by Kyle Belote
“I don’t care.” She backed away from the sheol. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Leave me.”
“How did you manage to obscure yourself from him?” The wraith floated closer.
I don’t need this. I’m too tired. Why does the flight drain me?
“My master wishes your presence. If you do not come willingly, I am to destroy you.”
“Why? What have I done? I am no threat.”
“Xilor doesn’t believe so.”
The mention of his name ignited her rage. The bodies of Wizard’s Pass flashed through her mind, reminding her of all his destruction. Her wand twitched, jerking up, but the creature was faster, materializing before her, its hand constricting around her throat. His icy touch sent shivers through her body, her aura forsaking her. In reaction, her hands clamped around his, trying to free herself. Through the fog of panic, the creature’s cold laugh washed over her.
I’m going to die here!
Cold skeletal hands tightened, leeching the life out of her. In her hysteria, her fury remained untouched, forgotten. In a premonition, realizing the sheol choked her and siphoned her life-force, she found her salvation. The rage flared, fueling her body, giving her the stamina she desperately needed. But fear motivated her into action, afraid of being weak, helpless, dying. Fear fueled the fire of her soul, unlocking all she once denied. She did not find a balance of darkness and light, but a searing scarlet.
The heat rushed through her, sweeping from her stomach, ripping through her throat. An inferno ruptured behind her eyes, in the pit of her abdomen. The creature awakened something deep, forbidden, and terrible within her.
“Xilor will reward me with your death.”
She released the anger, the energy ripping free of her fragile control. A blood-curling scream poured out of her mouth, a shrill ascending with her pain. Her eyes hurt, itched. Red and purple bolts flowed from her, tendrils arching through the wraith. Its grip slackened as it crumbled to the ground, writhing under the flowing plasma. It thrashed, convulsed, and shrieked.
Stop this, she pleaded.
It is only right to take his life, the dark voice soothed her.
No, it isn’t, a part of her tried to appeal.
Why shouldn’t you? What would you have me do, release him?
Yes, this isn’t the way.
If you release him, he is still a danger to you and others. He will try this again to someone else, maybe even you. The sheol will fulfill its orders and kill you. The other half of her consciousness agreed in silence. Kill him!
“Fucking die!” Starriace screamed. Rage encouraged her to continue, the malice in her heart warned her not to stop; if given the chance, the monster would butcher her, and she had been prey long enough to her naive folly.
The itch behind her eyes festered, smoldered, like the sharp, hot pain of boiled water. The power wrenched free of her control, carrying her away, the agony rising to an unattainable crescendo. She sensed a pop buried beneath the pain, unnatural lightning, and screaming. Plasma gushed from her eyes, blinding her, her vision falling away. The whites of her eyes turned a brilliant red while the current circulated through the dying sheol.
Her body hitched, the last of her energy depleted, the power faded in a sudden paroxysm. Where the heat once coursed through her, a hollow throb clung, her bones aching, an irritant akin to blistered skin. Without sanction, her knees buckled, and she tumbled to the ground next to the charred husk.
Death was but a few breaths away. Now she understood why Fife thought she wasn’t ready for offensive magic.
It drains you completely!
HE IS NOT YOUR MASTER ANYMORE! the dark voice screamed.
She lay there painting, blind, and frail. Movement pricked her ears, the creature stirred. It would be a race to see who would recover first and finish the other off.
You know what must be done. Trust me to do it again.
The memory of Fife fighting off the life drain flashed in her mind. Should she? It had been unintentional. But was it right? Moral? What would Judas say or do in this situation? Sheol were predators, subservient to none but one. She was dying and wanted to survive.
Only the strong survive, and you are not strong.
The sheol neared death, too, pointless for both to perish.
Do it!
With a shaking arm, she stretched her palm toward the being, and a red glow swelled over her hand. The siphon enveloped the wraith. The last of the creature’s life-force leeched away and returned a trickle of vitality to Starriace. A handful of heartbeats later, the other no longer stirred.
