A number of nearby villagers drew in quick breaths.
Tandyr pressed his lips together and strode closer to the ancient figure, glaring at him as the villagers’ quiet murmuring rippled outward through the street.
“You fool. I have to kill them, now.”
Batta inclined his head sadly.
“As I expected.”
The villagers’ murmuring was growing louder by the moment, more agitated.
Glowering at the aicenai, he muttered, “You know far less than you think, Batta. I had no intention of hurting anyone today.”
Batta’s eyes widened a fraction, an unusual display of surprise for an aicenai, as Tandyr began to reach for a massive number of Strands of Air.
Shaking his head, the God of Chaos said, “But now…now I must. Rumors cannot spread.” He glanced up into the air, knitting the Strands together. “You might be interested to know that this is the first stone we have found, Batta.”
The aicenai’s wise, ancient eyes opened wide.
“No…”
“Oh, yes,” said Tandyr. “These people were fated to live long lives, Batta. Menet’s great-grandchildren would have been long dead at the rate we are going.”
Batta’s gaze shot beyond Tandyr to rest upon the souls he had doomed.
As Tandyr pulled the Strands into a large and complex pattern, he kept a careful eye on the old figure, waiting for some sort of retaliation. When none came, none at all, he smiled. This was going to be easy.
Looping one brilliant white Strand after another, twisting them into a massive, globed pattern, he said, “I had thought Nelnora brilliant for entrusting your kind with the stones.”
A steady wind began to blow through boughs of the spruce forest. His robes fluttered in the new breeze. The low-lying mist in the village began to swirl and twist. The villagers stared around them, wide-eyed.
Raising his voice to be heard over the creaking trees, Tandyr said, “Yet, every plan has a flaw. And you, Batta, are this one’s.”
The aicenai dropped his head and stared at the ground.
Tandyr finished the Weave, held onto the completed pattern for a moment, and stared at the aicenai.
“Give Maeana my regards.”
With that, Tandyr expanded the Weave in all directions, quickly encompassing the entire village. The wind surged, whipping furiously through Nentnay as every last breath of air was sucked from inside the Weave and thrust outside the crisscrossing pattern. Tandyr ensured he kept a single pocket of air around him.
Breath was ripped from the aicenai’s lungs as Batta begin to silently choke. His eyes bulged outward as if someone was poking them from inside his head. Disgusted by the sight, Tandyr turned to leave Batta to die and walked away.
Scanning the village, he watched one doomed soul after another succumb to suffocation. Some tried to run, but only made it a few steps before collapsing to the ground. Dese rushed to Menet and tried to pick him up, but the pair tumbled to the ground in the doorway of the red longhouse. Dese’s ‘house brothers’ slumped against the red logs, grasping their necks. People’s mouths were open as if they were screaming, but Tandyr did not hear a single cry. Other than the sound of his own measured breaths, the world was utterly silent around him.
Villagers who managed to reach the edge of the Weave found themselves prevented from escaping. Tandyr watched one young woman pound weakly on the Weave itself, her face twisted in confusion and agony as she stared at a lone, orange butterfly fluttering over a patch of violet flowers only paces from where she lay.
Tandyr turned his gaze to the pedestal, away from the dying villagers. He had no interest in savoring their deaths. He was the God of Chaos, not the God of Misery.
Stepping between the two front wood poles of the shrine, he stood over the black box and studied it carefully. A stray beam of sunlight poked through the clouds, lighting up the street and the shrine. The lacquer on the box glistened in the light.
For a few moments, he simply stared at the box, hesitant to open the lid. Perhaps Batta had been lying to him. Perhaps there was nothing in the box at all.
Frowning, he muttered, “Staring at it will not change what’s inside…”
Reaching out a tentative hand, he touched the box. It was well crafted, made of ordinary hardwood. As far as Tandyr could see, there were no markings on it at all. No carvings, no inlays, nothing.
Suddenly, he got the sense that someone was watching.
Withdrawing his hand, he scanned the buildings and terrain around him. Dozens of bodies filled Nentnay, none of them moving. Wondering if a villager or two had been outside the scope of his Weave, he studied the trees and fields outside the white pattern. He saw nothing.
Dismissing his feeling as simple paranoia, he released the Weave surrounding the village, while keeping the protective padding around him. The air outside rushed to fill the void, triggering a crack of thunder so loud that it rattled the box on the pedestal. As the rumble echoed through the valley and off the stark mountainsides, Tandyr dropped the last of the Weave and turned his full attention back to the box.
With his heart thudding in his chest, he reached out again, gripped the lid gently, and tilted it back.
An unexpected surge of effervescent, throbbing silver Strands of Soul exploded around him, filling the village street and sky. Startled, he shut his eyes tight and pulled back his hand. The lid dropped shut and the Strands disappeared.
He stared at the box, wide-eyed. A quiet curse slipped from his lips.
“Beelvra…”
He stared into the sky and around the village, searching for any glimmer of silver. There was nothing. Looking back to the box, a few additional stunned moments passed before a slow, triumphant smile spread over his face. He reached out to touch the lid again, steeling himself before he opened it.
“Finally, we can begin.”
Visit www.rtkaelin.com for short stories in the world of Terrene. The Terrene Chronicles are a collection of prequel short stories available for you to enjoy.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 82
