Ages Unending_Dusk Into Dawn

by William Fewox

  Around the gates however, there was a crowd of the common people that bowed and clasped their hands in prayer when they saw Matthias and the wolf. “Vivam Paralas!” they cried, reaching out to touch the wolf’s fur or the hem of Matthias’ shirt. “Calaed Divinam! Calaed Prognem!”

  “What are they saying?” Matthias muttered as the crowd surrounded them.

  “They are singing our praises; long live the Virtues, praise the prophet, and praise the son.”

  Matthias frowned, pulling his arm away as more called out for him. “I’ve been in battles less chaotic.”

  “You will grow accustomed to it, my son.”

  The crowd was growing more and more animated as they surged around the disciples. “Princess Floriana!” they cried, “Plead your father to show mercy!”

  “Hierophant Magnus! Lady Irene!” others shouted. “Thank the Creator you live!”

  “Peace!” called a guard at the gate, slamming his spear against the frozen ground. “Disperse, brothers and sisters, by order of the king!”

  “The king is no brother of mine!” a large man from the crowd shouted. “He imprisoned my wife for doubting the Creator! When did asking questions become a crime?”

  “My son was taken for carrying an Altani weapon! He was a soldier, he won it from a warrior in battle!” a desperate woman cried. “Why does the king punish those who fight for his realm?”

  Derogynes frowned, stroking his beard. “They’re angry. One little thing could set them off.”

  “My son, speak to them, now. They will grow riotous.”

  “Maybe they should,” Matthias muttered back.

  “Think, boy! They have no weapons, and Cyril has armed guards and mages. They’ll be slaughtered!”

  The warrior bowed his shoulders and sighed. He raised up his arms, and bellowed to the crowd. “Quiet!”

  A profound silence followed. “I am Matthias, son of Stefan, and I only ask one thing; leave now in peace. The time for fighting has not yet come.” He glared up at the king’s guards. “We come as the king’s guests. If we do not come out of these gates whole and well, then you will know who to blame. But for now, we go to talk, and nothing more.”

  The crowd muttered their discontent, but slowly trickled back towards Stefanurbem without incident. The guard at Matthias’ side breathed a sigh of relief, then shouted orders for Faircliff’s gates to be opened. The disciples and their following began to stream in, but the guards blocked their path.

  “Only these five and the wolf may enter,” the guard gestured to the disciples.

  “This is ridiculous,” Ferrin shouted from his horse. “I am a Hierophant of the King’s Council!”

  “King’s orders, Blessed One.”

  Floriana turned back to Ferrin. “Keep your people calm, my lord. We will return soon.”

  The Hierophant locked eyes with Floriana and nodded curtly. The five disciples looked up at the keep, and Matthias’ hand was already wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

  “Stay your blade, my son. Remember your vows.”

  Matthias glared at Stefan, then relented. Guards led them into the keep, past whispering courtiers and the intense gaze of Inquisitors, into the great hall.

  Cyril looked worse for wear. His skin was pale, there were bags under his eyes, and his black and gray hair, usually so well kept, was haggard. Still, he stood tall, pausing to adjust the crown on his head. When he approached them, Matthias immediately stood in his way.

  “Is a father and brother not allowed to greet his family?” the king said softly.

  The warrior glared down at him, then stepped aside. Cyril turned first to Floriana, grinning and opening his arms wide. “My dearest child.”

  Floriana hesitated, and Cyril seemed hurt. “Will you not embrace your father?”

  The princess exchanged looks with Irene and Matthias before approaching her father, and nervously wrapping her arms around him. “It is good to be home, Father.”

  “Of course it is,” the king whispered, planting a kiss on her forehead. “And my dear sister. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

  Irene’s face flickered with annoyance. “I do not care for politics, Cyril. You decided to bathe in it. I chose a simpler path.”

  “As you are free to do, sister.” The king turned his gaze to Magnus. “And my dear friend returned from the wilds.” Cyril tousled the shorter man’s curly hair. “I hope you did not come into any trouble when you disappeared.”