Emptiness filled her, sensing the creature’s end, but she buried the despair deep, not wanting to acknowledge what transpired, what she allowed herself to become.
It was kill or be killed; there was no choice. I will never let that happen.
With the declaration, her split consciousness was no more. Only one remained, the part of her that helped her survive. She prized the endgame: Xilor. She would be faced with the same choice soon enough, kill or be killed, survive or perish, enslavement or conquer.
With decisive action she hadn’t known since entering the Corridor of Cruelty, she slipped on the ring and instantly pulled back to the temple in the City of Despair.
***
Chapter 84 : Starriace
Starriace whimpered in the chilling darkness, lungs burning with ragged breath. The hard stone floor embraced her with cold, damp greetings. Her face, laying on the unforgiving surface, grew numb from the seemingly glacial embrace, but she knew it was fatigue more than anything. A fine dust stirred with each painful exhale; a cold ache filled her nostrils. Anemic from her brush with death, fighting for her life, the flight, the exacted toll was more than she expected. She lay motionless, frail, debilitated. Through the nebulous pain filling her head, fragments of memory trickled in. The last moment she remembered was teleporting with Rusem’s ring.
Stirring, she sat up, groggy, opening her eyes, but the darkness lingered. A sharp pain lanced through her head, festering behind her eyes. In her mind, flashes of red and purple light permeated, the screaming sheol, the distinctive pop, the heat pouring out of her eyes. Even now, they burned. Tentatively, she reached up to rub the irritation away.
“Don’t touch them,” Rusem’s voice carried to her. His presence brushed the edge of her essence, his aura distinct, calculating, methodical, cold, and aloof.
Shouldn’t he be dead? Why do I feel a presence?
“Why? What’s wrong with them?” she asked, her voice hoarse. Her throat ached like a flared infection, even swallowing hurt. Disorientation waltzed away with her senses; the unforgiving darkness revealed nothing.
“You tapped into an ability too strong for you to dominate,” he intoned with ease, his voice smooth, thoughtful. “It should have killed you. I am surprised by your resilience. Strange.” He paused, and she felt his essence brush against hers.
He should not have an aura! she noted in a flushing panic.
“By attempting the ability before you were ready, you lacked the required vitality for such conjury. The power drew from the only available source, your life, and it cost you dearly, I am afraid. It taxed your body, and you’ll be affected for the rest of your life.”
“What will be affected?” she whispered, dread saturating her voice.
“Your eyes,” his oily voice answered. “I’ve never believed in luck, something unproven, but I can admit when I am wrong. You are very lucky, indeed.”
“How does it affect my eyes? What’s wrong with my eyes?” she badgered him.
“Permanent disfiguration,” Rusem revealed.
“Am … am I ugly?” she uttered between her teeth, horrified.
What will Lily think? Will she still like me? What of Kam? Will he still want me?
His chuckle, a deep rumble that sounded patronizing. “Do I detect a modicum of vanity? You have nothing to fear; you look the same, with the exception your sclera, the whites of your eyes glow
scarlet, or is it crimson? I can never tell.”
A faint gasp slipped out of her, a precursor to a quick sob before she wrangled her emotions.
Lily will never love me again. She couldn’t look at me without being disgusted.
“Learn to contain your sentiments. They will give you fuel when needed, but will leech you, leaving you weak and vulnerable. During heightened emotions, well, let’s just say that most regret their actions. Be the antithesis of passion, become placid, a sponge; let nothing escape from your face, voice, or mannerisms. Only at the end of a battle, when you are ready to finish off your opponent, should you release the hell that storms inside you.”
“I understand,” Starriace voiced in the darkness, hollow and monotone. She was anything but, her passions remained untethered, unbound, and the more she tried to gain control, confine, the more they rebuffed her.
“A good start,” Rusem praised her. “Learn while you are exhausted and vulnerable and the lessons will guide your actions in times of strength.”
“I still can’t see.”
“A momentary setback. Like I said, luck played a part. In a few days, we’ll see if your sight will return.”
