The Children of the Light: Book 1: Spirit Summoner

by Matt Campbell

  Feywen’s gaze was fierce. “Some people might consider your ability an attack on their privacy. Worse yet, an attack on their very souls.” The words set Darr on edge. He’d made a mistake.

  Feywen smiled, disarming Darr. “Fortunately for you, Summoner, I’m not one of those people. I am a little shocked you saw something so private, but I understand something about your abilities. Nidic Waq has the very same.”

  “But, I don’t use it the same way he does.”

  “No, you do not. He uses it to gain an advantage, to keep others in check and his plans in line. Don’t misunderstand me. I have great respect for Nidic Waq and the things he is trying to accomplish, but I don’t agree with his methods.”

  Darr nodded. He hesitated again before saying more. “I thought I might be able to help you. You’ve done so much for us.”

  Feywen waved the air in a dismissive gesture. “There’s nothing anyone can do for me, Darr. You’re a good friend for trying though. I think the reason people keep certain memories and emotions to themselves is because they try to make sense of them before sharing them. Sometimes we feel and experience things so pure and real, we want everyone to know. Sometimes we see things that make no sense, and our emotions reflect our inability to decipher what’s happened.”

  Darr kept his gaze riveted on Feywen. “I’m sorry, Feywen. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Your apology is unnecessary. Your heart was in the right place, and I can respect that.” The Summoner smiled and got to his feet.

  “Darr,” Feywen called out. “The next time you want to know what I’m feeling or thinking, please ask me.”

  The air between them felt stressed. Regretful for what he’d done, Darr knew what it meant now to wield the power of the Currents. He’d never be normal again. Darr had always relied on his ability to arbitrate and put others at ease. Now, he’d forever be fighting the urge to dive into the Light of another and seek out their suffering in an attempt to make it better.

  Feywen stood and looked out across the plains of the peninsula. The rain lessened, and by the brightening of the sky, it appeared the clouds would clear soon.

  “Go prepare the others,” Feywen told him. “We’re still a few hours away, but this will be our last rest.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Realizing a more permanent solution would be required to free Ictar from the Devoid, Caeranol established a covenant with the races of Ictar. He did so through a group of scholars called the Divine. Through them, his covenant and his teachings would be passed down through the generations until the time came they would be needed.”

  ~From A Current History of Ictar, as told by Nidic Waq

  With muddy ground beneath their hooves, the horses couldn’t run, but they still made good progress. Everyone kept to themselves, but the mood lightened somehow. Darr couldn’t describe the feeling, but everyone’s determination was renewed as they traveled closer to Navda. Another tragedy like the Crossroads wouldn’t happen again, he told himself, and that oath strengthened him. His friends probably felt the same.

  As the sun crept into the horizon behind them, shadow tendrils stretched out towards Navda. The ground became more solid and Feywen pushed the horses into a steady gallop. By the time dusk had arrived, they were well into the hill country leading to the city situated on a steep rise overlooking the Arktary Sea. From there, Navda could ward off attacks from anywhere except from the west. A single stone wall stretched the length of the rise, low bulwarks no more than eight feet in height, their surface bathed in the red glare of the sunset. Darr’s awe of the city he’d always dreamed of seeing was unsettling considering the current situation.

  Feywen brought them to a halt a few hundred feet from the city gate.

  “Stay put,” he said. With Lacdur at his side, the Dwarves rode to the walls. They were gone only a few minutes when Lacdur turned and rode back for them.

  “Come along,” the Dwarf warrior grumbled. “I don’t think our prince is in the mood to wait.”

  Lacdur turned back towards the wall. Darr and the others followed, their own mounts matching Lacdur’s pace. Within moments, it became obvious what had made Lacdur and Feywen so upset. The ironbound gates stood open to the night. One guard stood on duty, a Dwarf still in adolescence, looking somewhat terrified as Feywen Dery looked down on him with eyes of blue fire.

  “Why are there no other guards on duty?” Feywen demanded, his voice calm but forceful.

  The guard shook his head. “Aratan Bolgros ordered the change almost three months ago. He said it was unnecessary to have more than two soldiers on duty at any position. No one wanted to argue with him.”

