Shattered Destiny

by West, Shay

  Fa’ Vel jumped up so quickly that Jon staggered back a few steps, frightened of the man, though he was shielded and his hands were bound. “Oh, I think you will, my boy. The answer was right here in front of me the whole time.” Fa’ Vel stared hard at Jon's face, studying the shape of his nose, the curve of his forehead.

  “What do you mean?” The question escaped Jon's lips before he could stop it.

  “Believe it or not, I have not always looked like this. Women once threw themselves at me, both common and noble alike. Oh yes, I have sown my share of bastards across the land, of that I am certain. Is it possible….” The man sneered. “Are you adopted by any chance?”

  Jon snarled and curled his hands, ready to unleash his power. “Of course not, you vile filth!” Jon gazed hard at the man and couldn't help but notice the shape of Fa’ Vel's eyes and nose. Could I really be this devil's spawn? Jon shook his head, chiding himself for being ridiculous.

  But the damage had been done, and the seed of doubt had been planted.

  ASTRA

  IT CAN'T POSSIBLY be true.

  Jon couldn't look at the dark magician as the man doubled over in laughter. Jon's anger flared. And with the anger came the lure of the dark magic. He wanted to fill himself with it and burn Fa’ Vel to a crisp.

  “Easy, boy. It is not for us to decide the man's fate. We must….” Brok's words were cut short by a small explosion. When the dust cleared, the dark magician was gone.

  “You let him get away!” Jon shouted.

  “I did nothing of the sort! If you hadn't been acting the fool…” Brok pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he could turn back time. “It doesn't really matter does it? He's gone. Let's focus on what our future holds,” Brok said, rubbing his eyes. He felt twenty years older.

  Jon stalked off, wishing to be as far away from the rest of the group as he could get. His emotions were in turmoil. The idea that this man could be his father was ridiculous, and yet something crept about the edges of his awareness, something dark and secret. Jon closed his eyes and willed the awful feeling to depart his brain. He is not my father.

  Gwen wanted to scream, wanted to follow him, wanted to run away. Her special ability to sense when someone was lying had not alerted her when Fa’ Vel had spoken. He has to be lying. Gwen had known Jon since they were both young. She was certain that if Jon had been adopted, the entire village would have known.

  Any more discussion of Fa’ Vel and his statement was put on hold. There was an argument of sorts occurring near the bodies of their fallen comrades. Neither girl wanted to go anywhere near the dead, but they felt compelled to find out what the fuss was all about.

  “That is not how things are done here! We can't be seen doing something like what you propose.” Brok ran his hands through his hair, creating a snow-white halo around his head.

  “It is the way we honor our dead. If you don't want us to perform the ritual on your fallen, we insist on doing it for Seelyr. It is a sacred rite, one that we don't get to do often enough for our dead,” Feeror said.

  “Surely if anyone asks, we could claim that they are doing an ancient ritual they learned about somewhere. Most of these people have never even seen the Eastern continent,” Saemus said. “What right do we have to deny them treatment of their dead?”

  Brok sighed in defeat. “If you mean to go through with this, do it quickly.”

  “May we also treat your dead in the same fashion?” Feeror looked to the Kromins and Earthmen.

  --Do what you wish. Number 4 said blandly.

  “What do your people normally do with your dead?” Martha asked.

  --They are placed into a holding area that is eventually released so that the contents fall into the liquid surface of the planet.

  Martha put her hands over her mouth. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

  --The corpse is no longer useful. What would you have us do with them?

  “I don't know. But tossing them into a burning lake is awful.”

  --We have nowhere else to keep them.

  “Do you have some sort of service for them? A gathering to remember their life, to reminisce about what they accomplished?”

  --Why would we do that?

  Martha's eyes filled with tears. “So on your world someone dies and is thrown away like garbage, is that about right?”

  --The corpse is no longer useful. When a clone dies, a new one is awakened to take its place. It's very simple.

  Martha turned to speak to Kyron, unwilling to continue contemplating life and death on Kromin. “What exactly will you do? Will you bury them?”

