The Essence Gate War: Book 01 - Adept

by Michael Arnquist

  The images spun again.

  Climbing a sheer face of rock, racing Valkarr to its peak.

  The heads of human men and women swiveling to follow him as he strides through the streets of Lyden as a tall stripling. Pink, soft and civilized, they are; baffled and suspicious as they gaze upon him.

  Gliding through the underbrush, long-spear in hand, moving like the wind itself as he and his fellow warriors stalk the ravening pack of greels that had been attacking homesteads on the outskirts of Lyden.

  The images spun.

  Three score swords raised to the sky by strong Sil’ath arms, hailing Amric as the tribe’s new warmaster. The throaty roar of the tribe as he lifts his own sword in response. No other upturned face glowing with as much pride as that of the previous warmaster, save perhaps that of his son and Amric’s closest friend, Valkarr.

  Clasping forearms with his sword-brother, Valkarr, sworn in blood.

  The images spun.

  The thunderous clash of battle against an armored host, a remorseless foe of the Sil’ath. The terrifying and graceful dance of the battlefield. Outnumbered but victorious; the first of many such victories.

  The images spun.

  A cottage in the deep woods of strange and alien design. The door opening to spill sunlight inward. A shadow cast across the threshold.

  The images spun and blurred and came to a jarring halt. The chilling presence of Bellimar seeped around him once more.

  “I think I lost consciousness for a time,” Amric gasped, still reeling.

  “Indeed, you did,” Bellimar said. “Not for long, but much has been accomplished in that time. And I believe I have found what we seek.”

  The scene swam into focus. Or, rather, it tried to. He was looking upon the interior of the strange cottage, but his field of view shifted and flickered back and forth between two vantage points. The effect was dizzying, disorienting. There was an infant boy child in an ornate basinet; his was one of the perspectives. The other was an invisible presence circling in fretful motions above the child.

  He was seeing the same scene from two different perspectives at once, he realized: that of the child––himself, as an infant––and that of his wilding magic. He concentrated, trying to sort out the juxtaposition of the images.

  The child was very young, and was thin and weak from hunger and dehydration. As a result of one or both factors, there was a foggy quality to the child’s vantage. He leaned in listless repose against one wall of the basinet and his face was blotched red from earlier tears, but he was calm and clear-eyed now. Crying had done no good; help was not coming to his call. He was too young to take further action toward self-preservation on his own. Without help, the child was doomed.

  The memory of the wilding magic was much stronger. There was a simple, childish quality to its thoughts as well, and its frantic concern grew to a fever pitch as the child grew weaker and weaker. It had broken the spell that bound them both in extended slumber, but it knew not what action to take from there. Some primal instinct nagged at it in persistent warning. Something was wrong, and danger was coming.

  The magic reached out, questing beyond the bounds of the cottage, looking for aid of any kind. Life teemed in the surrounding forest, but it offered no succor. There was a myriad of tiny creatures, from insects to rodents, too primitive to be of help. It found a large life force, a sleek predator, but touching its mind revealed only boundless hunger and a resulting singularity of purpose, and the wilding shied away from it.

  The wilding swirled in frustration and kept searching. Then it found them, a handful of minds moving through the nearby forest with resolve. They were hard and complex, but their camaraderie toward each other was palpable. The wilding rushed to contact them, but it found no kindred magic to answer back. Instead, they felt something of its clumsy attempt at contact, and the reaction was immediate and violent, a surge of rejection, superstition and prejudice. The wilding recoiled, frustrated at the failure. It withdrew until they were calm once more, and then tried again.

  Slower this time, softer, the gentlest of touches. It focused upon the leader alone, soothing the rough edges of that creature’s distrust and fanning its curiosity. It led them to the cottage by small degrees, nudging dozens of minor impulse decisions in favor of a path that led there. It was slow, frustrating work, and the wilding magic fluttered in panic at every minute setback. At last, however, the group drew within sight of the cottage. The wilding reached deeper into its flagging strength, and, with a surge of effort, parted the veil of magic that concealed the structure from without. The group gasped in surprise, brandishing weapons and hesitating at this sudden wonder. The wilding froze. It was exhausted and spending all its remaining energy on suspending the veil. There was little it could do at that point but wait and hope.

