by P R Glazier
~
Serinae stirred, she had fallen asleep, resting her forehead upon her wrist as it lay upon the table. What had awakened her? But in that instant she knew, for there before her a feint glow emanated from the seeing stone, the glow was gradually brightening. For the first time in a long time the bridge was reforming, the link was again made with someone who had access to the old knowledge or at least knew of it subconsciously and was susceptible to its affects. She knew who that someone must be, a T’Iea certainly, for the quiver was made by the T’Iea and only her people had the necessary attributes within their physical being necessary to make the link. The last time this had happened that same T’Iea was within a guild sanctuary on an island in the Sea of Beadreas, a place that Serinae had been to before, many ages ago when she was very young and still in training, she had been there with Tezrin, H’Arad’Dunn and others of the Guild of Rangers, all dear friends and now all gone. Only she now remained. The thought of Tezrin took her aback. Yes they had been to the island, the Isle of Pigs it was called. There was a certain irony, for the reason they were there was to gather some of the necessary components to adorn her quiver. It was a requirement that the guild insisted upon, a right of passage, proof of skill and of bravery. It was a task that all rangers faced, but this particular task had been given to her, her alone. She had argued with her masters as to why she alone had been given such a dangerous task, why so much more had been asked of her. Mostly rangers were asked to carry out a more mundane task, survive in the wilds for a period, or fashion a bow. She had been asked to travel halfway around the world and to retrieve claws and feather from one of the most dangerous predatory animals to have ever lived. She was to go alone, she knew then that the guild masters did not expect her to return, that would have suited them fine, how they would have been pleased to see the last of her, to have gotten rid of the bad blood. She smiled as she thought of how her friends had risen to her side, they had all of them offered her their help. The masters had forbidden them to go, how Serinae had relished the thought that her friends had rebelled for her, shown their alliance to her even over and above their loyalty to the guilds. They had travelled together, they had laughed in the guild master’s faces, been joyous at their unified show of rebellion. Serinae herself had reveled in her friend’s loyalty to her, reveled in the message that loyalty gave to their masters.
But that was before, that was in ignorance. She now knew better, she had led her friends into more danger than she thought possible. They were young then, inexperienced, all too eager to make their mark upon the world. The task had been completed, Serinae had returned triumphant but it had been at a great cost. She had survived where others hadn’t. She subconsciously reached up slowly with her hand to rub her right shoulder blade. Habitually she kept this part of her body covered; a long, raised welt and an ugly diagonal scar lay there across her back extending from her shoulder blade down to just above her waist. The healers had done a good job, her muscles and nervous system had been saved so that she could still pull on a bow and wield a sword. But she had insisted that the scar remain. She didn’t keep it covered for reasons of vanity; no, more because it was to become a badge of office. To her it was a reminder of the loyalty, sacrifice and courage of others. But later she found out it pronounced her as something special. Experience had proved that some of the people in some of the places that she once used to frequent saw it as a challenge. It was to them the mark of a seasoned fighter, not just any fighter either, but a T’Iea ranger, someone to provoke, to challenge to a dual and therefore raise their status somehow, especially if they won. Such provocation was always a bad mistake in the case of Serinae. Many had died trying. Initially she fought them in the name of her friends, but later after so many deaths she would always try and turn the other cheek, but it always came to a fight, for every one of them would see her unwillingness to dual as a weakness and they would try and fight her anyway. She tried sometimes just to disarm them, or with a clean slice put them out of action, but this just resulted in there sending someone else to fight in their stead. They had died, all of them, she had killed them all. How many? It hurt her to think about it, such a waste of life to such a futile cause. Thus she had learnt to keep the scar covered to save lives. She smiled at the irony, for the scar wasn’t the result of a bar room brawl, but a split seconds lapse in concentration fighting a creature that had evolved into a most fearsome and efficient killer, a creature that all T’Iea both feared and respected.
But excitement rose within her as she looked into the swirling mists that now could be seen within the seeing stone. She had been waiting a long time, ever since the day long ago when communications were rendered impossible, for to Serinae’s great disappointment Nar’Allia and the quiver had become separated as had the black longbow, both items that held vestiges of the knowledge of old.
But Serinae had learnt much whilst she was here, she had learned much more about how all these mysterious things worked and functioned. She thought once more of how her people had fooled themselves into thinking that the R’Alacry Fer’Def where spirits of the old world and the place where these spirits lived was called Elit G’fedrel by the T’Iea. A place believed to be a mystical realm, somewhere to be revered and believed to be somehow linked to Eny’Nin’Rel himself. But now she knew how very far from the truth they had been, just how wrong she had been.
But men had a much more skeptical belief in what the spirits were, they believed that they were ancestors of ages past come back to give them messages. Messages that could be tidings of great joy or warnings of great distress. Serinae had used this to engage the services of one of the eastern men, a man called Alonso. Thankfully Alonso had kept her old quiver, Nar’Allia had left it in the east. Serinae had appeared to Alonso on several occasions in projected form through the quiver, an ethereal projection. Ghosts the humans called them, so Serinae had appeared to him as a ghost pointing at the quiver he always kept by his side and then pointing into the west.
But then her attention was taken, they were ready. Ready at last to talk once again. The link was made; all she had to do was engage with it. She hesitated no longer.