It was three days before Starriace’s sight returned and Rusem used the time to teach her how to fight blind, guided by her aura. Through Rusem’s half-hearted teachings, the loss of her sight, and Fife’s grueling discipline instilled in her, she found to trust its guidance. The loss of one of her senses heightened the others, and her mastery of air granules helped her detect incoming attacks from distorted movements of air.
Rusem, like the others in her life, answered questions with deliberate pauses. She could hear the hesitations, the half-truths, and the calculated lies. It was poison in her veins. He withheld information, like Fife, like Judas. Too weak to leave, she suffered his patronizing attitude. The loss of her vision emboldened his manipulation, but she would leave recovered, indemnified. Disgust formed in her stomach for the ghost, but her former master, Fife, took the brunt of her scorn, despite realizing the truth behind his words. Now, she believed it was never a question of her being ready but that the Grand Maghai had been terrified by what he might unlock within her.
Rusem taught her the rejuvenation spell, remembering Judas using it a few times during her short-lived apprenticeship with the warlock. With the ability, she worked day and night, every hour, to hone her skills. Food and sleep became a luxury; she did both as little as possible, making up for wasted time with Fife Doole. Perhaps she would return later on and kill the imbecile.
If I keep this up, she mused, I’ll be imperious. Maybe I’ll pay Fife a visit.
Being with Rusem helped sideline thoughts that always ruled her emotions. Judas, Meristal, Staell, Ava, Fife, even Xilor, persisted as faint impressions best left forgotten.
On the fourth day, Rusem introduced a dim light to the dark room. The dimness didn’t hurt, but a bright light would, so he gradually increased the luminance in the temple. After almost four days of darkness, the dim light seemed like Apor and Praema high in the sky.
Over the few scant days they spent together, the spirit opened up about his previous life. On the fourth day, he told her a tale of how this place came into being.
“When I was younger, I took control of a domain. At the age of twelve, I was the Lord of the Valley of Stones Domain, which lies south of the Melodic Mountains. I was surrounded by wizards and elyves more powerful–well, more accurate–but all obeyed my commands. When I became older, nearing the Age of Maturity, I rode out with my marshal, the commander of my vast army.”
“How come the wizards use armies instead of magic?”
“Not everyone is as powerful as you or I … not everyone is meant to be great.” He hesitated briefly and continued the tale. “We were at constant war with a neighboring city, Chissu’Nanuci, no more than a week’s ride for a swift steed. They set up an encampment about a two day’s journey from my home, along the river that runs to the Valley of Stones in the east. We went to destroy the encampment with the help of the Stone Giants.
“When the dust settled, one of my scouts reported there was an opening in the ground with stairs that lead into a huge cavern. There, I encountered what I can only describe as an echo of a thousand deceased wizards, a collective called the Genah. Over the course of several years, after proving my dedication and loyalty, they instructed me to build seven focal temples, the eighth one in this city as the focal point. If you haven’t noticed already, there are seven engravings in the pedestal in the center of this room. Each for a stone. Once all seven temples were in place, I took on the quest to find seven unique stones for the engravings, but someone else was on the quest, too. A dark creature of heart and mind called Xilor. He already possessed six, and I held the seventh. Placing the six in the circle, he overcame me, taking the seventh …” He wavered, a blank expression came over his face. “With the seventh in place, the whole world went white. I cannot tell you what happened next; I don’t remember, but I have been here ever since, pondering what exactly happened.
“Some people say that when cursed with a vile evil, or when someone murders you, your spirit is scarred for eternity, becoming a corporeal ghost. I do not believe that is so. I believe that when you are given too much, beyond the capacity of your body, you become what I am. If you had an alternative source to draw from when you performed your attack against the sheol, the same would have happened to you.”
Starriace sat, entranced by his tale and warning. She was fascinated by the eight temples and the seven unknown stones and what purpose they served. Xilor had all seven at one point, did he still have them? Indeed, he survived, or did he? Did he still possess them or did utilizing the stones destroy them?