  Magnus scoffed, pushing Cyril’s hand away. He said nothing, content to glare at Cyril in silence.

  Cyril smiled mirthlessly and turned to Derogynes. “Ambassador. It is good to see you well. Captain Sanidus will be relieved.”

  “I wish I could say the same for you, friend,” the Andrathi looked the king up and down. “You look like you’ve not slept.”

  “I haven’t,” came the blunt reply. And at last, the golden eyes of Fosporia’s king fell upon Matthias. “Ah… the supposed son of our Prophet.”

  The warrior glowered, crossing his arms. “I am Stefan’s son.”

  “Is that so?” Cyril looked at the hulking man and sneered. He turned to his guards. “Leave us.”

  The guards exchanged glances. “But, my King—”

  The King shot them a deadly look. “Are you questioning your divinely appointed King?”

  The guards were silent, then saluted before leaving the room, the doors shut behind them.

  Cyril produced a scroll, and presented it to Matthias. “A gesture of my good faith.”

  The warrior looked down at the paper, and furrowed his brow. “It…” He grunted in frustration. “Do not hide behind pieces of paper. Say what you will.”

  The king looked Matthias over, and smiled with realization. “You can’t read, can you?” He burst into laughter as the hulking man before him glared him. “It's a declaration telling all my intent not to harm you. All this time, I’ve been worried about a radical, a demagogue—and you can’t even spell your own name.” He gave Matthias a mocking clap. “Brilliant. Wonderful. You overgrown mongrel, you savage brute, you are nothing more than a puppet, aren’t you? One in a long line for the puppeteer.”

  Matthias’ face twisted with an angry humiliation; he clenched his fists as Cyril spoke, but held his tongue.

  “If you have called us to mock us, Cyril, then we will leave,” Magnus said, in a dark tone nobody expected from him. “If you will remember, there was a time that none of us knew our letters, either.”

  The king seemed to ignore Magnus. “What is your plan, then? What grand scheme have you cooked up for vengeance?”

  Matthias glowered. “I have taken a vow to—”

  “Not you.” Cyril attempted to push Matthias aside, but the warrior wouldn’t budge. Sneering, the king stepped around him, and came face to face, at last, with Stefan. The two were silent, but soon, the king shook his head. “This will not do, Teacher,” Cyril said softly, with a strange look on his face. He withdrew his wand. “I would hear your voice again.”

  Matthias immediately reached for his sword, but Irene placed her hand on his, stopping him in his tracks. The disciples watched with rapt attention as swirls of magical energy enveloped the white wolf, and with a flash of light, Stefan, human once more, stood in the wolf’s place.

  All reacted in their own ways. Derogynes stood still, his eyes wide and mouth agape, robbed of words for one of those rare moments in his life. Magnus fell to his knees, kissing the hem of Stefan’s robes. Floriana looked from Stefan to her father, and violently shook her head, her fears finally confirmed.

  Irene, however, was furious. “You snake!” she cried, striking her brother across the face. “You tricked me! ‘We’re only looking for something to help the Prophet, sister, he’s so distraught with his son missing!’”

  Cyril was rubbing his cheek from the blow, when Irene pressed the end of her staff at his chest. “I trusted you! I was in such despair when the Prophet disappeared! I thought I had failed him, my t
eacher, my savior, my liberator, and I did!” Hot, angry tears streamed down Irene’s face, and her voice was wracked with sobs. “Do you know how long I’ve prayed for forgiveness? For failing Suyi, Stefan, and their only son, and now I find my failure was so much worse than I could have possibly imagined!”

  “Irene,” Stefan placed his hand on her shoulder. “Be at peace. You are not to blame.”

  The mage trembled in her fury, but she let go of her brother, and threw her arms around Stefan. Collecting herself, she knelt beside Magnus, and clasped her hands in prayer.

  Stefan leveled his gaze at Cyril. “Brother, you look unwell.”

  He sneered at the Prophet. “Don’t hide behind this aura of false sympathy and modesty. I know what you’re really thinking. You want me punished, for what I’ve done. You want vengeance.”

  “I can hardly blame him,” Derogynes said emphatically.