  “The ritual we propose is ancient. We do not bury our dead below ground. All of the soil and dirt would trap their spirits. We burn our dead and sing their praises, songs of their prowess in battle. The smoke from the fires takes their spirits up to the sky, where they reside and watch over the younger generations,” Kyron explained. He had not participated in the burial rituals for quite a long time, and he was eager to lift his voice in song.

  “I suppose that would be alright…” Martha looked to her fellow Chosen, who did not appear to be paying attention to the Volgon's words. They seemed lost and uncertain.

  The Volgons dispersed around the square, picking up what bits of wood they could find. Kyron entered several buildings and came out with armloads of timbers. Brok wanted to stop them, afraid of what the townsfolk would think of such a funerary practice, but he knew how important this was to them and he was fascinated by the change in the warriors. The Volgons’ normal posture was that of a predator, ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Their muscles were taut, their eyes never still. As they gathered wood and placed it around the bodies of the fallen Chosen and Guardian, their demeanor changed. They relaxed, and their eyes were half-closed, as if they were about to lay down for a midday snooze.

  The Volgon Chosen knelt next to the dead, their eyes closed, hands on their knees. The square was eerily silent. Some of the townspeople had returned and stood watching the spectacle before them. Others watched from the safety of their doorways. Brok found himself holding his breath in anticipation.

  Almost too low to hear, the Volgons began chanting, low and guttural. Brok could feel it vibrating his chest, like thunder or the sound of drums. His hair stood on end.

  Slowly, one by one, the other Chosen gathered close, eager to be a part of something the Volgons considered so sacred. They felt honored that these fierce warriors wanted to respect all of the dead.

  Gwen found she could not stop her forward momentum. She felt compelled to kneel between Feeror and Moylir. She forced herself to gaze upon her fallen comrades and wished that fate had allowed her to get to know them better.

  “Would you like to light the wood?”

  Gwen nodded at Moylir's question, feeling nervous. She took a steadying breath and spoke the word of power. A small fireball appeared between her hands. She lowered them slowly, until the fire touched the wood. It caught immediately.

  Gwen stood and made her way around the bodies, carefully lighting the wood in several places. Soon, the blaze was so strong the group had to move away. The Volgons's song grew in intensity, much like the flames now consuming their comrades.

  Thanks to the implantation done by Jon, they could all understand the words to the song. Each Volgon seemed to be chanting something different, as if each were recounting events from their own unique points of view. So many different verses being sung at the same time should have been confusing and awkward, yet they blended together with a strange, primal harmony.

  With Kyron leading, the Volgons now began to move and dance around the bonfire. Gwen emulated their movements as best she could. Her twisted limbs could not perform all of the graceful movements, but she found it did not matter. She lost herself in the heat of the fire, the rhythm of the song, and the flow of the dance.

  The Volgons stopped suddenly, their arms raised, eyes closed, chanting words tumbling from their lips faster and faster. Gwen kept her eyes
open, wanting to absorb everything going on around her.

  She gasped as she saw something moving up with the smoke from the fire. She shook her head, certain that her eyes were playing tricks on her or that she was too caught up in the mood created by the dancing.

  But the ephemeral mist remained. There were five distinct patterns, all different colors, and they ascended from right above each body. The mist did not drift with the smoke. Instead, it moved back and forth as well as slowly drifting upward. Gwen's eyes filled with tears, and she bid a silent farewell to the dead.

  “You saw it didn't you, little one? You saw their spirits departing.” Moylir was covered in sweat, and her long hair hung limp.

  “I think so,” Gwen whispered. She was reeling. Astrans grew up knowing that the souls of the dead ascended to the sky, there to dwell as good Spirits, keeping a watchful eye on the living. And yet, she had never seen anything coming from their freshly dug graves, nor had she ever heard of anyone else seeing their spirits floating into the sky. Her mind whirled with what she had just witnessed.

  Patriarch Mordaen and several of his personal guard exited the castle. He made his way to the group standing near the fire, meeting each of their eyes.

