by Lakshman, V.
He didn’t wait for Dragor’s acknowledgment, but instead went over to Tarin. Before she said anything he looked to the two guards and said, “Please escort Lady Jesyn into the tent, but keep the two adepts apart.” He said this right in front of her, knowing it would increase any pressure if she had lied to Tarin.
The men carried out his orders, then he led Tarin back into the room so that they stood equidistant between the two adepts. They conferred in low tones, speaking in their dwarven tongue. It was short, ending with Tarin saying, “Ask her.”
Dazra stepped back, thinking. Then he looked over at Jesyn and said, “My doctor saw the face of my brother in Dragor’s memory. Tell me why.”
Dragor began to say something but Dazra held up his hand. “You had your chance, Adept. Now let the girl speak.” He looked down at his arm and tapped a few symbols. In response, a small whorl on Jesyn’s wrist lit up.
She looked down at it and asked, “What does this do?”
Dazra never took his eyes off of Dragor when he said, “It blocks any sort of communication to you. My hope is that you’ll tell me the truth, without any coaching, knowing we’ve treated you fairly and honestly.”
Jesyn looked at Dragor, her expression mirroring her helplessness, then she looked down, thinking. Her companion didn’t say anything, he just sighed and leaned back. Finally the younger adept cleared her throat and said, “Our isle was attacked by a team of six assassins. They were quick and merciless, killing one of our teachers and her class of children before heading for the main halls. Our lore father sensed them and cast an illusion letting them think they were succeeding.
“Dragor and another adept, Master Kisan, each went to face them before they could do more harm. Kisan had changed her form to look like one of them, but could not protect anyone without giving away her subterfuge. In the end, Adept Dragor faced them alone.”
She paused, looking down again, then she sighed and continued, “Our lore father’s illusion feigned Dragor’s death so Kisan could infiltrate them in disguise. He did this though it cost him his own life.”
Then the younger adept looked up and met Dazra’s eyes again and said, “The man Kisan killed was named, Tamlin. We know because she read his memories in order to infiltrate the team. These memories were given to me and Dragor in case we needed them during our search for the assassins’ origin.”
Dazra watched as the she bit her lip, then she offered, “We didn’t know he was your brother, Dazra, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
He considered what Jesyn had just said, then asked, “Did Tamlin remember us, did he remember me?”
The young girl swallowed, then said softly, “I don’t know. The memories transferred by Master Kisan were incomplete, but nothing I’ve seen pointed to your brother remembering this place.”
“What did he remember then?”
“Bits, pieces,” Jesyn replied. “It takes time to assimilate someone’s life and Master Kisan was on the run. It’s a wonder she got anything.”
Dragor breathed in, his eyes calculating. Dazra didn’t like it, or him for that matter. Dragor was still not cooperating, and now brought his ill gaze on Jesyn, as if she’d done something wrong. The man rubbed him wrong, and Dazra had survived this long by listening to his gut.
Surprisingly, it was Dragor who broke the silence, saying, “He remembered something called the ‘Citadel.’ It was a training academy of some sort, though I’ve never heard of it.”
“We call our home that, but it is much more than just a training academy.” Since they could only look at images left by memories, not actually hear or feel what someone felt, he was at a disadvantage. This man could just be regurgitating something he’d heard during their capture, something told to him upon awakening, or just lying to him outright. Dazra would have no way of knowing. Were it not for Jesyn’s sincerity, he would not be favorably inclined to believe their story at all.
“Anything else you’re not telling me, Adept Dragor?” asked Dazra, turning his attention back to the man who had not given him the courtesy of cooperation. It had become a matter of principle now that Dragor offered some reason for trusting him, something more than he’d done thus far.
As if he understood this, the adept leaned forward and said, “Before Lore Father Themun Dreys died, he said the word, ‘Armun.’ Later the new lore father and I found out the name referred to Themun’s brother. In looking through our archives it became clear Armun disappeared here, somewhere near Dawnlight some one hundred and fifty years ago. Our quest is to find him, to see why his name was the last word our lore father uttered.”