  “Let me argue with him then.” Feywen looked around. “How many soldiers are active?”

  “I’m...I’m not sure...maybe two hundred. The rest have been dismissed.”

  Darr’s heart dropped at the guard’s statement. The city had no idea the danger it was in.

  Feywen’s brow furrowed. “You know who I am, do you not?”

  The young guard nodded his head like it was about to disconnect from his shoulders. “You’re Lord Dery, but the proclamation from Jakova says the monarchy no longer exists.”

  “That’s correct, you aren’t obligated to follow my orders, but hear me out,” Feywen said, his command stern. “An enemy force is approaching. I need you to inform your commanding officer, and rally all active soldiers. Get them to this wall immediately, light the torches, and for spirits’ sake, close the gate.”

  The guard acquiesced immediately, his lean frame darting to pull the gates in while Feywen and his companions entered. “We ride to the Aratans,” Feywen told the guard. “Remember what I told you, soldier. I want to see two hundred men at this wall by the time I return.”

  With a high-pitched whistle, Feywen signaled the horses and bolted out along the road leading into Navda. Gardens surrounded them on either side of the cobblestone road, a buffer separating the city from its wall. Flowers and trees glistened in the twilight by the light of lamps. People walked along little trails winding through the mass of greenery, turning their heads at the sound of the racing horses, oblivious to the danger they were in. Darr wanted to scream at them, to warn them, but he held his tongue.

  When the city’s buildings came into view, Feywen kept the horses running. The city sat quiet and brightly lit, with nothing to indicate the citizenry suspected an impeding attack. As they raced past the buildings, a few people appeared to investigate, crouched down low against window sills and from around corners.

  Feywen led them through the center of town to a large mansion set on the cliff overlooking the sea. He rode his horse up to the wrought-iron gate and leapt clear. He drew the sword from his belt, kicked open the gate, and rushed towards the mansion without waiting for his companions. Darr, followed by Erec and Lacdur, were the first to reach the gate. Jinn and Conra had fallen behind, but they weren’t more than a few paces away.

  “Better go after him.” Lacdur said with a rough laugh. “There’s sure to be something good when he finds the Aratans.”

  Like a man possessed, Feywen’s anger radiated from his body. Darr had no trouble identifying where his anger came from. Navda stood on the brink of annihilation, and yet, the everyday defenses of the city were missing.

  With incredible strength, fueled by the intensity of his emotions, Feywen lowered his shoulder and charged the front door. The jamb split wide where it was latched and the door swung inward, hard. Feywen stumbled inside the mansion and righted himself. His sword pointed straight ahead. Three men stood before him, all of various ages and sizes, but dressed in the same long, crimson robes. Feywen had his sword drawn on the largest of the three men.

  “You’re dead, Bolgros,” the once-prince said in a calm voice. “You are all dead.”

  The Aratans stared at him in apparent shock.

  * * * *

  After their initial shock wore off, the three Aratans of Navda were thrown into different states of confusion.
<
br />   Aratan Bolgros, the tallest and thickest of the three men, was a Cortazian. Despite his pale and waxy features, he commanded frightening arrogance. The big man yelled for guards, his face contorted in rage at the indignation he’d received.

  Aratan Vanheila, an Elf and the youngest of the three, quietly turned away from the scene and sat down. He appeared as though he didn’t know how to respond.

  Aratan Fereta stood looking small and fragile, a Dwarf of considerable age, his hair wispy white like cobwebs. Unlike the other two Aratans, Fereta remained motionless, his face reflecting nothing.

  When Fereta finally spoke, his voice sounded brittle and hard, but his words came unexpected. “It’s good to see you again, young prince.” The Aratan gave a slight bow, showing his respect. “While the monarchy of your family has been dissolved, you should know I trusted deeply in your father. You may not have kingship, but in my eyes, you should still be treated as one.”

  “What are you saying, Fereta?” Bolgros raged. “He’s nothing now except a citizen of the Dwarf nation, and citizens have no power here.”

