by Marin Landis
“I’m sorry, again, I’ve caused so much trouble. I’ll get out of your way.” She pushed herself to her feet and walked to the door.
“Orders are to keep you here, just wait for King Alpre, don’t try to leave again.” The guard moved his spear from a casual position leaning on his shoulder to point up, his meaning clear. Melvekior was sure he could easily overpower the young man but what good would that do?
“Janesca, just listen.” She turned to Melvekior, with hope in her eyes. “We are where we are and nothing can change the past, but we’ve survived worse than this.” He was trying to convince himself as much as her.
“Besides, you’re safer here. Once word gets around that you’re an Akashic, there will be half a dozen sects out to find you,” said Accus. Melvekior whipped round, ready to take out his frustration on the smug necromancer. “I’d like to offer you the protection of the Temple of Ain-Ordra. You can have sanctuary in our mother temple in Fallset where none would dare intrude.”
Was he trying to be helpful, wondered the cynical knight, or just drum up an advantage? He had after all been quite helpful up until this point, and rather loyal.
“I’m staying with Melvekior, if he’ll have me,” announced the young woman, rendering his musings moot.
“Of course. It’s a matter of waiting now. For the King and the Mage Lord of Thacritus.” Melvekior’s eyes wandered to the mirror, its gray surface in constant, if minimal, flux.
“Wait! Did you say, ‘The Mage Lord of Thacritus’?” queried Accus.
“Oh yes, he’s in there with the King. He looked really angry when he dismissed us.” He glanced casually at Accus who look stricken. The smirk had disappeared to be replaced by a frown and he looked stiff in comparison to his recent rather relaxed self.
He reached over and grabbed a hunk of already buttered bread and a healthy wedge of cheese and checking that nobody was looking at him, stuffed most of it into his mouth while carefully watching Accus.
The black robed death-worshiper was wringing his hands and muttering under his breath. He hadn’t been this fearful even after Melvekior had smashed up his study, along with his compatriot, and was threatening his life. Maybe he’d met Critus already. A scary person to be sure.
“What’s the matter with you, Accus. You’re looking a little unwell.” He kept his voice mild and calm.
Accus leaned over and lightly tapped Melvekior’s wrist with the fingers of his left hand. “If The Mage Lord is involved, we’ll be lucky to live through it. He’s a dangerous man. If he even is a man.”
Before Accus could volunteer any more information, the clicking made by the guard’s heels alerted them to the return of King Calra Alpre XVII. He stepped through the mirror and came alone.
“Out, you two and make sure those Deniers do not come in here either.”
The guard and the gray robed man scurried out without a backward glance.
Once they were out of the room King Alpre strode over and pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat down. He regarded them in turn, spending a long time contemplating Janesca and then sat back. He ran his hand through his dark, curly hair and sat up straight as if having made an important decision.
“My friends…” he began grandly. “Something important, very important, has just happened and it is with a heavy heart that I involve you. Before I can go any further though, I will have to ask you to swear an oath of secrecy. It will be such an oath that cannot be broken.”
“And what if we don’t agree to swear this oath?” Accus was uncommonly brave, but he seemed like the type that didn’t like authority.
“Then you won’t leave here alive,” stated the King matter of factly.
They all thought it in their best interest to swear the oath. The gray robed acolyte returned shortly after they all agreed with a scroll case, planted it in front of the King and exited quickly. How he knew to bring that was anybody’s guess, but they all guessed the same. Magic.
Calra opened the case, pulled out a parchment and unfurled the scroll onto the table in front of them. Melvekior felt a little nervous and more than a little impatient. What was going on? He was eager to just get on with it, but it was a common trait of the nobility to be more dramatic than necessary and he guessed that this was no different.
The King then slid a stylus from a slot within the case, leaned over and, with a pointless flourish, began to write. Janesca was glued to the words that he wrote, almost leaning over him, while Accus sat, affecting an aura of disinterest. Melvekior was curious but was polite enough to give the King space to write.
Calra Alpre stood and held the scroll before him with both hands. He blew on the ink and read in a clear, if toneless, voice, “I, the hereafter named, do swear on pain of death to keep secret any and all information pertaining to the quest the King upon me hath bestowed.”
“You didn’t say anything about a quest,” Accus whined.
“You stole Sunar's pendant and endangered diplomatic relations with your tomfoolery. You’ll bloody sign this and take the Fassway to Maresh-Kar city, explain to Sunar what you’ve done and throw yourselves on his mercy. If you don’t you’ll spend a year in my prison and then I’ll hand you over to the Prince for him to do whatever he wants.” Accus blanched at this threat. Prince Sunar was a notoriously cruel man and never showed mercy.
The King then turned to Melvekior, “The law says I can’t imprison you, but I’ll have your lands as reparation. That is within my legal power.”
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” murmured Accus. Janesca looked on the verge of tears again. They both signed the document and then the necromancer handed the stylus to Melvekior who was pleasantly surprised at the young woman’s neat handwriting
He’d never been threatened into anything before and only his loyalty to the crown prevented him from throttling King Alpre right there and then. “Very well,” he said and snatched the stylus, signed his name, made his family mark and placed the quill and parchment down onto the table.”
