by S. G. Night
She was radiant. Racath could not remember the last time he had seen honest sunlight on the face of someone truly lovely. The light ignited her, catching in her hair and burning in her azure eyes. She was a beacon, lit by sunshine. Like gold under lamplight. Like nightfire over diamond. And she called to him, her voice like the high laughter of inviting wind chimes.
“Come on!”
Her words were a liberating arrow. A bolt of burning, sunlit ember that struck the frigid shackles that held him, piercing the ice in his veins. He heard the ice crack, hiss, thaw.
Shatter.
The warmth of summer flooded him, like the first taste of true freedom. He smiled. And then he let go.
Racath laughed once, high and wild, and leapt across the stepping stones, mimicking Nelle’s delightful stride. The wind found his hair, and the splendor that he had seen in Nelle found his heart. He knew it then: freedom. True freedom.
Before, life had been a prison — the Demons’ prison — and the people of Io had been the prisoners. As a Genshwin, he had been blessed with a master key and the skills to protect himself, free to move about the prison as he desired. But he was still a prisoner. Not confined to a single cell like the Humans were, but a prisoner just the same. Privileged, but not truly free.
But here, he was free. Here, there was no Dominion. No Demons. No evil. Only freedom.
Racath’s foot slipped on the last stone, splashing into the water. Stumbling, Racath clawed at the air, latching onto Nelle’s hands to keep from falling. Nelle broke into a fit of ringing laughter, like it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Racath blushed, pulling his sopping boot from the stream. She continued to laugh at him for a brief moment, and he suddenly he was laughing too.
It was another minute before they both realized that Racath was still holding her hands.
Both of them looked from each other, to their hands, and back. And then there was more laughter, even harder than before. They laughed together this time, their voices twining together in an amalgam of brilliant hilarity. They laughed at nothing for a long time, lost in the moment. And, if only for a moment, they forget everything: the Demons, the pain, everything.
Can you blame them? In a world like this, would you not latch onto every scant second of happiness you can find? Even if you knew that the fate of everyone else rested on your shoulders, that soon the world would look to you to fight for it? I know that I would.
Selfish as it might seem, sometimes you have to forget the world and live for yourself. Even if it’s just for a moment. Because you’ve earned that moment. Because that moment is the only thing between you and insanity. The only thing between you and utter despair.
Yes. They earned that time together, Racath and Nelle. And what I would give to have seen their laughter then. To witness the first embers of their friendship ignite beside a stream inside an Elven mountain. Like nightfire, kindling beneath the grandeur a free sky.
——
The sun was setting behind the mural of distant mountains as Racath and Nelle climbed the slope of the plateau. As they reached the grassy plane, Nelle erupted once more into childlike exuberance. She ran ahead of Racath, skipping and tumbling across the sea of velvet green.
“Or – on!” she called at the cottage. “Oron! I found him! He’s here!”
It was about that time that Racath took his first good look at Oron’s home. In all honesty, he had expected it to be the hovel of an ancient, crazy hermit. But the cottage more closely resembled the house of a pie-baking grandmother.
It was large, almost too large to be called a cottage. Dark, polished timbers framed its high walls of charming, pale-grey stone. A finished coat of wooden shingles adorned the roof, and Racath could see real glass in the windowpanes. The salty smell of chicken stew rode the smoke that billowed from the chimney. This was not the lair of a decrepit recluse. This was a home.
The front door creaked on its hinges as Racath, Nelle approached, and a tall Majiski stepped out onto the porch. He looked to be in the latter half of his life, perhaps one-hundred-twenty or –thirty years old. He had the face of an old uncle, framed by wiry grey hair and a close-cropped, salt-and-pepper beard. The corners of his deep-brown eyes wrinkled pleasantly as his face split with a sagacious grin. Trim, healthy muscles pressed against the fabric of his plain grey tunic. His sleeves reached only to his elbows, and tattoo-like shapes of markara stretched across his bare forearms.
