knees weak from the climb or the book, he did not know.
“Yes, parts of it. It cannot be read as a normal book is read.”
“If the language is archaic, how can I read it?”
“Language changes as time moves forward. This is known. And as each generation grows upon the little eccentricities that occur, the language evolves until the progeny barely resemble anything similar to the original. Yet the Magna Kell somehow perceives the language used by the reader and alters itself to be understood. It is unknown if the change happens within the reader’s mind or on the page, but it matters not. The power of the book is not only in its message, but its ability to transcend all cultural barriers and burrow deep into the reader’s soul. It has been ineffective at spreading its evil since those old days, but as you can feel here, it remains potent.”
“But why are you asking me to read from it?” Sorin questioned. “It seems to me I am the least person meant to look at such a book.”
Oryn smiled. “You may not have interest, but I believe it is important. I confess it was not an easy decision to come to. When we found you in the meadow, and I saw the statue was missing, it echoed some of the things I read in this book. It is for this reason I show you, and you can alone decide what is important for you.”
Sorin knew he should oblige, even though the book repulsed him. The Solstice Dance had calmed his fire for vengeance, but he did still want answers. To this point, he had merely been on a journey heading for a stranger Thomas had convinced him might be a helpful resource. It would be foolhardy for him to deny even this chance to understand his situation better.
“Do you know who penned what it is I am reading? To my recollection, the Codex does not say,” Sorin queried.
“Centuries before the War of the Kingdoms, the Wrathful discovered a young boy who had the ability to prophesize. Many such future tellers have graced the ages, but this child was different; from the moment he was born, he could not speak. Highly intelligent despite his muteness, the boy learned to write, and transcribed events to come. Once it stole the boy away, the Wrathful kept him chained in the blackest pit, alone and deprived of any comfort. It was over decades that the Magna Kell was written and given life; the boy’s darker feelings and talent bleeding into the book. It, coupled with the Wrathful’s intentions, became what it is now.”
Oryn reached to open the Magna Kell, and Sorin half expected the book to absorb the Giant’s hand. Instead the book opened smoothly, the pages turning without sound. Satisfied he had found the right page, Oryn stepped back and prompted Sorin to read.
The words were blurry at first but suddenly sprang into clarity even in the false light of the Dym. A momentary bout of dizziness swept over Sorin. Oryn was correct—the language was beautiful and enticing, placed on the pages in an elegant flowing script from an era long gone. The letters were tall and thin, moving across the page in great swooping hoops in crimson ink so blanched of color it was almost black. In his mind, a delicate, dark presence pushed against his awareness with subtle tendrils of malice, but the part of him that was good rejected it, a wall the book could not breach.
“I am old, and I have seen much,” Oryn stated in a tired voice. “From what Relnyn told me, there are evil things afoot in the land of the Kingdom.”
Thinking of his parents’ fate, Sorin grimaced. “There are.”
“The Magna Kell is riddled with numerous passages specifically detailing future tribulations like the Book of Iorek in the Codex does, and I believe they may help you.”
Oryn pointed to the page and Sorin leaned in for a closer look. The first passage was several lines about a burning ball in the sky. As it fell to the world, it broke apart, the two halves landing in their own way, one preceding the other. The fire would hail the coming of two saviors.
The next passage predicted two First Wardens, separate but whole, one wishing to remove his mantle, the other wrongfully entrusted to it, but both fulfilling their roles. It was unclear how this would be since the Kingdom entrusted just one First Warden to be at the High King’s side. For there to be two was unfathomable and unnecessary.
The last passage was about Artiq. It recounted a superior horse brought from the soil of the land to become stone. But Aerom would return when comets blazed the sky, to race the beast with the wind across the breadth of the continent.
Sorin frowned. “It seems to me that Artiq is to be the horse of a new master.”
Oryn looked at him. “What if that master is you?”
“I’m nothing special.” Sorin’s furrows deepend. “If the horse was to be mine,
why did he run away into the forest? Why has he not returned?”
“You are in a situation you do not understand. How can you not be part of this?”
Sorin shook his head. “I’m not.”
“Artiq is a master in his own right. He is moved by the powers of the world. For him to disappear is perplexing, and it prompts several questions: Where was he going? Why was he going? What is his purpose? Was it merely to save you? Or is he out there with his master? These are all questions we have no answers to, but the passage states his importance and by saving you he has involved you in it as well.”