  “Cyril,” Stefan reached out, resting his hands on his old disciple’s shoulders. “I don’t want revenge. I forgave Hegemon Taizong, and I forgive you, too.”

  The king shook his head. “You don’t know all I’ve done, Stefan.”

  “I do. You were angry, scared, and envious, but that is the past. We do not dwell in it, as the Creator guides us ever forward.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Cyril sneered, pushing Stefan away. “I lived with what I did for twenty years. Twenty years, the Creator was silent. Twenty years, he judged me. I did what I had to; you were going to ruin us with kindness! The Altani raided our farms and crippled our expansion, and you wanted to let in more half-starved former slaves that didn’t know a sword from the blade to the hilt!”

  “We had a duty, Cyril. We could not leave our brothers and sisters languishing in bondage,” Stefan replied.

  Cyril cried out in frustration, gesturing wildly. “You wouldn’t listen! You ignored my counsel, and for what? For Suyi? You replaced me. You abandoned me—you were going to send me away, I saw the papers!”

  “You were acting out of fear and envy; you needed time to clear your head. I wanted you to travel south and preach to the tribes, there.” Stefan smiled fondly. “You’re good at that.”

  The king scoffed. “Don’t lie! I know what you thought of me. I heard how you spoke of your prophesied traitor. The words are seared in my mind. You said I would be the source of man’s misery and anguish. Every suffering man would curse my name with their last breath. Is that not what you said, when you thought I wasn’t listening?” Cyril demanded.

  Stefan didn’t answer, and only stared sadly at his former disciple.

  “Your prophecy branded me, the one who loved you most, a traitor. I saw how you looked at me when you told me, how you treated me! Everything changed, and you pushed me away on mere suspicion!” Cyril’s voice had cracked, and tears stood in his eyes.

  He paused to compose himself. “Look at you—twenty years spent as a wild animal, and you’re still so pious. So merciful. So composed. And just how patient and forgiving are you when I tell you that I poisoned your precious, ghost-faced, knife-eared lover, so that she and that savage beast you call a son would die with her in the womb?”

  “What?” Matthias roared. He shoved everyone out of the way, fists clenched around Cyril’s neck as he slammed the King down against the ground. The warrior’s face was twisted in pure rage as he bellowed in his victim’s face. “You killed my mother? I’ll tear you apart!”

  “Matthias!”

  A wave of magic hit the huge man like a blast of winter air. The warrior froze in place, and, as if controlling the strings of a puppet, Stefan guided his son off Cyril. The king was left sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath. He found himself cast in the Prophet’s shadow, with Stefan’s hand reaching down to him.

  “Cyril, I knew all of that. I had twenty years to mourn my wife. But my son lives, and nothing I do to you will bring back Suyi. Look at you. You are buckling under the weight of your sins; let me help you, as I did before.”

  The king’s face, for a moment, looked forlorn and pitiful. His golden eyes welled up, and his mouth had half-whispered pleas for forgiveness on its lips. But as he reached out for Stefan’s hand, his fingers curled into a fist, and his face hardened. “No.” He pushed Stefan’s hand away, and stood on his own. “I am only weary from the weight of my crown. The crown you were too weak to claim as your own. For twenty years, I have picked up your mess, and made the decisions you could not bear to make. You made humanity free, Prophet. But I was the only one concerned with keeping that freedom.”

  Stefan looked on Cyril with pity, though everyone else looked at the king with either disgust or horror. “I didn’t claim a crown because I have no kingdom in this world. Mine is beyond the veil of death. I am sorry you feel this way, Cyril, but you have corrupted my teachings. I must go to the people and remind them of the truth.”

  “And I cannot allow that.” Cyril pointed his wand at Stefan, and another wave of magic enveloped the Prophet, Stefan buckling and groaning in pain as the magic closed in on him.

  “Father!” Floriana rushed to Cyril’s side, trying to pull him back. “No!”

  The spell, however, had been cast. Stefan was once again the white wolf. Cyril looked at the wolf with a grim and stony face, then turned to the doors. “Guards!”

