“Remember your vow.”
Matthias snarled at the Inquisitor in his grasp, then set the man down, crossing his arms as he glared down at him. “Why did you and your lackeys see fit to burn this man?”
“He is a heretic spreading Qingrenese and pagan lies,” the Inquisitor whimpered. “You—you face the wrath of King Cyril, the Creator, and his Prophet for obstructing justice!” He tried to gather the remnants of his pride, but Matthias’ presence robbed him of even that.
The warrior stooped down, dragging the Inquisitor close as he grabbed the hem of his robes. “Leave. You are never to harm a man for the books he keeps ever again. You call the Altani savages, but they know better than to kill people for what they choose to read. Go crawling back to Braya; tell her the Prophet has returned, and he stands against everything the Inquisitors are.”
The man pulled out of Matthias’ grasp and scrambled away as the Inquisitors once again were turned back by Stefan’s new following. They were met with the stony glares of the people of Greenhill as they marched out.
“Our hero!” The innkeeper’s wife fell to her knees before Matthias, clasping his hand. Her eyes were red from crying, and her face haggard. She looked over to her husband who she had been tending to; he was coughing violently from the smoke, but he would live. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are. We have heard of you, Matthias, son of Stefan. Please, what does the Prophet have to say? What are his commands? Despite the Inquisitors, we are faithful.”
Matthias looked out at the crowd again. Even the priest had joined, bowing his head out of shame. He felt Stefan’s fur brush up beside him.
“You disobeyed me, Matthias.”
The warrior looked down, exchanging looks with his father.
“You made the right choice.” Stefan looked over to the innkeeper. “Taking a stand against the Inquisitors was not as premature as I thought. You have done well.”
Matthias grinned slightly. Derogynes and Magnus began saved what books they could, while Irene extinguished the fire. The villagers still gathered around Matthias expectantly, and he felt Floriana’s hand gently wrap around his. She smiled up at him, and the warrior felt ready to address the crowd as Stefan gently nudged him, but said nothing. Matthias would speak for himself.
“I was not always called Matthias. Once, I was Hakon, a warrior for the Altani. If you would learn anything from me or the Prophet, learn that we will depart this life not with gold, glory, nor our lands and titles, but with how we treat everyone, from our loved ones to the lowliest stranger. Treat all with honor and kindness, and your God, if he is as he claims, will be glad.”
Chapter 17
The Prophet Returns
“Rise, Wolfborn,” a powerful voice commanded.
The warrior opened his eyes, and instead of his tent, he was once again in the endless fields of Dranasyl. Before him in all her golden splendor was Abarrane, her great wings spreading out and dimming the stars.
“Your father would speak with you.”
The warrior gingerly stood, but found he had no burns on his skin. Composing himself, he trailed after the dryad. “Where did you get your prophecy, the one concerning my father?” he asked, lost in the swirling cosmos of Dranasyl’s night sky above him.
“Each dryad has a prophecy. One that they have always known in their hearts. It is these prophecies that guide history, and the fates of all races. Together, they will tell the great story of creation, written by that which made us,” Abarrane explained.
“The Creator?” Matthias clarified.
“That is what you call it.”
Matthias saw flowers bloom wherever Abarrane walked, as if eager to drink in summer sunlight. They arrived at a garden, lush and filled with plants Matthias had never seen before. Trees were artfully trimmed, blooming with white and red flowers where leaves should be, or festooned with long, verdant vines that floated on the waters of a calm pond. Strange, wonderful blooms that glowed in the moonlight surrounded him, and he spotted his father under a pavilion with slender wooden columns, supporting a sloping tiled roof.
Stefan stared into the water, and smiled warmly when his son drew near. “Come,” he called. “Join me.”
“Where are we?” Matthias asked.
Stefan gestured out to the garden. “We stand in the tea garden of Sage Lord Zhen Yuanxiu, elder brother to your mother’s father, Lord Zhen Shouyi. It was here I first met your mother. Qingren was our prison for thirteen hundred years, but it was a land of great and ancient beauty.”