Nelle bounded up the front steps to stand beside the older Majiski on the porch. “Oron, he’s here!” she repeated, bobbing on the balls of her feet as she slipped her arm through his.
He favored her with a paternal smile. “So it would seem. And about time, too. Dinner is almost ready.”
Both of them looked down at Racath. He suddenly felt very small, standing below them on the lawn. There was something in their eyes as they looked at him, some burdensome expectation.
“I’m glad you made it safely,” the older Majiski told him. “I am Oron Thrace.”
Racath shuffled his feet in the grass. “I’m Racath,” he returned uncomfortably. It was an alien feeling to him, being at a disadvantage. Was this what most people felt like when they talked to him? What Elias felt like? Or the urchin, Quentin?
“Indeed you are,” Oron said, stepping down off the porch so that he stood level with Racath. “Come, let me see you.”
Racath took a hesitant step towards Oron.
“Your gauntlets,” Oron instructed, gesturing for Racath to remove his Stingers. “Please, show me your markara.”
The request only unnerved Racath further. Your markara was your birthright, what made you a Majiski. An intimate part of your very identity. You didn’t show it to just anyone. And Genshwin never took their gauntlets off outside a Tor, lest their markara be seen. But, however reluctant, Racath complied; he removed his gauntlets and held out his forearms.
Oron took Racath by the wrists. His grip was firm, but still gentle. “I find,” Oron said pensively, his eyes flickering as they traced the twisting tendrils of Racath’s midnight-black markara. “That I can learn a lot about a Majiski from their markara. The color, the pattern, the thickness — they all tell little stories about their owner.”
“And what do mine tell you?” Racath hedged.
At the same time, he took a cursory look at Oron’s markara. While his was a tangled snarl, like black fire raging on ivory skin, Oron’s fit into a more consolidated pattern, closer to blue-grey than black. The apexes on his palms stretched downward to form thin bands around his wrists. From those rose a crosshatch of slender, angled strands of markara, tapering out to loose and pointed ends near his elbows.
Releasing Racath’s arms, Oron gave a knowing smile. “They tell me exactly what I expected they would. Now, let me see your eyes.”
It wasn’t a question this time. He took Racath by the chin with a firm yet easy grip, and looked deep into his eyes.
Racath tried not to flinch away. “Do those tell you stories, too?” Racath asked hesitantly, staring back into Oron’s earthy eyes.
“Oh, yes,” Oron answered seriously. He studied Racath for another moment before releasing him.
“And what do they tell you?”
Oron put a fatherly hand on Racath’s shoulder. “You have your father’s eyes, and your mother’s markara. Her face, too. I am honored to have you here, Racath. It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of a Thanjel’s company. Let’s hope that you have your family’s fire in your blood.”
“Wait,” Racath blinked, surprised. “You knew my parents?”
Oron turned and started back toward the porch. “Why don’t you come inside? We have much to discuss, and I have a long story to tell before I can let you rest.” He waved for Racath to follow. “Come along. All your questions will be answered in due time.”
From her spot on the porch, Nelle shot Racath a wink and a smile, and then ducked inside the cottage. Oron climbed the front steps behind her.
“Wai
t!” Racath protested again.
Oron stopped with his hand on the door latch. “Yes?”
“I’ve been drowning in everyone’s cryptic suspense for weeks now,” Racath told him. “Mrak, Nelle, Sokol — no one’s really told me anything that I can make sense of. Before I go in there and spend all night piecing together whatever details you can give me, can you at least give me one straight, easy answer to the question that’s been killing me for a month?”
Oron raised a grey eyebrow at him. “Ask away.”
“Who are you, and what exactly am I here for?” Racath asked, imploring. “What is this place, and what exactly am I meant to do here that’s so divinely important?”
The older Majiski chuckled low in his chest, like the rumble of a stretching lion.
“Racath, there is not one straight or easy answer to that question. I promise you, I will explain everything inside. For now, all you need to know is this: my name is Oron Thrace. This is the Nest of Scorpions, and it is your new home.