Heaviness pulled on Sorin’s heart. No matter how wrong he thought Oryn was, the miracle that saved his life in the Sentinel glade left him with no choice but to consider Oryn’s opinions. He knew who he was—of that he was sure. He wanted answers but he wanted no life held in glory. To be caught up in what Oryn was saying was what Sorin did not want.
As I said, I think it was important for you to read it for yourself,” Oryn said, closing the book and walking back to the entrance of the Dym. “But I find it quite surprising the book had no power over you.”
“Why would it?”
“It has… odd effects on most,” was all Oryn said.
As the brambles and vines closed over the hole they had left moments earlier, they left the Dym and walked back through the Wyr.
“Now, about Thomas,” the aged Giant said. “His condition is a minor thing. He will heal from that. It is his soul that has been corrupted. A mental leprosy invades his innards, and it is slowly desensitizing him while it kills. He does not know this; it has been happening over such a long period of time, it is as much a part of him as his heart is. He has lost faith in himself. It worries me that he gave up so easily on you and Relnyn.”
“He didn’t give up,” Sorin said, adamant. “He was wounded.”
“He did give up,” Oryn said gruffly, slamming the butt of his staff into the soft ground. “Tragedy became his companion somewhere in the past, and he is unwilling to share it. You can see it expressed in his eyes. If he was so willing to end his life, how can you be so certain it won’t come at the cost of your own one day?”
“You act as though he attempted suicide.”
“Giving up is suicide, Sorin,” Oryn stated, unwavering. “His physical body will heal in time as Berylyn has said, but the damage to his soul will not. In a few days, Thomas will be ready to travel. Relnyn will go with you. He is able and steadfast, strong and wise for his age. I have often thought Giants need to reemerge into the world of Man, to take our place alongside them, to pronounce our goodness to the world. I believe Relnyn is the first step in that. It may take small steps and decades to accomplish, but it is time to try.
“Thank you for your openness,” Sorin said.
Oryn bowed his crooked frame before turning toward the mountain’s trail. “I hope you find the answers you seek. I think your parents would be proud.”
Sorin quietly followed, missing his parents. He wished he knew if he was doing the right thing by seeking answers to questions he might later regret asking.
Despite their quick descent, it was some time before the presence of the Magna Kell faded from Sorin’s mind.
Chapter 17
The faint echoing sound of muted conversation suddenly ended in an ominous hush when the three Feyr entered the Grand Hall of Aris Shae and strode toward the throne of the Kingdom.
High King Nialls Chagne sat there, the chiseled stone beneath him a reminder of the strength and durability he was meant to uphold. The delegation of Feyr had sent word ahead, demanding an audience to speak with Nialls immediately. Upon hearing of his imminent visitors, Nialls knew exactly what it pertained to. Now was the time for politics; now was the time to be the High King his stern and tactful father would have been proud of.
The Feyr walked upon the stone floor, their supple, white boots soundless as they moved in the midst of the High King’s closest and most powerful advisors. The contingent’s leader, a full step ahead of his two counterparts, was a middle-aged Feyr with excruciatingly thin features frozen into a tight mask. He ignored those staring at him, his pale green eyes focused on Nialls alone. As was customary with visits by those from Westor, no color adorned their appearance; the lithe Feyr wore plain white cloaks that hung freely from their wiry frames, matching their simple clothes beneath. Their hair was straight, pulled back away from their faces, and blanched of all dyed status color.
First Warden Rowen stood at the High King’s left side as solid as a statue, and Nialls sat rigidly in his seat, maintaining a mien of emotionless awareness.
When the Feyr reached the throne dais, they bowed. “Greetings, High King Nialls Chagne,” their leader said.
“Welcome, Ambassador Mikel,” Nialls said with a small inclination of his head. “What do I owe the honor of this visit? Aris Shae has missed Westor’s Ambassador to the Kingdom.”
At the High King’s question, a page carrying upon a tray two flagons of Rosemere water approached the Feyr—a blessing for the continued sharing of cultures and friendship. It was a tradition long shared between the Kingdom and Westor. The Feyr would reciprocate in kind with wheat bread born of Westor’s hills.