  The doors to the throne room swung open, and soldiers swarmed in. Cyril composed himself, and picked up his dented crown from the floor where Matthias had knocked him down. “My guests are leaving. Show the princess to her rooms.”

  “No!” Floriana stepped back, grabbing her wand and glaring at her father. She clasped hands with Irene, who also had her wand drawn, and Matthias rested his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not staying here. I stand with the Prophet, Father.”

  Cyril looked at his daughter, then closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Very well,” he breathed, his voice breaking. “If that is what you wish. You have made your choice.”

  “You can’t stop us,” Matthias growled. “Soon, everyone will know your shame.”

  “Be advised, savage,” Cyril locked eyes with Matthias, prodding his side. “You are in my city, now. Your followers are waiting to tear this castle apart if you do not leave unharmed, so you will walk out this day whole and well. But you take a single step out of line, if you breathe one word of heresy, I will put down anyone who stands between you and the crown’s justice. Their blood will be on your hands.”

  “You’ve mastered cut-throat politics, haven’t you, Cyril?” Derogynes scoffed. “The Hegemon would be impressed.”

  Cyril’s face wrinkled. “Out of my sight. You walk away today, but I promise, you will be punished for standing against me.”

  “I’ll give you a promise in return, Cyril,” Matthias growled as the soldiers surrounded them, herding them out of the throne room. “I made a vow you would not suffer by my hands, but I will see you face justice. I swear I will be there, and I will watch with satisfaction for my mother as you breathe your last.”

  Chapter 18

  Letters and Sermons

  As the king’s sister, Irene had been gifted a house in Stefanurbem years ago. It was as luxurious an estate as could be offered by a young city on the edge of the civilized world; a stout, two-story stone house with a courtyard protected by a high wall. Hierophant Ferrin and his people guarded the courtyard, while Derogynes had summoned Captain Sanidus and his second to guard the main gate, making Irene’s house look like it was preparing for a siege.

  The disciples gathered in the house’s main hall, a musty, cavernous room thick with dust. All of them sat around a careworn table, wearing grim or shocked faces as they recovered from their meeting with Cyril.

  “I can’t believe it,” Derogynes muttered, shaking his head. “What am I to tell Gordias? Any chance of an alliance with Fosporia is finished.”

  “That is your great concern?” Magnus looked at the Andrathi with some disgust. “Our Prophet, our friend was just shown to us for the first time in twenty years, and is taken away from us just as
fast, and you’re thinking about politics?”

  Derogynes scoffed at Magnus. “I’m trying to keep your country from being a danger to the rest of the world. If Cyril, a provably powerful mage, has done this to Stefan, capturing ‘heretics’ and sending them off to gods know where, and he’s provoking Qingren, it may be in Theragos’ best interest to invade and install someone more amiable on the throne.”

  “You would invade Fosporia?” Floriana rose, her face aghast. “Are you mad? You would see humanity throw off Qingren and my father’s yoke, and then place them under the iron fist of the legions?”

  “We would put you on the throne, Floriana,” Derogynes countered.

  “So I can be Gordias’ puppet? Are you our friend or enemy, Derogynes?”

  “And what would you have us do, then?” The Andrathi palmed his fist. “Cyril is insane, and he needs to be put down like a mad dog!”

  “That may be so,” Irene looked at the ambassador coldly, “but we will do it on our own terms. We freed ourselves from slavery, we can free ourselves from my brother without the Ardri’s help.”

  “Mm-hmm. And where would you be without the Ardri’s fleet? Would you have swum here?”

  Magnus scoffed. “Some of us have been working our whole lives toward freedom, while you were sitting in your villa getting fat off the profits you made from ferrying us across.”

  “I was helping a friend!”

  “You were lining your pockets!”

  “Fine words, Magnus,” Irene chimed in. “And what did you do when Cyril began his descent into madness? You stayed at your farm, and hid from the court.”

  The curly-haired man rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, all the good huts in the middle of the wilderness were already taken by some self-absorbed healer too concerned with her arts than she was with helping us find the prophet she helped turn into a wolf.”