  The leader studied the cottage for a long moment, and then prowled in a slow semi-circle around it before advancing to the door. Inside, in the basinet, the boy child looked up as the door eased open to spill sunlight and a long shadow inward. A tall, powerfully built figure approached and loomed over him. The child gazed up into a strong, reptilian face, and the Sil’ath warrior looked down upon him with a dispassionate eye.

  They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, and then the warrior turned to leave. The wilding magic pulsed once in a panic.

  Amric, watching, held his breath. To an outside observer, the actions of the Sil’ath warrior would seem callous, but he knew better. The reclusive Sil’ath were assiduous in their efforts to avoid interfering in the affairs of the other races, and it would take much to cause one to cross that line.

  But then the warrior paused, looking back with an unreadable expression. He took in the gaunt condition of the child, and the level, steady stare of his grey eyes. The Sil’ath grunted, and there was a note of admiration to the sound.

  “You do not cry or show fear, little one,” he said. His words were in the Sil’ath tongue, and though the infant Amric could not then understand, the incorporeal Amric watching the scene did. “Do you have a warrior’s spirit?”

  Perhaps in response to the gentle tone, the child reached a hand toward the warrior with tiny pink fingers outspread. The warrior’s answering grin was fierce.

  “You want to live?” he said. “You shall have your chance.”

  Scaly, muscular arms lifted the boy from the basinet. With a final glance around the place, Verenkar, Valkarr’s father, turned and left, holding the child against his broad chest.

  The wilding magic flared with joy and relief. In its elation, it again brushed against the entrenched disdain for magic in the minds of the Sil’ath warriors. Acting on primal instinct, it quickly retreated back into the recesses of the child’s mind. There it curled in upon itself, shifting and tightening like the intricate coils of a complex knot being drawn through one another. Smaller and smaller it became, folding inward, and the child’s radiant aura shrank with it. Finally it dwindled to a pinpoint, inverted itself in a spasm of effort, and vanished.

  The Sil’ath hunting party moved through the undergrowth, swift and sure. From the crook of one iron arm, the child Amric glanced back to where the cottage had been, and saw only the thick green shroud of the forest once more.

  The scene dissolved and Amric drifted, stunned.

  “It saved my life,” he said in disbelief. “Not just recently, at Stronghold and the Nar’ath hive, but from the very beginning.”

  “That appears to be true,” Bellimar agreed. “I regret that the memories go no further back, but between this one and Xenoth’s statements, I think we can now piece together your origins.”

  “Xenoth slew my parents, and meant to slay me, back then,” Amric said, his thoughts racing. “My… magic lured the Sil’ath to me, and then hid itself so thoroughly that no one––not even I––knew of its presence. And since the Sil’ath took me in, Xenoth never found me.”

  “And where does that chain of thought lead you?” Bellimar pressed.

 
“Xenoth mentioned my parents’ defiance of his Council. They fled to this world, for some reason.”

  Bellimar waited and said nothing.

  “My parents are from this other world, this Aetheria,” Amric said at last. “And so am I.”

  “All of which implies that you, Amric, are an Adept as well.”

  He started to deny it, but his vehemence flared and then died. He thought of the power that had coursed through him at Stronghold when their lives hung in the balance, and how he had sought it out and called it forth at the hive. He had access to powers he had never known, that much was certain. He could no longer pretend to blame it on phenomena like the Essence Fount. But was he an Adept? He was not like that monster, Xenoth, killing indiscriminately and reveling in the use of power. And the Adept had called him a wilding, had used the appellation with scorn and repugnance. Surely that meant that they were nothing alike. If his magic was emerging again after lying dormant so long, however, could it be that he would become a creature every bit as loathsome as an Adept? Could a wilding be even worse?