The Ambassador held up his long hand. “That is no longer necessary, High King.”
The page jerked to a stop, his eyes and movements uncertain. He looked to Nialls who shook his head. The boy fled.
“I see millennia of civility has vanished.” Nialls’s words were cold and practiced.
“King Belinorn sends his well wishes and respect but disapproves of the Sharing ceremony now that the Accord has been established.” The Feyr’s chiseled features glowed with arrogance. “To share is to have a union, and unions are what Westor can no longer support if it is to forge a strong new future.”
Nialls sat unflinching, his eyes boring into Mikel’s. The Kingdom had a cooling relationship with Westor; even during the few short decades of his own reign, a widening gulf had developed between the two nations. Once Nialls had been hopeful about strengthening that tie, but his optimism dwindled. The Accord ended friendly relations between the two societies. The Feyr could be a distant people, but Mikel’s treatment of the situation in the Grand Hall went beyond political rightness into a realm of disrespect the High King did not care much for.
“I see,” Nialls responded, his jaw clenching. “What brings the nation of Westor into my hall if it has no need for my Kingdom?”
A scroll materialized from the folds of the Ambassador’s clothing. “On behalf of my liege lord, Westor requests the whereabouts of Pontifex Dendreth Charl.”
“I imagine the Pontifex is about his own business as part of his duties to Godwyn Keep,” Nialls replied firmly. “I do not know where he may be. What is your interest?”
“The last Godwyn Keep knew, Pontifex Charl was obeying your summons,” Mikel continued, speaking like a parent to a lying child.
That surprised Nialls. The summons had not been an outright secret, but it was not common knowledge either. It worried Nialls Dendreth could be right—a Godwyn spy could be involved.
“Not that it is your concern,” Nialls said. “But the last time I summoned Pontifex Charl was for him to speak on the condition of Pontiff Garethe. A leaderless Godwyn Keep is bound to be troubled, and preparations for Pontiff Garethe’s replacement were in order.”
“Ah. That is an important matter,” Mikel replied, his eyes devoid of belief.
“Why the interest in the Pontifex? It seems you have traveled far for someone lacking the desire to enmesh themselves in the workings of the world outside of their island.”
Mikel raised his voice for all to hear. “He stole something of considerable value from Andeline Courth. It is our right to question the Pontifex about the item’s whereabouts and to take actions to secure it for its proper return.”
“Pontifex Dendreth Charl is one of the most honorable and trustworthy men I have ever met,” Nialls asserted. “I find it hard to
believe he would take anything that was not given freely to him. What did he steal that could be of such importance?”
“That I cannot say. It is a Feyr matter.”
“And yet your Feyr matter has need of a Kingdom it has outright rejected. You have no basis to make demands of the Kingdom’s throne.”
The Feyr stood stoically, his chin lifted high and his exotic eyes squinting with ire. “It is your responsibility to curb the lawless transgressions of your subjects, High King. King Belinorn is displeased with the manner of disrespect shown our sovereign state by Pontifex Charl and now by you.”
“My Kingdom,” Nialls seethed as he rose slowly, the lines of his body taunt with a fire of their own. “Has nothing to do with your loss, Ambassador. Do not forget yourself. You are in my hall by my grace and I shall not sit idly by while you falsely accuse one of the most honorable and devout men under my command.”
Unmoved, Mikel stood firm. “Pontifex Charl must be brought to justice.”
“I cannot control the will or the efforts of a lone few, Ambassador. If a Kingdom law has been broken, a Kingdom trial will take place—here on my soil—unless otherwise ascertained that it should move to Westor. You will not dictate how my Kingdom is governed just as I would never presume to direct Westor’s affairs, wholly lacking as they may be,” Nialls pasued letting his barb sink in. “Needless to say, you have my word as High King that I will place every effort in discovering what has become of Pontifex Charl and the mysterious item in question, if this wrongdoing holds merit.”
“I would like to suggest the High King accept the aid of my companion, Arannan Daw. He is talented and will serve you well in your search for the missing Pontifex.”
“No,” Nialls growled. “You have made it plain you want no part of the Kingdom. To allow one of your company the opportunity to reside here would only place unneeded stress on a situation already grown uncomfortable with disrespect. No, it is best he remain with your party. Good day, Ambassador Mikel.”
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 22