  “I suppose I have you to thank for saving me and my city?”

  Saemus bowed. “Glad we could be of service, your Grace.”

  Mordaen nodded slightly and signaled his men to follow him as he made his way through Faerow. None of the others had spoken during the exchange.

  Saemus was the first to break the silence. “We need a plan. We need to figure out what we are going to do.”

  “We need to find Fa’ Vel and bring him back. The man can't be allowed to roam free!” Keera exclaimed. She did not think she would be able to sleep a wink knowing that the dark magician was out there somewhere, invisible, perhaps watching them.

  “We have no idea where he has gone. Even if we did, it is not our duty to capture him. We must return to Gentra immediately. Events have taken a dire turn. The Masters must be told of this,” Gerok said firmly.

  “We can't just leave! The city is in ruins, and the Patriarch is still captive. Don't you see? People died because of us, because of the stupid prophecy! We have an obligation to stay and help, in whatever way we can.” Kaelin's voice sounded harsh to her own ears. She wanted to remind them all that she had been against leaving from the moment they'd set eyes on the portal. If only we had stayed here, none of this would have happened!

  “This is about more than just your world! Many worlds are in danger,” Gerok fumed.

  “I don't care! I care about the people on this planet, the ones I know and love. How can we go on like we are some sort of heroes, if we leave now while everything is still such a mess? I don't care about the prophecy, I don't care about the Mekans, I don't care about any of it! No, don't…” Kaelin brushed off her brother's attempt to calm her down. “You can all leave if you want. I'm staying. None of us should have left in the first place.”

  “It's not that simple, child.” Brok wanted to make her understand the bigger picture, but he was not sure he had it in him. He had lived on this planet for so long, and he felt torn between his duty as a Guardian and his duty as a Mystic. Which am I?

  “I'm staying too.” Gwen stood next to Kaelin, her heart filling with emotion as the dark-haired beauty gave her a grateful smile. “Kaelin's right. What happened here is our fault, whether we meant for it to happen or not. Too many have died because Fa’ Vel saw us enter the portal. At the very least, we have to rescue the Patriarch. The people have no chance at restoring order without him.”

  “We will stay and help.” Kyron spoke up for all of the Volgon Chosen.

  “As your Guardian, I forbid it! We must return to Gentra at once.” Gerok thundered.

  “We stay. The little one has the right of it. We are strong. We can rescue the leader of this city and help restore order. This world should not be torn by fighting.” Feeror blushed. His feelings were hard to put into words, but the thought of allowing that man to do further damage to this place was more than he could bear. The time here changed him. Instead of being envious of those lucky enough to live in such a peaceful place, he wished to use his skills to ensure that they could always live as such. Feeror longed to return home, to wipe out the Gorkon scum, so that his kind could live above ground and rebuild their once-great cities to their former glory.

  Gerok turned to Brok and Forka. “Can you two try to talk some sense into them?”

  Forka sighed heavily. “I am afraid that we have no choice. If the Chosen wish to stay behind, so must we.” He did not want to admit it to his fellow Guardian, but he felt guilty about what had happened here, even though this was not his world. In a way, it was the actions of the Masters, set in motion so long ago, that had initiated the chain of events leading to the tragedy that had befallen this planet. In trying to prevent the destruction at the hands of the Mekans, they had instead brought on destruction in other ways.

  The failure of the Guardians to protect the Chosen hurt worse than Mirka's death. They had been given a sacred duty, a trust that involved all of the beings that lived in the galaxy, and they had failed. The enormous weight of what their failure meant crushed every shred of hope that he had once harbored that they could complete their mission to stop the Mekans with one Chosen dead. Surely, the death of five Chosen means we are doomed.

  The group decided to stay the night in the city, despite the mostly hostile looks from the returning townsfolk. When the people learned that this group was responsible for ridding them of the oppression of the Tribunal and would stay to help Patriarch Mordaen regain control of the city, they left the Chosen and the Guardians to themselves.