“Thank you my friends, and forgive my previous outburst, there is much at stake here. Once you have listened to the whole story you will appreciate my temper.”
He waved for them to sit and once they had, clasped his hands together until the gray robed messenger came in again, took the scroll away with its case, leaving and returning moments later with a fresh carafe of wine. The King gratefully helped himself.
“My brother, Critus, and I, as well as what turns out to be our half-brother,” a quick glance at Janesca, “Sunar, each possess an immensely powerful amulet. It allows our spirits to live on so that we can enjoy a form of immortality. You’ve seen how it works, I don’t need to draw you a picture.”
He drank some wine and continued gravely.
“Sunar will be wanting his back. Should he die without it in his possession he will pass from this plane. Having lived a long and full life, the same as he, I can quite safely say without fear of contradiction that the lust for life is stronger than ever it was. You who have lived only a mere couple of decades, can never hope to understand the drive to continue that an immortal has. One might think that a man with everlasting life would become jaded, stricken with ennui. I have wondered this myself, many times, and still lay awake in the dead of night, unable to sleep, mind paralyzed with panic. I would do anything to preserve my life. Think me greedy if you wish, I do not care.”
He drank more wine and filled his glass with one of his pointless flourishes, somehow strengthening the point to Melvekior that indeed, he did not care.
Accus looked interested, but Melvekior shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t think of a way out of this conundrum. Sunar was going to roast them alive, of that he was sure.
“I say all this, not to boast, for I am a King. The greatest King this land has ever seen and I have no need for the approval of the little man.” Melvekior suddenly realized how much of a falsehood this was. All his fancy clothing, fancy ways and fancy talk was a plea for attention. He claimed n
ot to be jaded, but he’d lost the vital spark of life that a man with only a few score years to live possesses. He was a man trying to make sense of a never-ending universe. “I tell you all of this to impress upon you the lengths that Sunar will go to regain his medallion, his sliver of Neral, that giveth eternal life.” He sipped at his wine thoughtfully and then turned sideways and looked at the wall, studiously ignoring them.
“I’ve promised to return it, and return it I will, do not doubt that, Sire.” Melvekior was eager to be away, to remove himself from the presence of this almost certainly insane man.
“Sire, where did you find this ‘Neral’? It is most holy to those of my brotherhood.” Accus was, as ever, dismissive of the plans of others. The King wanted them gone and Melvekior wanted to go. Janesca was in danger here he felt and the more time he spent in Calra's company, the more he was convinced that anything could happen. Accus however, was a fanatic and he would gladly lay down the lives of others to attain his ends. He’d only tolerated them, Melvekior was sure, in the hopes of eventually getting his hands on Ain-Ordra’s seed, as he referred to it.
The King turned to Accus, eyes wide, plainly incredulous that the necromancer hadn’t yet left. “Guards, throw them through the Fassway,” he ordered loudly and almost instantly the door to the room burst open.
Melvekior had no quarrel with these guards, but would allow no harm to come to Janesca, so he took the only road open to him.
He stood, almost leaped out of his chair, taking care not to collide with King Alpre who had turned back to gaze thoughtfully into the distance, and grabbed Accus by the robe with one hand and Janesca’s wrist with the other. Neither had the strength to resist and he surged forward towards the mirror, which looked no different so he hoped that it was ready for the trip they wanted to make.
Flinging himself forward, trailing his two companions in tow behind him, he experienced a brief moment of confusion and blindness and then felt himself fall to his knees on a cold stone floor.
“Seize them!” sounded a shrill male voice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Soulless One
“It is a common question. There is no enmity between us, in fact quite the opposite. It is as if one hasn’t seen a sibling in a while and is overwhelmed with curiosity.”- Aeldryn on the Talvar.
While in most matters the Talvar are particularly non-emotional and stoic, the birth of a child is a time for great excitement and what approaches celebration in their often dour society.
Were there ever to be a census in the Three Kingdoms and were the Talvar inclined to take part, which they definitely would not, it would be seen that there were less than a thousand such people spread across the lands. Most Uthites would be surprised even at that large a number, but as a race, the Talvar were supremely concerned about their survival, meaning that every new birth was a beacon of hope.
Were that same census to include a question about religious affiliation, the answer from every Talvar would be the same. None. Since the Sundering, almost two centuries ago, when the Gods betrayed them, the Dark Ones, as the Talvar came to be known, had disavowed the worship and acknowledgment of any deity. Not that they didn’t believe in the existence of such beings, but that they actively and often viciously railed against them. In the early times after the split from their brethren, the Talvar waged anti-religious crusades, strengthening their reputation as the more evil and spiteful of the two groups who sprang from their parent civilization all those years ago. They had fought hard to distance themselves from those days and had been mildly successful. They could be seen in many areas now without being instantly attacked, but the inherent distrust was still present. Dark Ones, Night Elves, Devils, Fallen Angels. Such was their reputation among the common folk of the Three Kingdoms, ignorant of their true nature and history, aware only of their relatively recent misdeeds. In defense of the unenlightened opinions of the masses, gray tinged skin, jet black hair and colorless eyes did describe Mithraistic demons as well as the Talvar.
