by Matthew Wolf
Meira hid her face as well, pulling her scarlet robes over her mouth and nose, as if to shield her from an assault of dust and the smell of a nearby tannery, which admittedly was foul smelling. The last of the guards passed, moving onward, and Meira gave a shiver of relief, recalling a sudden memory as a Neophyte, flopping onto her tiny cot after a tireless day of training.
Finally safe.
“Is the safe house prepared?” she asked.
“As requested,” Liam said, and then peered over his shoulder through the slot of the cart himself. “It’s quite comfortably sized and luckily so, as I didn’t exactly expect this many. It seems my lady makes companions quite easily.”
“It wasn’t intended,” she replied.
“And who are these new friends of yours?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she answered warily.
Liam’s grip tightened on his reins. “Can they be trusted?”
“We will see,” she replied, and then looked at her guardian. The young man’s gray-green eyes were pools of mystery as he hovered over Ezrah. Wind… she thought again in equal parts amazement and dread. In all her decades, she had never seen anything like it. The element of wind. How could it be? Who is he?
Meira hadn’t realized she’d asked the question aloud until the wiry old man squinted and squawked, “Who? Ah! Yes! That must be him!” Liam said with a loud chuckle, “That old rascal. Fates indeed!”
“What are you talking about?” she questioned, again doubting Liam’s sanity. He had seemed trustworthy before, but now? If Ezrah had spoken to him, did he work for her or the Arbiter? She shook her head. Does it matter? Ezrah is the only one I can trust. Meira sighed. However true that was, she felt strangely used.
“The boy…” Liam said. “The Arbiter told me he would be coming.”
“Him?” she questioned, eyeing Gray.
Liam nodded.
“Then he must be important.”
“You could say that,” the old man said mischievously.
Her eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me? Who is he to the Arbiter?”
Liam smiled, his wrinkles creasing, then answered, “Family.”
The Tranquil House
SCROLLS OF AMBER LIGHT FROM THE nearby window lit Ezrah’s face, making him appear divine.
It was dusk now and they were on the second floor of the safe haven, which Meira and the other Reavers had begun to call the Tranquil House. Gray sat in a chair beside the man’s bed, reading. Well, not really reading. That would imply that he knew the words. The language, however, was not one he could decipher.
In his hands sat the book Mura had given him so long ago—nearly a lifetime he felt—the same one that had been lost when the Vergs and Saeroks had sacked their home. He wished he could see Mura, though the book did give him comfort, as if part of Mura were still with him.
Gray’s hands felt across the surface of the book, feeling its raised emblem of wind upon the cover.
Inside, he scanned the pages, wondering what the words meant. Several times he saw other symbols, all symbols he had seen before—water, stone, metal, flesh, moon, sun, leaf, and fire.
The last one stood out to him. Farbs. The Great Kingdom of Fire…
The door behind Gray opened, and Zane entered.
“Is he awake?”
Gray shook his head. “Not yet.”
The man nodded softly. “He will be soon. Meira said he is merely unconscious now that Sithel has stolen his spark.” Stolen the spark… The words, though mostly a mystery to Gray, still seemed like a curse, lancing through him. He eyed the sleeping Arbiter, the man’s gray hair with white streaks strewn across his face—a face more weathered than when he had first seen it in his dreams. He knew the white hair and age had been a part of his torture—a dark price, but a small one in Gray’s mind.
Zane moved to his side. The fiery man’s presence was strangely comforting. The room was quiet with only a several-handed instrument upon the wall ticking quietly. A clock, Zane had called it, though he seemed more or less unfamiliar with it as well.
“What’s that?” Zane asked, eyeing the book in Gray’s hand.
“A present from long ago,” he said, feeling the worn cover.
“No,” Zane said, “this.” He reached out and picked up the fragment of dark cloth with two crossed swords emblazoned in white upon the back. It still had a splotch of blood. “Kill a Devari, did you?”
As soon as he said the words, Gray felt a sting to his gut.
Victasys.
Zane realized his words, and his eyes clenched, trying to recover. With a shaky sigh he added, “I mean… Where’d you get it?”
