Knight Chosen

by Tammy Salyer

  He opened his eyes, peered into the Fenestros, and searched for the words to summon Vaka Aster.

  Like revisiting the pages of a familiar book, he quickly located the passage, and his mental chorus changed into the language of the Verities as he began the incantation. The words streamed from his lips, part dirge, part melody, vibrating the air with their cadence. As they left his throat, they reached into his spirit and began to drain it. He would weaken, maybe die if too much of his Verity spark was drained, but that wouldn’t happen until Vaka Aster’s celestial self once more fused with the earthly vessel before him. He wouldn’t let it kill him.

  The Fenestrii rose into the air and hovered above the vessel. He caught their movement from the corners of his eyes but was unwilling, unable really, to shift his gaze from the Scrylle. Sharp pain tingled in his heels, then shot up his legs and stabbed into his groin, spreading throughout his abdomen, his chest, down his arms. Teeth gritted, focus hardened, he refused to let the pain stop him. It was nothing, a fleeting sensation, only his life being extracted from him like a thorn slowly drawn from a finger. He continued chanting, the incantation growing in strength, and slowly the Scrylle between his hands became all there was, became his thoughts, his mind relinquishing to it, blooming with wystic fire, exploding into a Cosmos of knowledge and wonder and—

  A section of the cave’s roof shattered as a pillar of liquid blue flame broke through, sending him reeling backward in a fine haze of grit and dust. Slipping in the gore of the dead Caster’s body, he crashed hard onto his back and lost his grip on the Scrylle. Panic replaced the pain lancing him, and he tried to grab the cylinder, but a force held him back. Winds like none he’d ever felt buffeted him, pressing him down and swirling chaotically within the chamber. Tiny shards of stone peppered his exposed skin, and the cyclone ripped the air from his mouth and nostrils before he could draw it into his lungs.

  Then it stopped.

  Coughing, he looked about the chamber. Motes of dust flitted in the air, now lit by outside light spilling through the ceiling’s breach. Still daytime. How long ago the morning felt, when he’d climbed Aster Keep’s steps and his main worry had been for Isemay’s safety. Now he worried about the safety of Vinnr at large. A Knight’s duty—his burden—sometimes so very heavy.

  Even brighter than the daylight, a corona of blue light encircling the vessel illuminated the chamber: the five Fenestrii, now spinning at an inconceivable speed around its head. He could no longer see the stones individually. They revolved too quickly, creating a vortex of unbroken light on a perfectly level axis. Crackling sparks whipped outward from the halo with furious energy, as if trying to escape the ring. He rose to his feet, unable to believe what his eyes and his mind were telling him. The trap to ensnare Vaka Aster had worked. Their maker was present once more, after almost three centuries. He felt the Verity’s power in the acrid sharpness of the air, saw it in those snaps of light shooting from the whirling celestial Fenestrii.

  Stones and debris lay strewn throughout the chamber. The force that had collapsed the roof had shaken the walls until they buckled and cracked, and it appeared that the heavy wooden door with iron hinges leading to the sanctuary’s antechamber and entry tunnel had taken the most damage. The hinges were warped, and the double-thick pine slats crushed into each other, splintering in places. He wouldn’t be leaving that way. He hoped the outer tunnel remained solid and Eisa and Mallich had stayed out of harm’s way.

  Remembering the Battgjald Scrylle, he quickly inspected the floor around him. It lay nearby, Fenestros still in its setting. Now what? He’d imagined that it would be a simple matter to beseech the Verity upon her return to reinstate balance and order and eject the usurper. But now . . . now he realized he’d been mistaken.

  The Scrylle had not shown him how to undo the trap, only how to set it.

  As Ulfric stared at the inert vessel washed in radiance by the overbright halo whirling above, another thought roiled through his mind. I have overpowered a divine Verity. I, alone, did this. And for a moment, he wondered what he else he could achieve with Balavad’s Scrylle, what other secrets it held. Because of it, he had wielded authority over a Verity.