  Brok heard sobbing coming from a darkened doorway of a deserted building. He peered inside. Martha was sitting against the wall with her knees drawn up, blonde hair spilling to the floor. She shook with the force of her crying. Brok walked to her, his own tears falling once more. These deaths touch us all.

  Martha looked up and her blue eyes were full of anguish. “I keep thinking that someone needs to tell Brent's parents. Then I remember that my planet is God knows how far away and I am not there, I am stuck here, and I want to go back home!” Her words ended with a heart-wrenching sob that tore at Brok's heart.

  “Perhaps when we are done here, you can return to Earth.”

  She barked a sharp, mirthless laugh. “After we are done here, we will go to Gentra where the Masters will try to decide what to do with all of us.”

  Brok wanted to comfort the distraught woman but he did not have anything left to give. His own heart was too heavy, too burdened to lighten her load. I am lost. Dear Spirits, help me.

  * * *

  “I am not leaving until I talk to my parents.” Jon Stone had that stubborn, adorable look on his face that Gwen loved so much.

  Or at least she thought she did.

  The girl found herself thinking more and more about Feeror. She remembered how his voice had sounded while they'd danced around the fire. She longed for a form like the the tall, lithe bodies of the Volgon women. They moved with such grace and poise. Feeror's muscles had bunched and pulsed beneath the thin cotton shirt he wore. His skin had glowed in the light of the fire.

  Why am I so confused? Gwen had thought her love for Jon would be never-ending. She had held on to the feeling while they were young, while they had been under Master Brok's tutelage, even when it was obvious that his heart belonged to the beautiful Kaelin Barlow.

  As if he could sense her thoughts, Feeror turned to face Gwen. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw his pupils dilate and his lips curl into a small smile. Her face flushed, and she turned away, uncertain and unnerved by the conflicting emotions. Part of her still wanted the life she had always pictured for herself, with Jon, and the other part wanted to set off on a new adventure with Feeror.

  “We do not have time to return to the mountains, Jon. We must return to Gentra and tell the Masters what has befallen B
rent, Seelyr, Mirka, and the Kromins.” Brok kicked himself for not being able to recall their numbers.

  “So go. I will return to the portal when I am done.” Jon's face was red and his jaw clenched as he tried to hold back the tears. For some reason, the call of the dark magic was strong. He had been fighting it all night. It sounded like a thousand voices whispering in his ears, in his brain, in his heart. The allure was hard to deny. All he wanted was to draw on the dark power and unleash it at…something, everything. Fa’ Vel's words echoed in his mind, no matter what he did to drown them out. The only thing louder than the man's voice was the call of the magic.

  “Jon…” Kaelin began, annoyance plain on her face.

  “Don't ‘Jon’ me! I deserve to know the truth. And only my parents can help.”

  Kaelin crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “You're a selfish—”

  “You just want to argue with anything I say.” Jon lashed out. He was tired of talking. “I'm going to the mountains. Unless you plan on trying to take me to the portal by force.” He glared at Brok, daring him to try.

  “Don't be ridiculous. No one is forcing anyone to do anything.” Gerok snapped. “Whether you like it or not, you all have a duty that is far greater than your own world. I know it is hard to walk away with so many things left unsaid and undone, but you must. Many more lives will be lost if we don't find a way to stop the Mekan threat.”

  “Our duty can wait long enough for me to speak to my parents,” Jon looked to the clone standing nearest to him. “You should be able to contact the Masters from here.”

  --We can contact them.

  The others stood and waited for the clone to make contact. There was nothing in its demeanor to suggest it was doing anything but standing there. The blank expression it always had on its face never faltered.

  --I made contact, but it was difficult to maintain. I believe I got through to him with the message.

  “Maybe you could try again? We have to know for certain that Master Ferrok understands the full importance of what has transpired here.” Forka was worried that perhaps the clone hadn't told him that four Chosen had been killed or that Mirka had also been killed. It was hard to tell if the emotionless clones truly comprehended the gravity of the situation.