“A friend,” Gray said mysteriously.
“Why does it look different?”
“Because it is. It’s the cloak of the leader of the Devari.”
“How in the… This… Is this Ren’s cloak?”
“Ren?” Gray asked, confused.
Zane ran a hand through his blond hair. In the light of the setting sun, Gray saw it had a flame-red tint. Everything about the man seemed fiery. Even his clothes had been burned in the chaos, though he had been unharmed, and he had taken to wearing a deep red vest. It suited him. Again, it seemed too familiar, too fated, but Gray didn’t let his mind wander in that direction as Zane answered, “You don’t know who Ren is?”
Gray shook his head, something stirring inside him.
“Ren was the last leader of the Devari. Some say he was one of the strongest blademasters ever to live.”
Live… Kirin breathed.
You’re back, Gray thought, oddly missing the voice in his head. But then Kirin was silent once more. Shrugging it off, he looked back to Zane. “You make it sound like he died. What happened to him?”
“He did die.”
Kirin wailed. What was that? “How?” Gray asked.
Unsheathing a rusted dagger from his belt, Zane spun it on the nearby table, catching it each time before it fell, creating a small notch in the wood as he answered, “Honestly, no one knows for certain. At this point it’s mostly just stories and rumors.”
“Tell me,” Gray pressed.
Zane arced a brow. “Curious about this, aren’t you?”
“More or less,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Anything better to talk about?”
“I guess not,” Zane said. “Well, they say he was found with a hole in his stomach the size of a fist. The room he was found in was filled with other dead guards and Devari, full of severed limbs, blood everywhere, as if a gateway to hell had opened and unleashed all its dark fury upon those poor souls…” Zane shook his head. “Least that’s what some say. To me, sounds like the work of Reavers, but the whispers said he was betrayed by his own kind, by a brother, a Devari. Though I’m not sure how any Devari could have killed a man like that. He was the strongest of them all.”
“And then?” Gray wasn’t even aware he spoke, his mind lost in Zane’s story.
“It wasn’t long before news of Ren’s death spread like fire to a thatch roof. It’s not often that a Reaver or Devari is found dead—or at least, it wasn’t back then—least of all the leader of the Devari. More than that, the man was well respected, even outside the Citadel. A huge ceremonial pyre was erected for him in the center of Farbs, and thousands attended. After that, the hunt was on…” Zane said. “You should have seen the look in a Devari’s eye, or lucky that you didn’t. For months, thieves and others of the less than reputable sort walked on eggshells when a Devari appeared. They roamed the streets, as if searching for the one that killed their beloved leader.”
Gray was riveted. He felt a distant thrumming of fear, but a burning curiosity overrode it. The whole story sounded so familiar. He heard a sound, and he realized that, oddly, his heart was hammering in his chest. He unfurled his palms and saw they were drenched in sweat. What is going on?
Zane spoke again, his voice snapping him out of his thoughts. The room seemed to flash back into focus, Gray’s world returned. “
Sometimes I forget how much, or how little you know,” the fiery man said. “One day you’ll have to fill me in on your past.”
Gray put a hand to his head. “And you on yours…” he replied absently.
Zane swallowed, seeming suddenly pained, as if seeing demons.
“Did I say something wrong?” Gray asked.
“No,” Zane said, yet his voice grew dark and resigned. “It’s just… my past… I—”
Gray held up a hand, interrupting him, after seeing the man’s obvious reluctance, as if he was pulling Zane’s nails off with hot pincers. “It’s all right. You’ve risked your life for me, and to save a man you barely know. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
Zane’s body slacked, muscles uncoiling. “Thanks,” he said with a heavy breath, looking grateful.
He smiled. “Anytime.” Gray knew what it was like to have someone who simply trusted you, who didn’t ask questions when there was a darkness nipping at your heels—specifically a darkness that was one’s past. That was Ayva and Darius for him. Thoughts of the two made his heart twist, and he prayed they were all right with Faye.
Gray looked back to Ezrah.