“And you are here so that I can help you become what you were born to be. So that I can train you to become a Scorpion. So that I can teach you how to kill gods.”
He pushed the door open, and gestured for Racath to enter. “After you.”
PART II
Scorpion
26th Day of Deach
Summer of the 107th Year of the Fourth Age
The Spikes — The Domus beneath Mount Thrace
The Dominion of Io
SEVENTEEN
Dragon Amongst Wolves
The deep, clement air inside the cottage welcomed him as he stepped across the threshold into the modest foyer. A doorless entryway opened on the leftmost wall of the vestibule, and through it Racath could see a spacious living area, complete with a large sofa and chairs. Another hallway on the right ended with a closed door, perhaps a bedroom.
A high arch at the opposite end of the foyer opened into another room. Through the arch, Racath noticed the golden glint of Nelle’s hair. Boots knocking on the polished hardwood floor, Racath followed her.
The room was a circular kitchen, dominated by a round table surrounded by chairs. Heat radiated from the black belly of an iron stove that squatted beside a pantry, piping connecting it to the stone wall behind it and the chimney that must have dwelt within. The marvelous smell of cooking chicken tantalized Racath’s nostrils. He breathed in.
Nelle laughed from her seat at the table.
He looked at her. “What?”
“You were just standing there,” the augur grinned. “Gawking. It was kind of cute.”
Racath blushed. “Sorry…it’s just…this place. I’m still having trouble believing it’s all real. How could Oron build a house like this? In here? How could he make it so…finished?”
“With a lot of time, sweat, and magic,” Oron said from the archway.
Racath almost jumped out of his skin; he hadn’t heard the older Majiski enter behind him. “Magic?”
Nelle giggled again.
“Yes,” Oron said curtly. He waved his hand toward the table. Racath felt a subtle ripple of energy emanate from Oron’s markara. Seemingly of its own accord, one of the chairs jumped backward, as if inviting Racath to sit. “Go on, take a seat. Relax, stay a while. We won’t be starting anything tonight, just going over the basics.”
Hesitantly, Racath removed the cloak of his Shadow and laid it across the back of the chair, then sat. “Thanks….”
Oron took a seat across from Racath, beside Nelle. He laid a hand on the augur’s shoulder. “The stew is almost ready, Nelle. Could you do me a favor and finish it up while I tend to our guest?”
“Certainly!” Nelle bounced up out of her seat and went to the stove, acquiring a wooden ladle from a nearby counter as she went.
“I expected you’d be famished,” Oron said to Racath, twining his hands together on the table. “So I thought I would have dinner waiting for you.”
“I’m more tired than hungry, but thanks,” Racath shrugged.
“No trouble. Now. Down to business. You look like you’re bursting with questions. Feel free to ask away; what do you want to know?”
Racath released a sound somewhere between a snort and a huff of relief. “God, where do I start? Who are you people? What is this place and why am I here? How are you going to teach me — what are you going to teach me? What are the Scorpions and what do they have to do with me? What do I have to do with the visions of the prophetess—”
“Augur!” Nelle interrupted from the stove.
“ — who speaks for a God that I barely understand?” By the time Racath had finished his barrage of questions, he was nearly out of breath and his temples were throbbing.
Across the table, Oron’s face had grown a fatherly, empathetic smile. “I like how you think, Racath. You ask the important questions. That’s good. There are no simple answers, I’m afraid. For you to really understand the entire scope of things, there are a few important things you need to know.”
He held up a hand and started ticking off fingers. “To start, the history of the Genshwin, reaching back long before the Wall went up. Second, the nature of the Scorpions: their conception in relation to the Genshwin — what they were intended to be, what they were, and what they have become. Third, who Nelle and I are, our history and our ties to the Genshwin, and the importance of the Jedan religion. Fourth, why Mrak believes you are here. And last of all, why you are actually here.”
Frowning, Racath slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I’m listening.”