Matthias leaned on the ornate railing of the pavilion; gently, as it did not seem to be made for someone of his bulk. “You sound like you miss it.”
“It wasn’t long ago Fosporia was the alien land to most of our people. Even in a prison, the familiar becomes comfortable,” Stefan smiled sadly. “The strange and new is met with fear and doubt; much like my teachings. My brothers and sisters were in no mood to hear about faith, freedom, compassion, honor, or wisdom when the lash was still fresh on their backs. But not Magnus. Nor your mother. Nor Cyril, for that matter.”
“Cyril has chosen his side,” Matthias said brusquely.
“Indeed,” Stefan sighed, absent-mindedly tugging on a slender vine wrapped around one of the pavilion’s columns. “I was a slave to Hegemon Taizong. His pet. Clever little Stefan, look at the tricks he can do.” The Prophet made a face. “When my master was a guest in the Sage Lord’s palace, I met your mother. Even before I began my ministry, she talked to me as if I were her equal. At first, I was wary, certain it was a cruel joke high-born ladies would play on a human slave. But she was curious about me, and we parted friends. She recognized me years later, and stood beside me ever since. She led a small group of Qingrenese nobles that were opposed to slavery.”
Stefan smiled sadly. “She always knew the right thing to do. Perhaps she would have made a better Prophet, if she didn’t lack the proper father figure,” he gestured up to the heavens.
“We talk little about my mother,” the warrior commented, hanging on his father’s words.
“Oh, she was beautiful beyond words…” Stefan pointed his wand at the water, and ripples raced across the surface. Matthias’ reflection was washed away, and in its place was a tall, slender woman, with skin like marble and long, pointed ears. Her copper hair, the same as her son’s, was made into an elaborate bun, and she wore a long flowing gown of silk. Her smile dimpled her cheeks, and almond shaped eyes like opals looked back at Matthias.
“She would have loved you.”
Matthias felt a pang of sadness building up inside of him as he stared at his mother’s reflection, but buried it for his father’s sake. “You think so?”
“Of course, my son,” the Prophet smiled. “Come, walk with me. We have much to discuss.”
The garden melted away, giving rise to more lush and untamed greenery. The sun hung low, casting orange and red light over a canopy of towering, deep green trees thicker than any Matthias had ever seen, and the air hung hot and humid on the warrior.
“Southern Altun,” Stefan explained. “Where I first encountered Creideam.”
Matthias locked eyes with the great white wolf, watching them from the shade of the giant trees around them. He nodded in acknowledgment before turning back to his father. “Is everything alright?”
The Prophet gave his son a grin that never quite reached his eyes. “Of course, Matthias. We have a lot to talk about… such as your magic.”
“I’ve never shown any talent for it, not like Alfred has,” the warrior replied.
“That’s where you’re wrong. My son, you may never control the energies of life around you as mages do, or bring the elements to heel, but your magical ability was apparent at birth. Had I raised you, things would have been different.” Stefan shook his head. “But the Creator saw a different path. You will never cast a spell, but that massive power manifested itself in other ways. Look at your strong arms, your broad back. Have you ever wondered why you are bigger than any man?”
“I thought it a blessing from the gods,” Matthias mumbled.
“In a sense. It’s likely,” Stefan conceded. “But it is because all that raw energy and power needed to manifest itself somehow. If nothing else, you developed a great fortitude to withstand it.”
Matthias looked down at the body he had taken such pride in. After what Irene had taught him about what happened to mages without wands, he felt blessed it had resulted in his great strength and nothing else. “Why are you telling me all this?”
The exotic forest vanished, and Matthias found himself in far more familiar climes. The trees were oak and evergreen, and a brook babbled in the distance. They had come to the hunting ground of the Bybic lands, and here, Stefan had stopped walking.
“Our time is limited, my son, as are all men’s.”
Matthias frowned. “Neither of us is sick. We still have many years ahead of us. And any who would threaten us will be met with iron.”
Stefan knelt by the stream. “No one can escape death or alter the time it comes for them. It is not an enemy to be beaten or a tyrant to be feared; but fate to be embraced.”