  No. He heaved these thoughts away. They were blasphemy, thoughts born of madness. Even at his great age, it seemed he was no more immune from the many absurdities that came from being human as any uninitiated commoner. And blasphemy, the greatest, was also the hardest to root out. When this task is done, he vowed to himself, I will collect and hide all the celestial stones in a place they can never again be found. They hold too much power for people to be trusted with. Mere mortals, with their many flaws and weaknesses—Balavad’s own words, Ulfric reflected—couldn’t be trusted to handle these relics without havoc and corruption certain to follow. He hardly needed longevity to tell him that.

  But you are wrong, Stallari. You are no longer merely human. You have been the pawn of a Verity for far too long not to be changed by us.

  The voice came from his own mind, but it didn’t belong to him.

  “Balavad,” he said aloud, his own words too faint for his ears. In fact, he could hear nothing now, no swirl of air from the rent in the roof, nor flutter of dragørfly wings, not even his quickening heartbeat or thump of blood through is veins. He realized his eyes were once more fixed on the Fenestros in the setting of the Battgjald Scrylle, which was once more opened to his mind, his mind opened to it. He had picked it up with nerveless fingers, unwittingly, almost as if it had compelled him to.

  You’ve completed the task, Stallari Aldinhuus, and opened the doorway for me to step forth and replace the lost Verity of Vinnr, your Vaka Aster, who forsook you and all she created. Your service has been exemplary.

  Horrified, Ulfric tried to speak, to deny what the Verity said, but his voice had left him. The Scrylle and its ruler held him fixed, entranced. Enslaved.

  Didn’t you know I would find you as soon as you looked into my Scrylle? Of course you did. Of course. It isn’t a mirror, after all, but a lens. When you look through a Scrylle, we Verities look through too.

  You’re not welcome in my mind, Balavad, Ulfric warned.

  Biting frost in the form of a laugh slid over his thoughts. So much left to learn, Stallari. I am a Verity. I don’t require permission. Our creations are always open to our sight.

  But that isn’t true, said Ulfric. If it were, you’d have known my plan.

  The Verity let silence hold sway, giving Ulfric time to grasp the extent of his foolishness. And it hit him. He had been tricked. Balavad had seen, or at least guessed, his plan the moment he’d formed it, maybe even before he had. When Ulfric had stared into the Scrylle in Aster Keep, Balavad had been lurking there, like a malevolent phantasm, reading Ulfric’s mind like a book using the medium of the celestial Scrylle. Maybe he’d even planted the seed himself, persuading Ulfric to escape here to Vaka Aster’s sanctuary, intent on bringing her back and begging her for aid, caging her if necessary, thus leading Balavad directly to the vessel and doing his dark deed for him. And though the usurping Verity was not here in the flesh, his will was, and his will was now reaching through the Scrylle with an intent to control Ulfric.

  Ulfric began to understand the danger his own mind now was to him. He didn’t know how much he could hide, but it was clear that as long as he held the Scrylle, his thoughts were laid bare to this being, his mind a battleground and Balavad an invader. Nothing he thought or felt could be guarded from the Verity without, perhaps, a great cost.

  And the usurper spoke the truth: Vaka Aster no longer held sway in Vinnr. Ulfric had practically served the world to the usurper on a platter. What have I done?

  The Verity seemed all too happy to supply him an answer. You are a young being, yet. As I said, so much to learn. But do not lose faith, creation of Vaka Aster. I am not a monster. I’ve already told you that I am here to save your world, not destroy it. I see from your thoughts that you have killed Caster Rhafn, but that is well. I told you, I will make you the g
reatest of your kind to ever live. Now you can join me, replace Rafn as leader of my Order, bring about the resurgence of the Knights Corporealis—call it whatever you wish. And you have made it easy for me. Come and see what Vinnr will be. Let me share with you the beauty of my realm, the splendor and order of Battgjald, what Vinnr may be if we work together. This is the seat of creation, a marvel all other Verities can only admire but haven’t the will to achieve themselves.