“We did it, Gray,” Zane stated. “You should be proud.”
Gray nodded. Proud… He wasn’t sure if he was proud, but he was glad, happy even. The man was alive and in the flesh before him. It was hard to believe.
Even in sleep Ezrah seemed powerful, yet oddly vulnerable at the same time. It was somehow endearing, as if Gray was the only thing protecting one of the most powerful men in the entire world.
Ezrah suddenly stirred.
Gray’s fingers froze upon the page.
“I’ll leave you,” the fiery man whispered. “Good luck.”
Good luck? Gray thought, gulping. But then again, perhaps he would need it.
The Arbiter’s eyes opened, revealing gray-green irises.
Just like mine…
Gray tried to swallow down the lump in his throat as the man’s ancient gaze took in the serene surroundings—a small, cozy room made of earthen brick with simple wood furniture, white sheets, a stone fireplace, several chairs, and a long window that overlooked the busy streets below—and then finally his gaze settled on Gray. A thousand different emotions flashed across Ezrah’s face, all utterly unreadable. Before he realized what he was doing, Gray reached out with the ki in an attempt to read his grandfather.
He touched the man’s mind and gasped.
He was met with a wall unlike anything he had ever felt before. It glowed golden and bright, like the living wind he could thread, but brighter still—blinding even. He looked away, but it did nothing. The light beamed forth, radiating power and strength. Hesitantly, he touched it and—
“The ki, is it?”
Gray snapped out of the moment, opening his eyes.
Ezrah’s voice rang deep and powerful, “Quite a powerful one too.” The man was now sitting upright in his bed, his simple, white sheets falling around his torso, which was wrapped in thick bandages that hid his wounds. The Arbiter eyed him, and a long moment passed. Gray’s heart thundered in his chest. At last, Ezrah’s face softened. “Gray,” the man said. That simple name. As if he was saying a thousand things in a single word.
“Grandfather…”
Ezrah smiled. “Welcome home, my boy.”
Gray found tears in his eyes that he didn’t know were there. He blinked them away, and before he knew what he was doing, he embraced the Arbiter in a deep hug. The man gripped back, surprisingly strong.
After a long moment, both released. Ezrah’s face turned suddenly stern once more. It was like staring into the gray-green gaze of a storm. “However, we’ll have to have a little talk about that ki business. I’m awake for only moments and you seek to infiltrate my mind?”
“I… I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I just—”
Ezrah held up a weathered hand. “I am only teasing. But you do not need to use the ki—not with me. However, I am curious… Is the ki familiar to you once more? And your memories, have they returned?”
Gray waited for Kirin to burst into his mind, but there was a strange silence. He shook his head at last, “Not yet… Just bits and pieces. But the ki, on the other hand, feels oddly familiar. It comes easily now. Just then I wanted to know what you were thinking, and it kind of happened before I realized it.”
The Arbiter rubbed his chin with a thoughtful sound. “Be wary, my boy. My knowledge of a Devari’s powers is relatively sparse… But what I have learned over my many years is that any power, the ki included, can be dangerous. Until there is someone who can guide you in the ki’s proper usage, I’d caution temperance. Use it sparingly.”
Gray nodded in understanding.
A moment passed, and Gray had a thousand questions flood through him in a rush, thoughts racing like a whirlwind in his mind. Before he could speak, though, Ezrah reached out and touched Gray’s arm. His hand was warm, and the skin soft.
“I see…” the man declared mysteriously. “You’ve learned your power, then.”
“I have, but it is fractured, like…” he began and fell short.
Ezrah lifted a brow streaked with white, reminding Gray of a bolt of lightning. “Like mine?”
“Meira told me about what they did to you. It sounds… horrible.” The voidstone. The woman had briefly mentioned its powers. The power to steal the spark, draining one of all their power… And to drain an Arbiter. Meira made the act sound worse than death. As if they had already killed Ezrah. He didn’t truly understand but knew nonetheless that, whatever Ezrah was feeling, he couldn’t begin to fathom. Still, he was just glad the man was alive.
“It is horrible,” Ezrah said. “But I will survive.”