“First things first, then,” Oron began. “You should know that Mrak has been lying to you and the other Genshwin. He’s lied about everything, and worse still, he has actively worked to destroy critical knowledge of the past to cover his own crimes. There’s a reason he burned any surviving copy of Jedan scripture he could find. A reason why he keeps any pre-Dominion histories under a close eye.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you quite comprehend the full extent,” Oron said. “How much do you, Racath, know about the Genshwin as an organization?”
Racath shrugged. “Not a whole lot. Most of us were orphaned as children and taken in soon afterward. Excluding Mrak, the very eldest of us aren’t even forty years old. There were others before us, older Majiski, some that even lived through the Occupation, but they’ve all been killed off…somehow. But now, none of us are old enough to remember anything, and Mrak never really gave us a history lesson on where our order came from.”
Oron bit his lip, as though thinking. “I see. Very well then, we’ll have to go back to the beginning.” He waved a dramatic hand. “Way back, to the 528th year of the Third Age. A time when Io was a prosperous nation where Humans, Elves, and Majiski lived in a perfect social harmony. When we were a world power. That full history can wait for another day. For now, let’s focus on a man by the name of Atticus Forren, who lived at that time.”
“So this would have been…what, five hundred years ago?” Racath asked.
“About four-hundred-fifty,” Oron clarified. “Atticus Forren was a Majiski. Young, strong, and cunning. On his own, he developed an art that he called taj Shaeyul’Dirik — the Black Path, a martial practice built around stealth, assassination, and combating several enemies alone. After perfecting it, Forren took the Black Path to the Litoran University, to the High Generals of the Ioan military. He wanted to give the Black Path as a gift, to train a new force of assassins and spies that Io could use to become an even stronger nation.
“But they scorned him. Not only did they see taj Shaeyul’Dirik as flawed and impractical, but they were also utterly the revolted by his intentions. They told him that they would not compromise the Io’s good standing and reputation by sending out clandestine assassins to undermine other countries. Frustrated and dejected, Forren took his work elsewhere; if the Generals would not see the worth of his creation, then he would use it for himself. And so, he built Velik Tor, his personal
fortress beneath Oblakgrad. He recruited the best Majiski he could find and trained them in the Black Path, and soon forged a brotherhood of secret assassins.”
“The Genshwin,” Racath assumed.
Oron nodded. “Indeed.”
“So…” Racath guessed. “He used his new order to act on Io’s behalf, without the government’s knowledge?”
Oron shook his head firmly. “No.”
Racath cocked his head, puzzled. “Then…what were they for? What was the Genshwin’s purpose, if not to serve Io?”
The older Majiski sighed melancholically. His deep brown eyes lost some of their luster. “The old Genshwin…” he said. “Were very…different than the Genshwin we have today. Today, the Genshwin are refugees of the Occupation, fighting for the survival of the Majiski race. But in the Third Age…the Genshwin were killers for hire. Blades for the highest bidder. Mercenaries, spies, thieves, assassins….”
“Ahh…” Racath felt a sinking in his chest, like his heart was deflating. He frowned down at his hands. “So…we were hit men.”
“Yes,” Oron agreed. “Atticus Forren led the Genshwin for the rest of his life — the first Genshwin Patriarch. It was not a happy life, to say the least, and it ended in tragedy. Another four Patriarchs followed in succession. And after that, our first person of interest comes into the picture: a Majiski named Thomas Menelaus.”
“I’ve never heard of him either,” Racath said. “Who was he?”
“He became Patriarch in the 853rd year of the Third Age, after he secretly killed his predecessor, Jonathon Stride. Menelaus brought new fortune to the Genshwin, but he got greedy. You see…there is an old story, an ancient Roten myth called the Three Aspects of Death.”
Racath’s forehead furrowed. “Death?” he repeated.
“Yes. The Roten depiction of Death, at least.”
“So Azrael.”
Oron’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’re familiar with the Roten Mythos? The Eight Angels? I wouldn’t think Mrak would let you access information like that.”