  He had been raised by the Sil’ath to abhor the use of magic, and now there was no question that he was infused with it. It was a part of his nature, hidden all these years, concealed among the very people who would never tolerate its presence. He was everything that the people who had saved his life and given him a home both feared and detested. Had Verenkar known back then, he would have left the child to die alone. Had Valkarr known, he would not have sworn brotherhood. The Sil’ath had been manipulated into accepting him. How many other ways had they been affected over the years, without their knowledge?

  The wilding magic within Amric stirred and shrank back from the pain and confusion that coursed through him. He sighed and sent a wave of warmth and reassurance at it. This is no fault of yours, he thought. You acted to preserve us both.

  Sharing his thoughts, Bellimar spoke. “You may be a unique form of Adept,” he said, “but you come from a world of Adepts and you wield great power. Whatever a wilding may be, you are also one of them.”

  Amric heard the bitter emphasis on the last word. One of them; he was a descendant of the beings that had stripped Bellimar of his power, so long ago, and left him in a cursed half-existence. Not for the first time, it occurred to Amric just how vulnerable he was to the vampire at the moment. Before Amric could object, however, Bellimar continued.

  “Fear not, swordsman. I spent countless years nursing my hatred for what the Adepts did to me, but no longer. Whatever Xenoth might have claimed, the Adepts of that time bore little resemblance to the mean-spirited creature we faced tonight. Just as you bear little resemblance to him. This tells me that, even if today’s lords of Aetheria have fallen to the depths of corruption, it need not be so. No, the Adepts struck down a monster, and I will not become that again.”

  Amric was silent for a moment, contemplating the quiet certitude in the old man’s words. “How will you prevent it?” he finally asked.

  “I know of only one way,” Bellimar responded. “There is something else I must do first, however.”

  Amric caught a glimpse into the other’s thoughts, and he understood at last.

  It dawned upon him as well that the drifting sensation had direction and inexorable purpose, that as they conversed, they had been floating upward. It was like rising to life-giving air from the depths of the sea, and when he broke the surface, he sagged back into his body in the waking world. He heard sharp inhalations and sudden movement on either side of him. The vast funnels of flame that were Bellimar’s red eyes withdrew from around him and then shrank back to hooded, blazing pits within folds of shadow.

  “It is done,” Bellimar announced.

  Amric gave him a sharp look. “What of the training you were to provide?”

  “Done,” the old man answered with a twist of a smile. “Putting any false modesty aside, I am a master at this, and I accomplished much while you were unconscious. I was able to implant the knowledge to open a Way, as Xenoth did, but to Queln. It is always easier if you have been there before, and I experienced Queln long ago, before its majesty had faded so. You now have something of my memories of the place.” His smile broadened into a vicious grin. “And I did my best to plant a nasty surprise or two for you to offer Xenoth, when you face him. Please send my regards.”

  Amric’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Bellimar. He was unnerved at the prospect of the vampire enjoying free reign in his psyche while he was defenseless, but there was little help for it now. Somewhat skeptical, he reached for the expertise to open a Way, focusing on his desire to reach the Adept, and to his surprise it came to him readily. It was as if it had always been there, a task that was now every bit as familiar as drawing his sword or riding a horse. His wilding magic roused and flared with eagerness at the prospect of calling up the power necessary for the act, but Amric shuddered at the violation. What else had Bellimar hidden within his mind?

  Bellimar stared back with that infuriating grin, as if daring him to ask the question aloud. Amric ground his teeth, but held his tongue. He had agreed to the process, after all, in a desperate grab at salvation for his people and his world. He had known the risks.

  Instead he said, “I thank you for your efforts, Bellimar. May they prove sufficient, for all our sakes.”

  Bellimar responded with a solemn nod. “We must part ways now. The dawn is coming, and I have far to travel before I lose the cover of night.”