  Feywen Dery remained quiet to Bolgros’ debasing comments. “Please calm yourself, Aratan Bolgros,” Fereta soothed. Bolgros turned in a huff, the look on his face a mask of loathing. “Give the prince a moment to explain himself,”

  “Thank you for your consideration,” Feywen said with a slight bow. “I apologize for the abruptness of my entry...”

  “Abruptness?” Bolgros yelled, his pale features turned crimson. “You smashed in our door and who knows what other destruction you’ve brought!”

  “Let him speak,” Aratan Vanheila said, his voice a whisper, but commanding.

  Feywen continued. “I acted as I have in order to prove a point. You’ve no defenses in place. Your gates were standing open, and your soldiers have been dismissed. Navda has always been a place of peace, but you’ve taken a risk in lowering your guard.”

  “Are we to expect an attack?” Fereta asked.

  “Yes,” Feywen replied at once. “Soul Seekers are massing on the peninsula. Navda and its citizens are next in their sights.”

  The anger drained from Bolgros’ face, and he asked, “If we’re next, who was first?”

  Feywen met the big Aratan’s gaze before answering. “Two nights ago, the Seekers attacked the Crossroads without warning. At least half the population perished. The prophet, Nidic Waq, was there to witness the attack. He confirmed that it was the Soul Seekers.”

  “Caeranol save us,” Fereta whispered.

  Aratan Vanheila rose to his feet, his Elven features strong as he took a few steps forward. “We must evacuate immediately,” he said. “We’ll organize a withdrawal across the peninsula.”

  “I can’t recommend that,” Feywen said. “The Seekers would find you during your retreat. They don’t care about the city. The people are the only thing that matter to them. What about ships? The Dwarf Naval Fleet stationed here could easily move your people.”

  Bolgros raised his face, showing his arrogance and defiance in one mean stroke. “The Dwarf Navy has been dismissed on my orders.”

  “‘Aos, you madman,” Lacdur rasped in horror. “What would make you do such a thing?”

  Bolgros’ demeanor didn’t change. “I was given control of Navda’s defenses when the monarchy was dissolved. We didn’t need the navy here. The operation was too expensive to keep up in a time when there is no war.”

  “Is that why you dismissed your soldiers?” Feywen asked, taking a step forward, his body rigid. “Do you know what you’ve done, Bolgros? You’ve sentenced this city to death.”

  “I have sentenced nothing,” Bolgros retorted with a roll of his eyes. “How was I to know the Seekers would come here? The Dwarf Elder Council told me almost nothing about the Soul Seekers when I was given command. They told me only to keep my eyes open.”

  “And so instead, you have kept them shut.” Feywen turned away in disgust.

  Darr’s stomach knotted up while the Aratans and Feywen continued to argue. The city would be swallowed whole before it could react to the oncoming threat. He glanced sideways at Aratan Vanheila. The Elf had been staring at him since he’d arrived.

  “Aratan Fereta,” Feywen implored. “Are you still in control here? Are you still the highest among the Aratans?” The wizened Dwarf nodded. “Then I ask you to remove Aratan Bolgros as captain of defense. Appoint me instead.”

  Fereta took a minute to consider, but he shook his head. “I can’t do that, Lord Dery. This city would panic if it knew it headed for battle. The people here are not warriors. We must investigate other methods.”

  “We don’t have time to find another way,” Feywen insisted. “Our options are to fight or flee, and fleeing is no longer an option.”

  Fereta shook his head, and Bolgros began chastising Feywen for attempting to take away control of the city’s defenses from him. Lacdur and Erec shouted as well. Even Conra spoke up in an attempt to plead the case. Helpless, Darr watched the argument. Somehow, they must find a way to convince the Aratans of the danger they were in. He met Vanheila’s gaze once more, the Elf’s gaze riveted on his own. What was it about Vanheila that no one else saw?

  Darr nudged his mind into the Currents, keeping his gaze steady with Vanheila’s. He felt the Aratan’s Light within the spirit realm, faint and obscure, like the shadow of a body pressed up against stained glass. Vanheila was listening to the Currents. Darr smiled. He knew how to break the stalemate between the Aratans and Feywen Dery.