“Father, you speak as if you’re halfway into your grave. What’s the matter?”
Stefan looked back to Matthias. “We are a day from Stefanurbem, and there, we must face the plan the Creator has laid out for us all.” There was a long, sober pause. “There, you will break your vow to me, my son.”
Matthias frowned. “What?”
“Your vow to not raise your sword in anger; you will betray this vow.”
The warrior’s face belied his hurt. “You do not have faith in me?”
Stefan placed a hand on Matthias’ shoulder and squeezed. “I do. But it does not change what will be.”
“I made a vow,” Matthias declared angrily. “I don’t break vows.”
The Prophet observed his son with a studious eye. “You have learned much in our time together. I was so proud of you at Greenhill.”
“It was uncomfortable to speak without you guiding me,” Matthias rumbled.
Stefan laughed. “You should have seen me when I first started. I spent five years on pilgrimage, following Creideam and the other dryads and speaking with the Creator, isolated in desolate ruins and wild forests. When I spoke with real people again, I made such an ass of myself, I had to heal a blind man to keep them from running me out of town.”
Matthias grinned. “What is the Creator like?”
The Prophet looked his son over. “There were other Prophets before me. Jaeder was the first, living thousands of years ago. He was a shepherd, and one day, the Creator called to him, bidding to meet him at the top of a mountain, and there he would reveal the secrets of creation. Jaeder walked to the peak of a mountain and waited. In the valley below, he watched a great fire sweep through, burning all in its path, but the Creator was not in the fire. Then, a terrible earthquake threw Jaeder to his feet, and threatened to tear down the mountain, but the Creator was not in the earthquake. Finally, a great storm rolled over, with thunder so loud, it split the heavens. But the Creator was not in the storm. When all had passed and peace returned, a gentle breeze whispered in Jaeder’s ear, and he knew it to be the Creator.”
He grinned at Matthias’ furrowed brow. “My experience was much the same. I found the Creator after I escaped slavery. To save a fellow slave, I had killed a retainer of Hegemon Taizong’s court. I ran for days, and when at last I could rest, I found a fire, small, and cool enough to touch, but bright as the sun. There, I heard the voice of God, silent as a whisper, and yet commanding as thunder.”
Matthias thought back to the Altani invocation rituals. There was shock and awe invoking their name, rituals to be obeyed, and terror for those that displeased the gods. “How do I speak to him, then?”
“You have already, my son,” Stefan grinned. “He knows you. He has heard every word you have spoken, as he has with all that has been and will be.”
The warrior scoffed. “He has never had anything to say in return.”
“Perhaps you have not been listening.”
Matthias turned to reply, but found himself at a loss. Stefan bade him to sit beside him near the stream, and together, father and son watched the water flow in silence. “I like to think the Creator works through the good and the righteous. Through serving others, we are venerating his creation. Every time we act with honor, compassion, or wisdom, his power is made manifest.”
“Then, he is nothing more than a metaphor, is he? A symbol, a story for selfless actions.” At that moment, Matthias shook his head; the world around him was suddenly blurry and filled with blinding light.
Over his sudden blindness, he heard his father chuckle. “Sometimes, my son, symbols and stories are the most real things in the world.”
Matthias opened his eyes, and morning had come again. He looked to the white wolf curled at his feet, and grunted as he forced himself to stand, the burns along his body crying out in protest. From the sounds of it, they had a visitor.
A messenger wearing Cyril’s white and black tabard had come under a flag of truce. Magnus and Derogynes had met him, but Matthias pushed himself to the front. “What is a dog of Cyril doing here?”
The messenger balked at the sight of Matthias. Even on horseback, he was practically eye-level with the giant man. “A summons from the king,” he presented Matthias with a scroll. “You are commanded to appear at Faircliff Castle, so the king may welcome his sister and daughter home.”
“And the rest of us?” Matthias demanded.
“It’s covered in the summons,” the messenger noted brusquely before turning his steed around and traveling back on the road.
The warrior snarled, pushing the scroll into Magnus’ hand. The short man frowned as he looked it over. “What are we to do about this?”