The excitement in Hook Arbor in anticipation of Sjarcu’s birth was powerful. His mother, Vinisty and father Iacru, were the only ones present. All parents, when expecting, learned everything there was to know about childbirth and rearing, leaving the position of midwife redundant. Talvar women were lacking in false modesty and the men were unmoved by biological considerations. In fact, if they knew the Uthite attitude towards childbirth, they would scoff heartily. They had no need for privacy. Sex was understood to be essential and the prudishness that they knew a staple of Kingdom life was dismissed as silliness at best, perversion at worst. A system of total equality was simplicity itself in Talvar society because everyone contributed. There was a culture of achievement and hard work towards a common goal; to refine and advance Talvar culture. There was no idleness. Even the very elderly could teach and instruct, even the infirm could advise and write or create. It had never been known but an individual unwilling to participate would be simply and rapidly exiled. Or so it would seem, for beneath the civilized, if fussy exterior, there was a violent and unforgiving strain of Talvar. The Shrike.
And it was time for new blood.
Sjarcu’s infancy was unexceptional. He possessed all the usual highly developed physical and mental abilities of his race; vestiges of their immortal forebears. He learned quickly and could speak two languages fluently, play the lyran to a reasonable degree and understand basic Ardomancy at ten years of age. He was a beautiful child, darker eyed than most and suitably morose, reflective and serene.
Then, on the eve of his twelfth birthday, he died.
Rumours filled Hook Arbor, a community that never gossiped. An old Talvaren fable, their being no stories merely for entertainment, spoke of the Soulless Child. It could live for only twelve years before leaving the land of the living for no discernible reason. When the child died, in the story, it would return from the afterlife every few years to slay errant Talvar, wreaking revenge on a society that could not save it. For a race of people that suffered no illness and had no natural enemies, the death of a child was so rare as to become legend.
Sjarcu’s body was taken by the Surakoita, an anonymous Talvar in black robes who appeared only to take the bodies of the dead to some unknowable destination. The deceased would be remembered for their accomplishments rather than mourned for their passing. In this case there was little to remember and what sympathies that this people had, were bestowed on Vinisty and Iacru. A sad occasion for what would seem to outsiders, a sad people.
Like the original Soulless Child, Sjarcu’s story would pass into legend.
He’d been in this room for at least two days. It was dark and even his eyes, which functioned well in low light, could make out little in the gloom. There was a bed, but what color its covers were he could not tell. There was a door, but it was locked and it resisted his constant attention. None would answer his knocks and shouts nor did the door betray any light at its edges. Either it opened into an equally dark place or it was phenomenally well made. He was curious which, as he was about most things and his optimism that he would find out was absolute. What point would there be in locking him up here and leaving him to starve? His calm logic did give way at the odd time when he imagined his captor falling prey to some calamity and being unable to free him, Sjarcu would die of dehydration. He was well read enough to know that this wasn’t a favorable way to die. He tempered these brief moments of panic with steely determination. He’d find a way out even if his jailer was dead, that was certain.
After those first two days, the novelty had worn off. He started to hallucinate through lack of sustenance and water and loneliness. He knew he didn’t have the mental strength of an adult so he'd have to use other methods to keep his sanity and composure. The urge to cry and surrender to despair was great, but he knew that he was made of sterner stuff. On what he surmised was the third morning, he decided to spend the first half of the day in mental exercise, in trance, performing the many exercises his people used to shar
pen their mind, and the second in physical exertion. He rattled through his entire vocabularies in Talvaren and Uthite. He imagined the formulas fatal to the flesh, the sigils of summoning and binding and wracking. He devised a series of questions to interrogate his invisible keeper with which to determine the purpose of this entire episode.
After emerging from his trance and had re-inhabited his senses, he noticed something had changed. There was a smell in the air, in fact multiple odors invaded his olfactory arena. There was the smell of spices combined with that of a plant. That was the strongest. Without opening his eyes, Sjarcu thought “food” to himself. He thought about the second odor for a moment. Damp and mold. The unhygienic implications of such things meant that he had only once experienced either; in the genealogical archives beneath the main library, beneath which was the wine cellar, beneath which were the mushroom farms. Ahh, that’s what the spiced food was. Mushrooms. Dressed to taste like one of a thousand recipes his people used.
The third smell was another matter entirely. It was the scent of another being. A Talvar like him, but one he had never encountered before. And how could that be? Surely his entire enclave was known to him. It was a matter of Talvaren custom that all community members were familiar with each other.
He almost forgot his hunger, so thirsty was he for answers and lost in his imaginings and logical predictions about who his captor might be. Biology won over and he leaped from his seated position on the floor to find, not only a plate of food and a cup of water, but a small table next to the bed where none had been before. There was still very little illumination but he had become more accustomed to the low level lighting and was able to navigate the room as if in full midday. The lack of colors present, even for a Talvar, though, was disheartening.