Dazra watched the man, unable to tell if he said this in order to made amends, or because he’d sensed how close to being banished he was. Finally, he looked at Tarin and said in dwarven, “What do you think?”
“I believe her,” she replied.
He switched back to the common tradespeech and said, “So do I, for now.” Then, he took a breath and then gestured to the room, commanding them to gather around the table and taking his seat at its head. When they’d all settled he said, “I’ve given Jesyn access to the Citadel, but I’ve decided that you will remain here.”
Dragor sat up, “We need to stay together to accomplish our mission.”
“Perhaps,” said Dazra, “but I can’t risk the safety of our people. You have not treated with me well, Adept. In every turn you chose the path of adversary, and that cannot be undone.”
“I can’t help you on my own,” Jesyn said to Dazra.
“I’ll not gainsay your skill, either of you,” Dazra said, “but in this war you do not tip the scales. Furthermore, I have no idea who this Armun is, I’ve never heard of him. I couldn’t help you find him even if I wanted to.”
“Ahh, but I can,” Dragor said, tapping his head. “The assassin’s memories are becoming clearer to me, and I can lead us to where Armun is being held.”
“You see this place?” Dazra said with a scoff. “Convenient, now that we do not wish to burden ourselves with your care.”
“You misunderstand,” said Dragor. “I have seen where these assassins are holding many people. Some may be yours. As more time passes, I can lead us there.”
Dazra was quiet, considering this. Then he said, “And having seen this place, you still doubt us? You wonder still if you’re prisoner of these assassins?”
The adept looked down, his expression vaguely ashamed. “We got off on the wrong step with each other, and I would offer my apologies.”
Dazra got up and walked slowly forward until he stood directly in front of the adept. He looked down at him and said, “I don’t trust your heart—” he held out his hand, asking for Dragor’s own—“but I can’t dismiss an opportunity to find our people.”
The dwarven leader did not ignite fire, nor did he infuse Dragor with entats the way he had with Jesyn. Instead, he asked for Jesyn’s hand as well and placed the two together. Then he traced a symbol that fell like black ink, a concentric circle that began on Dragor’s hand but ended on Jesyn’s. When he’d finished he stepped back and said, “I’ve aligned your perception with ours. So long as you stay near someone with an entat, you may phase with us into our realm. However, should you wander away or I feel you risk the safety of my people, you will be sent back here immediately.”
“Here?” asked Dragor, clearly confused.
Tarin stepped forward then and smiled, laying a gentle hand on Dazra’s own. She met Dragor’s gaze and said, “There are places in the multiverse that overlap, where the walls between worlds are thin. Dawnlight is one such place. It exists here in Edyn, and also in Arcadia, and perhaps a thousand other worlds. Our Citadel lies within a third place, the Dawnlight in phase, a place protected from attack because it exists in between realms.”
“So long as you stand near one of us,” said Dazra, “you may exist in phase.”
“And if I disappoint anyone, you kick me out,” finished Dragor.
“Verily,” said Dazra, “is it not good to hav
e such clarity between us, Adept? It helps to avoid… misunderstandings.”
Jesyn moved forward then and said, “Well, if this is settled let’s plan our mission. Finding Armun is the only reason we’re out here.”
Dragor nodded, gesturing for the group to follow him to a table where they could outline a possible plan.
In one corner of the tent a small shimmering of air detached itself from the shadows and went past the unseeing guards, melting into the forest surrounding the camp, its purpose and identity unknown.
Complications
Those who mourn learn the tree of life
is not the tree of knowledge.
- Toorval Singh, Memoirs of a Mercenary
Giridian looked down at the body, cold now in death, laid upon the stone slab and surrounded by candles. It was held here as custom until the funeral rites could be performed. The lore father had begun to hate the beach and the sound of the ocean. His eyes were red from tears shed for Tomas, hurried and rushed to his death. He’d not been ready, something the lore father in hindsight could see clearly now. He’d let Thoth cajole and push him, and the boy had paid the ultimate price.