Hierophant Ferrin stepped forward, peering over Magnus’ shoulder. “We’re an august company. The princess, the king’s own sister, two Hierophants, the ambassador of a powerful country, and the Prophet’s own son. Cyril wouldn’t dare touch us.”
Derogynes stroked his mane, nodding. “Soldiers await me in Faircliff. If they got word I or anyone under my protection was harmed by Cyril, it would mean war. If it comes to it, I’ll place you all under diplomatic protection.”
“You think a piece of paper will keep us safe from that treacherous snake?” Matthias demanded.
“My brother is many things,” Irene said, “but he is meticulous when it comes to appearances. He knows he would doom himself by lashing out at us. We came all this way to speak with him; let us do it.”
Floriana remained silent, staring at the icy ground. Matthias nudged her.
“Well? What do you say?”
The Princess shook her head. “My father wouldn’t go so far as to harm you on such a public meeting. We will be safe.”
Matthias squared his shoulders. “Then we march for Faircliff Castle.”
By midday, the Prophet’s following had made it to Stefanurbem. The city was blanketed in snow, but towering above it was Faircliff’s pristine walls nearly as white as the snow around it. Matthias looked at it with grudging respect; it was a well built fortress. But the warrior gaped in awe at what lay beyond the castle on the horizon.
“Matthias?” Magnus asked. “Are you alright?”
“I…” the warrior shook his head. “I have never seen the ocean before. I’ve never seen so much water, stretching beyond the horizon…” The seemingly endless waters of the Altadarios were calm this day, a gently rolling expanse of dark blue and gray washing against the cliffs the castle and city were perched on.
Magnus grinned. “Beautiful, no? Fosporians are growing an affinity to the sea; it carried us to freedom, after all.” He looked up at the warrior. “Matthias? I would like to give you a small gift. A token of our time together. May I see your shield and sword?”
The warrior arched his brow. “What for?”
“A little insurance, in case Cyril is more unstable than w
e think he is.”
The warrior handed off his bronze weapons to the Fosporian, who was dwarfed by the shield alone, grunting under the weight. Setting the sword down and hefting the shield, he turned it around and studied its face, the faded lion roaring back at him. “You never chose a new sigil?”
“I haven’t had time, Magnus,” Matthias shot back, folding his arms.
The Fosporian continued. “These markings all along the edge; they’re runes. Signs of an old enchantment. Enchantments fade over time, but, one of those Qingren books we saved in Greenhill just happened to have an interesting thing or two to say about them. So…” Magnus set the shield down on the snowy ground, and pointed his wand at it. “Awaken.”
It was subtle, but the runes around the shield glowed, as a small, opalescent aura shimmered across the metal. Matthias’ eyes widened as he watched the little mage work. Pointing his wand at the bronze sword, Magnus willed the enchantments back to life, and the blade ignited in flame, causing Matthias to jump back in shock.
Satisfied, Magnus nodded. “There. It is finished.”
Matthias gripped the sword hilt and raised it up to the sun, flames still dancing down the blade. “Incredible…” he lifted the shield in the other hand. “Ha,” he grinned, hefting it. “It’s light as a feather.”
“There are more enchantments I can’t quite place, so be careful. There’s no telling what they’ll do. I believe whoever owned this in the past must have paid a small fortune,” Magnus wondered aloud.
The warrior clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Thank you. I look forward to my next fight.” He smirked. “Don’t tell anyone, but maybe I’m a little jealous of you mages after all.”
“I will take it to the grave,” Magnus said solemnly. “But still. Be on guard in Faircliff. I don’t want Cyril to have the upper hand if something goes wrong.”
“Will it?”
The short Fosporian thinned his lips. “There’s only one way to find out.”
The disciples and their followers came to the gates of Faircliff. Its stark white walls were lined with Cyril’s black sun banners, and soldiers in new white tabards and shimmering chainmail manned the parapets, looming over the approaching party. All of them, Matthias felt, cast suspicious eyes upon him.
Ages Unending_Dusk Into Dawn Page 19