  Amric pushed to his feet, and in the simple act he uncovered yet another revelation: his weariness was gone. The battles with the Nar’ath queen and Xenoth had left him exhausted in mind and body, but he felt as if he was somehow waking from a full night’s rest. He was not fully recovered, but he felt fit enough for the coming conflict. His brows knitted in puzzlement. It made no sense; his time locked in the trance had not been long enough to account for the change, and in any event, it had not felt in the least way restful. Then he glared at Bellimar with sudden suspicion.

  “You shared more than knowledge,” he accused. “You gave me some portion of your vitality as well.”

  “I can assure you that it came without price or taint,” Bellimar said. His grin broadened even further, and closer inspection revealed what the shadows had concealed until then. The vampire was even more wasted and gaunt than before. His eyes burned from sunken black pits, and his narrow face was so hollow-cheeked as to appear skeletal. When he smiled, the white skin tightened like parchment over a bleached skull.

  “That is strength you can ill afford to discard,” Amric said with a frown. “It will make your curse all the more difficult to bear.”

  “Indeed it does. Another reason I must be away from here.”

  The vampire’s voice quavered slightly as he spoke, and the hunger rolled from him in palpable waves. They faced each other for a moment, and then Amric said, “So be it. Fare you well, Bellimar.”

  “Fare you well, Amric.”

  “What madness is this?” Syth cried, sweeping in from the direction of the cairn. “Should we not try to stop him? Thalya wanted him––”

  “Dead or redeemed,” Bellimar interrupted with quiet conviction. “And though she could not know it, she may well have achieved both, in the end. Do not worry, Syth, the night is not over yet.”

  The dark figure turned to depart, then hesitated, and swung back.

  “She would want you to remember, Syth, that love is a gift, and its magic is in the giving and receiving rather than the having. What you were given can never be taken at the hand of another.”

  “What do you know of love, fiend?” Syth snapped. “Are honeyed words supposed to soothe my pain?”

  “No,” Bellimar responded with a sad smile. “But there will come a time when the truth behind them will restore a measure of your inner strength. Grieve until then, my young friend. No one can take that from you, either.”

  Before the other could form a retort, Bellimar whirled away and flowed over the rocky edge in a cascade of midnight, vanish
ing from sight. Moments later, a shadow rose against the light of the moon and spread great black wings to wing its way rapidly north. Amric watched until it dwindled to a speck and was lost against the dark leaden grey of the night sky. Then he turned to Valkarr. His friend reached out and clasped his shoulder, but hesitated at the look on his face. One scaly brow ridge rose in question.

  “There is something you need to know,” Amric said, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. “About me. It may affect your decision to join me in what comes next.”

  Valkarr snorted. “I think not.”

  “Hear it first.”

  The Sil’ath warrior folded muscular arms across his broad chest. “Are you going to tell me that you do not wish me at your side in this battle?”

  Amric swallowed. “No, of course not. Never that.”

  “Then it can wait until afterward,” Valkarr stated. “We all know what is at stake, and we stand ready, sword-brother. Lead the way.”

  Sariel stepped to his side in silent accord. She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a fierce glint sparkling in her eye. Halthak drew up behind them, and though his knuckles were white as he gripped his gnarled staff, he stood unbowed and his features were set into hard, resolute lines.

  Syth cast a final, lingering look at the solitary mound of rock. His hair and clothing fluttered and waved toward it, as if the ever-present breeze surrounding him meant to pull him back in that direction. When he turned back to the others, his expression was stone. “Let us finish this,” he said.

  Amric drew a deep breath and concentrated, calling forth knowledge that was not his. He drew upon power that was, and it filled him in a ready, burning flood. In his mind, he held an image of the ancient ruins of Queln, and it was a composite of Bellimar’s borrowed memories and the remote scene he had glimpsed earlier behind the black-robed Adept. He focused his will on a point in the air before him, there atop the crown of rock, and he made a cutting motion with one hand. A tall seam of light appeared, and with another gesture it split open. Amric felt a tearing sensation, as if he was parting heavy cloth with his bare hands, and the effort drained at his energy, but the Way opened before him like a thick set of curtains spreading to reveal an open doorway behind.