What happened when the world went white? Did it make Rusem a ghost? Why hasn’t anyone else ever talked about the world going white? Judas never mentioned it, neither did Fife.
That night, she surrendered to sleep for the first time in four days, but the temples and stones flooded her dreams. In her slumbering fantasy, it was she who exposed the cave, built the seven temples, claimed the mystic stones, and placed them on the pedestal. The bright light engulfed her and faded.
The quest repeated several times through the night. Starriace took the dream as silent confirmation of her next task. But her nighttime vision didn’t come unaccompanied, another vagary weaved between, more like reliving a memory. A shadow attacked her, claws swinging for her face, catching her flesh, ripping through her cheeks. Long skeletal nails dug deep into her arms as it tried to drag her away. Without success, the sheol reverted to sinking its claws into her skull, leaving a trace of itself in her. Death, carnage, and obliteration, filled her, the remnants of events done in service of a master.
She bolted awake, gasping for breath. While the temples faded, her journey remained clear and concise. The hallucination with the shadow happened before, in Far Point, the night she met Harold, Kam, and Lily. The thought chilled her. How could she have forgotten? What was its significance? She pushed the thought away, trying to recollect the temples. A cold certainty fell over her with the revision and Rusem’s tale. Xilor placed the seven stones on the pedestal and destroyed the city, turning it into the City of Despair. Conflicting thoughts reemerged, the clarity in which she once sympathized with Xilor.
Starriace understood him, his addiction to unchecked potential, but he was inherently evil, driven insane. No matter the choices she made, Starriace was not him, not like him. With cold resolve, she let out a huff.
He needed to die before he hurt anyone else again.
How to defeat such an entity? She managed to damage the sheol with lightning, but the attempt nearly killed her in the process. The sheol only succumbed once she used the life drain. Hope flickered in her chest, having arrived at a possible course of action. But could she repeat the feat? Doubt gnawed her insides.
With torpid eyes, she cast about for the spirit, rubbing the sleep away. She didn’t find him; he always left when she
meditated or slept. Running the notion by him seemed like a good idea, not trusting herself with such an important decision, but perhaps it was too trusting of her. Passion and potential ruled her life, but she lacked age-old wisdom. Internal deliberation ensued but she put the debate on hold when a small chitter snared her attention, loud in the vast quiet. Movement caught her eye, a little mouse padding cautiously towards her.
I thought everything here died. How did it survive?
The curious thought fell away to reason, hypothesizing mice and other animals were not affected. Xilor’s blast from combining the stones most likely wiped out all life in a brief, intense flash. Since then, all sentient beings kept away from the city, but animals? Perhaps it didn’t affect them the same.
She shifted, leaning towards the mouse, a perfect candidate for her experiment. She wondered if she had enough control. Could she start and stop the life drain as she wished or did she have to continue until the conjury ran its course? The results of flirting with such dangerous sorcery could prove grave or miraculous.
Best to start small.
As the rodent approached her, she stretched out her hand. The mouse paused, its little nose rolling around, the whiskers quivering. Starriace closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. She reached out like Harold taught her, distinguishing the mouse’s life force; it barely clung to its existence, starved and emaciated. A few more hours, a day at the most, and it would keel over. Relieving the rodent of a miserable few hours of pain seemed merciful.
With moderate confidence, she tugged, drew the last wisps of life out of the animal. The small creature didn’t offer up much, but Starriace detected a subtle change in her essence. As the last of life sapped from the being, it rolled to its side, stiff and unmoving. Careful not to absorb the life into her essence, she waited for a few heartbeats before releasing the energy, filling the diminutive form.
The mouse stirred, twitched. A smile flashed across her face, her eyes wild. The smile fell as the rodent struggled to its feet. She reached out with her essence, encompassing the vermin, detecting the change. Evident change shifted before her eyes, the hair promptly turned from brown to ash gray, sickly and withered, atrophied. To her startling discovery, the little mammal didn’t even breathe; it stood motionless, black lifeless eyes stared at her. She sent small nudges of psychic power to it, suggesting it perform what she wished.