  At these words, a vision snaked through Ulfric’s mind. A vast, far-reaching city, which he somehow knew to be the heart of a massive kingdom, much like Asteryss was the heart of Ivoryss, spread before him. Emerald-flecked graystone towers and buildings spread for miles in every direction, glinting beneath the rays of two suns, one crimson-hued and the other streaked with white and orange belts. People who looked much the same as Vinnrics, perhaps a touch taller on average, dotted the daytime streets, here and there entering and leaving the buildings, carrying totes, accompanying children, all very orderly. Very peaceful. A sea, the waters murky in the diffuse light, lapped at the horizon, with tiny black specks belonging to water vessels bobbing on colorless waves.

  The foreign Verity resumed. Magnificence embodied, more so than your simple realm. I raised this world from nothing, sculpted it from my own divinity, imbued its people with wealth and humility, aware of their station and reason for their very existence. My people, unlike yours, Stallari, appreciate the gifts I have given them. They do not smirk at the sound of my name, nor scoff at the abundance I provide. And they do not pretend I am a myth. Their fealty is total and repaid with all that you see. And there’s more.

  A strange feeling of falling, or maybe spinning, overcame Ulfric. The weightlessness took him by surprise, and he sensed himself trying to reach his arms out to regain balance. But the sensation was far away, as if coming from some alien body, not his own. He caught a glimpse of himself for no longer than an eye-blink still standing inside the cave before the whirring corona of blue light above Vaka Aster’s vessel, still holding the gleaming metal Scrylle within his hands: motionless, his stare distant, his face a disbelieving rictus. He wasn’t sure if he still possessed the body he saw or if he’d somehow become incorporeal. Was he alive? Did he exist in Vinnr at all anymore?

  In another blink, the scene surrounding him changed from the vision of Battgjald’s great city to a vast sky: Vinnr’s sky. The brightness of the daystar Halla surrounded him with a clarity that outshone its usual light. He was airborne, suspended above the planet, yet he felt no fear. But what caught his attention next defied his understanding. Something monstrous and pure black approached him from the air. Some kind of a monolith, a bastion, a . . . ? He didn’t have a word for it.

  A starship, Stallari. You are looking at the flagship of a great people that takes them beyond Battgjald. With this, I have brought my warriors distances Vaka Aster’s creations cannot imagine. This starship brings the bearers of my gift: preservation from needless destruction.

  The Verity shifted him again and transported him to the interior of the great ship. He stood on a type of suspended walkway overlooking a chamber below. Hundreds of bodies filled the space, shapes of men and women, tall, thin, clad in black uniforms that clung to their narrow frames like wet parchment. They barely moved and made no noise, seeming to simply be waiting.

  For orders, he realized. To be commanded.

  No army is a tool of preservation, Ulfric said as black dread squirmed in his guts.

  On that, you’re wrong. You have served Verities longer than almost any of our creations. You know how slowly your kind accepts change, even when it benefits them, and you are different, greater now than your own kind. For that reason, I would raise you from your humble station and give you the rank you deserve, make you the commander of not only my Flesh Casters but also my army, the Raveners of the Tooth, whom you see before you. You see, your realm is not the only one I will save from the wastage of the Syzykí Elementum. I am dedicated to saving all the realms of my Verity kindred. And you, Stallari, can understand like no Verity what your kind needs, and understand like no human what having the favor of a Verity means. What gifts we can bestow. You are perfect for this task. Lead my Ravener forces to new worlds and help them bring my quins’ forgotten people to an everlasting peace and an everlasting order.

  No honey could be sweeter, nor poison more lethal. And Ulfric understood at a level deeper than simple thought, through body, mind, and spirit: this flying craft before him was not for exploring new realms and bringing gifts. It was a world conqueror, a war machine for taking them. What Balavad offered was neither peace nor freedom. Ulfric’s fealty would not be required in exchange for power but for unmitigated servitude. This was slavery.

  He strained to hide these thoughts from the usurper, whom he felt like a worm in an apple stealing through his mind, devouring his hopes and reason. Yet he could not conceal them, not all of them. His strength was no match for a celestial’s.

  Balavad plucked thoughts from his mind like grapes. To Ulfric, it felt as if cold fingers were squeezing inside his head, his concepts, his emotions, his memories. The harder he tried to resist, the colder they became.