“He won’t be the first if you stop training them,” said a voice, the sound echoing hollowly through the Memoriam chamber.
Giridian swallowed, then said, “Get out.”
“I won’t,” replied Thoth. “You act as though only you lost someone. If you could see how it is on the other side—”
“Get out!” shouted Giridian, wheeling on the Keeper. Rage at Tomas’s death consumed him, but his own part in it ate away at any righteous anger. Slowly it diminished and Giridian felt drained… exhausted.
Thoth waited until the lore father calmed down, then said, “I mourn with you. Tomas was a good boy.”
Giridian sighed. Finally, he raised his eyes and looked at the Keeper and asked, “The Phoenix Stone… any more information?”
Thoth nodded, gesturing to the exit. They walked together in silence, ascending the stairs from the underground crypt. The opening at the top was delineated by a blinding square of white light. Giridian moved through it, exiting into sunshine.
Thoth was there, waiting for him. Giridian didn’t bother to look back down the stairs, the fact that the Keeper could instantaneously move from place to place no longer a surprise. Also of no surprise was the frozen time into which he walked, and he knew this conversation was happening only in his mind.
He sat down on a bench near where the Keeper stood, clasping his hands in front of him.
Thoth gestured and a map of the world appeared shimmering in the air. It moved, sunlight sparkling off of small waves, forests gently swaying as if pushed by an unseen breeze. Giridian couldn’t help but smile, his appreciation for knowledge and lore of any type giving him a welcome distraction from Tomas’s fate.
“What do you see when you look here?” asked Thoth, pointing to the Shattered Sea.
Giridian shrugged and said half-heartedly, “Islands in a circle.”
Thoth nodded patiently. “Be open to me for this small bit of instruction.” He pointed to the circular sea and said, “This is where a very large object impacted your world, many eons ago. It blasted the land here into this shape.”
Giridian shrugged absentmindedly. “Falling stars, we see them now and again.”
Thoth agreed but corrected, “This object was the Phoenix Stone. Now it lies deep beneath the Shattered Sea.”
The lore father took a deep breath. “And we must recover it somehow from beneath the waves?”
Thoth shook his head. “No… thankfully.” He smiled. “There is something called the Heart of the Phoenix. If we can recover it, your staff and the Heart can summon the Phoenix Stone, causing it to rise from the depths.”
“Now it’s problems within problems. I take it we need to find the Heart of the Phoenix?”
“Ahh, Lore Father, in this we are most fortunate. There is someone who may know what the Heart of the Phoenix is.”
The lore father met the Keeper’s gaze, his agile mind catching the word. “You said, ‘what,’ not ‘where.’ ”
“I did. We do not know exactly what the Heart is, only that it was lost long ago when the Phoenix Stone fell on Edyn.”
“Who, then, might know what this Heart is?”
Thoth looked uncomfortable before answering, “Lore Father Duncan Illrys, from the Demon Wars.”
Giridian’s eyes widened at that and he said, “Dragor and I tried to find his memories, but they were missing. He’s alive?”
“There is a bit of news we withheld from you, because it did not at the time seem important.” Thoth paused, then said, “Your masters faced a red mage called Scythe.”
“According to Kisan he leads the barbarian forces against Bara’cor,” Giridian said. “He may also be responsible for the destruction of the other fortresses of the Altan Wastes.”
“Yes,” the Keeper said uncomfortably. “Duncan Illrys is the red mage you know as Scythe, the same one Silbane and Kisan encountered. Even now he journeys through Arcadia to rescue his family.”
“What?” Giridian exclaimed. “And you felt this was not important?”
“We thought he died in the explosion that swept away the nomad army. It was not until he was reported in Arcadia that we realized he’d escaped.”
The lore father couldn’t help but pause at that, assimilating this new information. How could Duncan be alive, and what family did he have? He looked at the Keeper askance.
Thoth nodded and said, “I understand your confusion, and there is much to tell. Let me start with this: Duncan and Sonya are Arek’s true parents.”