“And your power…?”
Ezrah’s eyes crinkled, as if knowing a secret. “Hand me that candle.”
Gray faltered, noticing a thick wax candle on the bedside stand. Meira said she had tried to remove anything in the room that would make the Arbiter “thread” unconsciously, triggering the dark reminder that he was without his power. Yet there sat a candle. Gray handed it over.
The Arbiter took a deep breath, turning the candle in his hand. “Many believe to be drained of the spark is a fate much like death. And in a way, they are right. The spark is life. It feeds the land, the rivers, the forests, and all creatures. It is in the very air we breathe.” Ezrah looked out the window, over the streets of Farbs, eyes glazing, his gaze growing distant. “Yet as we sit here, my boy, the spark is dying in the world. The creatures of Farhaven depend on it, and magical beings like Sprites and Dryads are fading from this realm. Even mortals grow weaker as it fades. Soon we will be much like Daerval in every way.”
“What are you saying?” Gray asked, reading between the lines. “Farhaven has magic, but what is the difference between a man from Daerval or one from Farhaven?”
“You have noticed it, have you not? In Farhaven you can run longer, fight harder, jump higher, and sleep less, among other things. This world is different. It gives you strength. Without magic, humans will be simply humans—or what you have come to know in Daerval as human. And elves? Well, many believe those with a strong connection to the spark and to this world simply cannot live without the essence of magic.”
“Then elves and other magical beings… they will die when the spark dies?”
Ezrah sighed, holding the candle up to the light of the window. “I wish I knew, but even the wise cannot know all things. However, as for your question, the spark is life, but true power resides deeper, my boy. True power lives within.” Within? he thought, confused. Just then, Ezrah’s fingers snapped and the candle’s long wick sparked to life—a small flame, but deep and red and burning brightly.
Gray gasped. “You still have your power! But how?”
Ezrah eyed the flame, watching it burn fervently, as if seeing through the flame. “Daerval is without the spark, correct? But while living in Daerval may diminish your strength and
your abilities, your power is still there, is it not? In the end, it is choice, as are all things. All our power resides within, and just because you can’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Your strength is inside you, Gray, and you cannot—you must not—let anyone take it from you,” he said and shrugged. “Also, I am an Arbiter.” And the red flame suddenly burned blue, yellow, green, white, black, tan, and then finally settled on a deep red, once again. “I am not without my ways.”
Gray had trouble choosing whether to laugh or gawk. He realized his mouth was open, and he snapped it shut then shook his head. “But still, my power… I know it’s inside me. I haven’t let it be taken, but I can’t seem to fix it.”
“Then you must search deeper.” Ezrah handed the candle to him. “Snuff the flame with your power.”
Gray faltered, fingers tightening around the smooth wax. He wanted his power, and he wanted to prove to his grandfather he wasn’t weak. He focused on the burning candle then delved inward. The nexus came, a ball of white as usual, but the missing patch seemed to be growing. Fear flashed, but he put it down and reached out. Yet as he touched the white ball it slipped through his hand, vanishing. He grasped for his power again, but the nexus was nowhere to be seen. “I cannot,” he said, frustration growing. “Without need, I cannot touch my power. Wait, you can teach me, can’t you?” he pleaded, looking up.
Ezrah glowered at him beneath thick eyebrows. “You wield the flow. It is a power only the Ronin can wield—it is the very essence of the spark, where all magic in the world derives from. As such, it is by nature far greater in power, but also wholly different. Now none but the Ronin know its vast limits, or how to summon it at will.”
“Then how am I to learn it? The Ronin are dead,” Gray said. As he said the words, they sounded like a lie, even to him. Ezrah’s eyes were a mystery, again unreadable. He almost reached out with the ki by instinct, but refrained.
The Arbiter spoke. “You will have to learn by trial and error, as is the way of most things. Though I can help a little. What I do know is that the spark yields to force, but I believe the flow is like a blade. It will need the cool, quenching waters to temper the steel, or it will shatter beneath the first blow. In essence, seek your power in the moment between anger and stillness.”