  The Verity whispered, Ah. Ah, now I understand. You are not like most of your kind. Power isn’t the gift you seek. There are others to whom your fealty is stronger. Their names . . . their names are Symvalline. A Knight as well. And . . . Isemay. Your child.

  Gasping, Ulfric fought against the intrusion. Every thought the usurper heard became a liability. Summoning the authority innate to his character, he pushed against Balavad, blanking his mind with an image of gray mist that thickened with each new assault the Verity launched. The surface of his brain crawled with crackling fire and searing bolts of lightning, making him shake and burn, but he held fast—because, despite the usurper’s might, Ulfric could feel it working. He swore, I will never serve you, usurper. If it’s my consent you require, then why don’t you simply take it?

  In response, Ulfric sensed a strange hesitation from the Verity, a stillness that surprised him. Can’t you force what you want? You are a celestial. Your kind made my kind. Can’t you control—

  It felt as if a fist gripped the meat of his brain and squeezed with mighty strength, the sudden pain as acute as all the pain he’d ever known felt in this one instant and then doubled. Screaming, he fell to his knees, the torment spearing him, shattering him.

  It stopped on its own. Tears leaked from behind his tightly clamped eyelids and rushed down his cheeks. Ulfric’s breath came in gasps as he grappled to regain himself. He opened his eyes and found he was once again in the cave, still in the same place looking upon the swirling Fenestrii over Vaka Aster’s vessel, cracking bolts of cerulean light trying to escape the bright corona. He could hear sound normally once more: the dry rustle of the dragørflies’ wings as they flittered near the broken ceiling, the pounding on the doors as Eisa and Mallich—still alive, thankfully—beat against it. And then—

  Ulfric!

  He jumped to his feet. “Symvalline?”

  Her voice echoed in his mind, then was replaced by an image, or rather by another shifting of himself to a different place. He, the incorporeal he, stood on the face of Mount Omina, looking across a landscape that was shattered by a recent rockfall. Blasted and scorched trees, many still smoking, lay twisted beneath boulders and stones. Dirt and smoke swirled through the air, ruining the day’s clarity. And Symvalline called to him again from somewhere nearby. He gasped. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

  He turned around and around until he saw her, or rather them. Symvalline and Isemay. They crouched beneath a jagged deadfall of smoldering pine trunks and boulders. He could only see patches of his family amid the debris—Symvalline’s raised arms, the white collar of Isemay’s tunic—but it took less than a heartbeat to realize the danger they were in. The only thing that had saved his family from being buried beneath the debris were Symvalline’s klinkí stones. She wielded them like a shield in suspension over the
ir heads, holding the debris back. A network of wavering and diffuse blue lines of light linked like a cobweb between the stones. He glimpsed Symvalline’s knotted face between the lines as she concentrated on holding the debris up, and holding their deaths at bay.

  But death approached nonetheless.

  From the ruined forest emerged six pale, gangly figures dressed in the black uniforms of Balavad’s Ravener army. They approached his family’s precarious alcove with drawn swords, their tips bent back in wicked hooks that looked designed to rip the innards from a man.

  Battgjald’s warriors, Stallari. They were led here by one of your own, the Knight called Mylla. And now they’ve found your heart-match and child. But these Raveners can save them. Would you like them to?

  He knew the price. In exchange, I am to be your slave.

  No, Stallari. You will become a leader, savior of your world, as I said, and your family will join you in a future that, together, we will ensure has no end.

  It was a lie. He knew it. Everything had an end.

  Choose, Aldinhuus. Do they live or die?

  He looked closely at the Raveners. Bloodlessly pale and grotesque-looking, their flesh seemed an utter rejection of life. They were taller than he and lanky, almost emaciated, but they walked bowed forward as if hunchbacked. Ulfric’s gaze was drawn to their eyes, and he realized with revulsion the soldiers were blind, their sightless yet searching orbs a flat blue-gray swirl in their sockets, like fungus-ridden granite. Even their eyes’ natural moistness had dried, adding to the verisimilitude of stone. One spoke, the language sibilant and strange to Ulfric’s ears, and their gaunt forms closed in a semicircle around his family.