The lore father couldn’t help but start laughing, his head slowly dropping into his hands. At the quizzical look he got from Thoth, Giridian explained, “You withhold information that might have changed the priorities for my masters. You compound that with misinformation about Arek. How can I fight this war with counsel such as yours? I sent Kisan to kill Arek on your orders. How likely is it that Duncan will help us once that deed is done?”
“Worry not,” said Thoth reassuringly, “I can find them in Arcadia and deliver a message. All hope is not lost.”
“You’ll understand that my faith in your competence is waning, Keeper. With strategy like this, it’s no wonder you’ve been fighting Sovereign for so long.” He stared at Thoth until the older man looked away, his discomfort plain to see. “You can send a message to my masters. Can you do more?”
“More?” inquired the Keeper.
“Can you transport us into Arcadia? Can you return them to me?”
The Keeper shook his head. “You forget that I’m not ‘here’ in Edyn, Lore Father. I am a construct, a mental image cast from Arcadia itself. I no more exist here than any other Aeris, not without a body, and Lilyth has absolute control of the gate.”
“But in Arcadia you’re real?”
“If by ‘real’ you mean I can be hurt or killed, yes,” the Keeper replied softly. “Though the death of a Keeper is tantamount to the death of knowledge. No Aeris would dare that, so worry not for me.”
“I have two masters in Arcadia and two adepts near Dawnlight,” Giridian said with frustration in his voice. “My most senior student lies broken and dead. What would you have me do?”
“Have patience, Lore Father. We will find the Heart and use it to raise the Phoenix Stone from its watery grave.”
“Just in time for me to die upon it,” he muttered, but he gave the Keeper a half smile. “Do not worry, I will die a thousand times if it would save this world.”
Thoth looked down, not saying anything. His demeanor seemed almost respectful, and when he finally did speak, it concerned Arek. “I can protect the boy within Arcadia, but when he emerges here, he must die.”
“And how will we do that and convince Duncan to help us?”
Thoth breathed in and then let it out with an explosive sigh. “I never said this would be easy, Lore Father.”
Giridian no
dded, his head resting back in his hands. “No, but I never expected it to be quite so hard.”
The Galadine Way
Against an opponent do such overwhelming harm
that his vengeance need never be feared.
- Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades
Duncan awoke to an intense stabbing pain in his shoulders and wrists that pierced his muscles and felt like it split bone. Cracking open one eye, he saw that he was hanging from vines supported by what looked to be two entwined wood posts. Something was wrong with his other eye because he could not open it. He slowly brought his feet under him and stood shakily, his head swimming with vertigo. The vines tightened on his wrists, alive in some way. They were too short for him to sit, so he slowly tried to bring his arms down. Judging from the pain that flooded through his chest, he’d been hanging there for some time. He took a shallow breath and his eyes involuntarily squeezed shut from a new type of agony as his lungs expanded from near asphyxiation. He was quite sure had he not awakened, he would have been left there to die.
He opened his eyes again, and saw his arms were still not completely down. He’d hung for so long they felt as if they were at his sides, but in fact stood out in a cone shape that would have been funny if it didn’t hurt so much. He focused, bearing the pain as he slowly finished bringing his hands down in front of him. The movement was excruciating and slow, his labored breath coming out in short gasps.
When he finally could look around, he realized he was standing in an open area. For some reason he’d assumed he was in a cell, but taking stock of his surroundings he was in fact in an audience room of some sort made out of a smooth, polished wood. A small upraised bowl in the center, also made of wood, grew seamlessly from the ground. In fact, everything seemed to be made of wood. Behind the bowl came another shock.
Crucified on the wall opposite him was the mummified body of a man. It hung there, its flesh desiccated and ancient. The arms were entwined on a wooden circle, much like the iron one he’d held Rai’stahn to, and that memory did not bring him comfort. The dead body stood with arms outstretched like an idol giving benediction to the still waters beneath. Something in Tulien’s memory, something he absorbed earlier tickled Duncan’s thoughts, but nothing he could use surfaced.