  He checked the Currents for any distruptions before he plunged himself in...

  ...the wisteria light surrounded him, familiar and welcomed. When had that happened? When had the Currents begun feeling so comfortable? The fuzzy balls of white, that were the spirits, danced around him, their whispered words urging him on in approval of what he was about to do.

  The Lights of his companions glowed around him, their bodies a mass of white sparkle. Their Light didn’t glow the same way the Aratans’ did. Vanheila, Bolgros, and Fereta--their Lights responded to his own, dancing in the wisteria glow as if they were ready to come alive at any moment.

  And so they will.

  The Aratans were practiced in the known arts of summoning, their minds always connected to the Currents. Although one practice remained a mystery to them, for they had no notion of how to enter the spirit realm. Darr would show them the way. He reached out to them, no longer practicing the physical motion. His Light connected with theirs, and gently, he brought them into the Currents.

  The shock and confusion of the three men roared like something tangible, wild with fear. The spirits flitted around them in swarms, feeding off the intensity of their Light, but Darr willed them away.

  “Where are we?” Bolgros demanded, his Light brimming with terror.

  “You are in the Currents,” Darr answered.

  “You,” Vanheila said. “You’re a Summoner. How have you brought us here?”

  “I can explain when we’re done, but for now I only need you to trust me, and trust Feywen Dery. You know I can’t tell lies here.”

  The Aratans were resistant, but they could do nothing about it. As Racall had shown him the Currents, bending him into understanding, Darr would have to do the same for them.

  “You must see something,” Darr said.

  He let his memories surge to the surface, painting a picture so vivid the Aratans experienced the moment with him. The lights of the Currents softened, replaced with a scattering of colors that exploded into a rendering so real it hurt.

  The Aratans ran alongside Darr as he ran through the trees of the Triker. They felt his guilt and fear. The trees fell away, the late morning sky opened up, and smoke stretched in billowing plumes to the sky. Dead Dwarves, men, women, and children lay scattered all around, their bodies torn, their eyes white as snow. Darr let the Aratans taste his sickness, he let them experience that moment of terror with his own thoughts and feelings. They smelt the smoke and the carnage. They tasted t
he bile in his mouth. They lived the memory like it had happened to them.

  Once they understood, Darr retreived the memory and with it, he released his hold on the Aratans. Without another word, the men slipped back into their physical bodies and left the Currents behind...

  Feywen and the others were still yelling when the Aratans froze. Their faces went blank with confusion, and their voices stuck in their throats. Vanheila still had his gaze fixed on Darr. Fereta and Bolgros turned to look at him as well.

  “What have you shown us, Summoner?” Fereta asked, his words distant.

  Feywen and the others turned to Darr, but he didn’t move. He answered confidently. “I showed you what happened at the Crossroads, so you would know. The Seekers come now to do the same to you.”

  The silence in the room grew depthless. Darr and the three Aratans looked at one another across the room. Aratan Vanheila took a step forward and knelt down in front of Feywen Dery. Aratan Bolgros hesitated for a moment, then knelt with his head bowed.

  Aratan Fereta walked towards Feywen and placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “We pledge our support to you, Lord Dery,” the old Dwarf said in a near whisper. “You may not be king, but we’ll trust in you to do whatever is necessary.”

  Despite his old age, Fereta lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head. In the ensuing silence, Feywen Dery stood in place, confusion evident on his face as he nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “One day, the Chosen of the Light would put an end to the Devoid. Four individuals selected by the spirits and imbued with a fraction of Caeranol’s Light. A talisman held by each would name them: one a Bearer, one a Guardian, one a Warrior, and one a Healer. Together, and only together, could the four rid the world of the Devoid.”

  ~From A Current History of Ictar, as told by Nidic Waq

  Jinn Reintol lifted her eyelids with the slow, lazy motion that comes with a good night’s rest. She took a moment to get her bearings, letting her dreams fade away while reality seeped into her body. Hazy sunlight came into the room from a wide window, its panes covered in lacy, white curtains reminding her of a dress her mother once wore. Paintings hung on the walls depicting the faces of serious men, their features cast in iron rather than oil.