He had been stumbling through dimly lit back alleys for hours. How he got to be“where he was”or even“who he was”were items lost in a haze of pain and desperation. The knife wound on his leg was bleeding again. The poison that had been on its blade was doing its work. Somewhere deep within him a long dormant reserve of magical potential awoke in his body's own internal attempt to salvage the situation.
He clutched a small bundle wrapped in fine linen close to his chest. This was his little girl. He would protect her at all costs. An evil was after him. He desperately wanted to rest but he could not. The evil was here. He could feel it.
He stumbled and half dragged himself around a corner into a main thoroughfare.
The finely dressed ladies and gentlemen walking the street startled at the sight of this strangely clad and disheveled man clutching a baby.
His eyes darted about as if half crazed. He spotted a church perhaps a hundred yards away. The street ran up to the impressive marble steps and ended. He would be safe there. The evil would not reach him. He raced as fast as he could to reach the steps. It was little more than a shuffle but it was all he could manage. He crawled up the steps leaving a bloody smear on the white marble in the process. The door to the church was closed. It was inlaid with golden runes, which he could not read. Something was not right. It wasn’t wrong. It just wasn’t right. He was confused. There was safety of a sort here. He beat a feeble fist on the door. Then with the clarity of thought that sometimes precedes unconsciousness, his mind cleared enough to realize that this was not a church after all; but rather a great library. He knew a brief flitting moment of peace just as darkness took him.
***
19 years before present- Northern Arathin (Sheyestiva)
The bright white light faded; leaving the darkness to consume him. But now, even that was fading. Eye lids coated in something thick fluttered open. Pain as the something got in them. He sat up quickly blinking the substance out. Telecyhelped as he mentally pushed the substance out of his eyes. He gazed at it. Gray and powdery it sat in his hand. Dust. His eyes traveled to his arms which had a cracking layer of the stuff. To his legs…
“Shrakh!”He swore as he stood. Disturbed clumps of dust fell from the rafters. He was covered in dust. And now it sloughed off of him. How did this come to be? He looked about him. The hall was familiar. Black stone gleamed through its own layer of dust in the faded light coming through the windows. On the floor were other people. People he knew. He knew he knew them…he looked out of the window over a wide plain covered in blue grasses. Distant moving creatures stirred a long dormant hunger in him. Elleroshek;the wandering hairy leviathans of the Sheyan: a vast blue grassed plain. The Sheyan…It all came back now. He was Kaishan Varcress, the Winged Dagger and heir to Illusion’s Throne. He was in the Great Hall of the Kikel Varcressi. He was in Sheyestiva.
Which made no sense.
He had been in Marlhema last he remembered. They were wining against the dragons and Marlhema’s allies. It had all been so simple…but now he was home, covered in dust with many of his countrymen around him. Kaishan knelt beside one and touched him. The man was warm, had a pulse, but didn’t wake. He shook the man and called to him. Nothing.
Kaishan went from one to the next to the next. They were all alive that he could tell, but none would wake. What had happened? He hadn’t been in the throne room when his father had gone to kill the king. Kaishan had gone after the Dragon prince and his wife. Before he could find them…there had been a bright light. A blinding light…then nothing.
“Marana. Raw marana…”he whispered to the hall. The dragons had done something to them. To all of them. And now they were back home. Apparently unharmed, but covered in dust. Centuries of dust. How long had he lain here?
A faint bugle called to his stomach. His black-veined blue gaze settled on the window. He would solve the mysteries of their situation after he assuaged the ache of hunger.
***
Present day- Arathin
From the Journal of AritéVersilrom: a brief history of the land.
I have seen many things in my life; the paradox of man evident through everything. Through ages I have seen the wonders of creativity, such as art and music and science. I have lived through times of such plenty that even the worst of enemies could get along. Children knew nothing but peace and only worried about childish things.
Then, I have seen the terrors of man; war in all its bloody insanity. The brutal savagery that could tear all before it in the flames of hatred. I have seen things that would make the stoutest heart quail in hopeless tremors.
Through all of it, I waited.
I have been around for a very long time; long enough to see kingdoms rise and fall. My own life had been turned upon the very rages of ambition and greed. I watched the pinnacle of civilization crumble beyond repair. How could the world become so mad? How could it forget the strength of fellowship?
My father’s blood was what gave fuel to the most horrendous of wars, the like of which I pray never comes again. It became a living beast that ate us. Devoured us like candy. Storms of living flames lit the night and fed upon the very earth. All things alive fled the enraged magics. Deceit ran rampant. Illusions convinced many of safety, leading only to the hottest tempests.
What I describe pales in comparison to the real thing. I may have been a little girl when this all happened, but I remember. My nightmares are only memories of watching the palace that I had called home crumble to dust, magic flaring and the screams…Oh night, the screams…
So much waste, so much death…the rivers ran red, the vultures grew fat. Magics became so wild that they turned the very earth. Sheer mountains were wrenched from the flat ground. Bedrock screamed as its sides were slashed by the wild magics that tortured it. For tens of thousands of miles, the newly made mountains became.
Such a creation scattered my sorry people. The very earth had declared that enough was enough. I was drawn to those mountains. They were the last true place where all the magics settled. I guess I could have gone to one group of what was left of my people, but by that time I was so used to hiding. So used to being alone with Jewel as my only friend. I didn’t know how to interact with others. And how could I choose one side over the other? That earth tearing war had not only been life wasting, it had also been long. I was a young woman whose only company had been the magics. Jewel and I went to where the magics had gone, where they had taken my father’s remains. Together we buried him and we named the mountains after him so the world could never forget him. I named the mountains the Nirami’s Grave.
They remain a haunting reminder to what we have all lost.
I later found out that the wild magics didn’t only tear apart the opposing sides, but also the gifts of my people. To the north they retained the magics of the mind; telecy. Because of their lack of the rest of the magic, known as fire or ana, but for the spark of the shapechange, my northern people called themselves Sheyestivans. Translated, it means‘those of a starless night’.
Night’s darkness means everything to my northern kin. So much mischief can be achieved in the absence of light. And mischief they have done. All the nations to the north of the Nirami they have conquered. Nothing but they remains, not even the Night Eagle which they have usurped. The Night Eagle fascinated them. It’s cunning, finesse, and strength became the greatest qualities in Sheyestiva. Their last spark of shiana, or shapechange, latched upon the Night Eagle. Of all the things they used to be able to become, they were limited to the one.
The Sheyestivans became the Night Eagle. The mighty eagle of the north was driven to extinction a mere ten years after the Nirami rose. The great bird now only exists in Sheyestivan tales and my memory.
To the south, the people retained the ana and lost the telecy. Eventually the ana became known as marana after the favorite of my southern kin’s shiana. In today’s tongue, they are referred to as the Dragons. Marlhema they named their nation; a nation that soon became known as the‘Nat
ion of Kings’. They were respected for their nobility, knowledge, and power. Such things they managed to hold onto from before the war.
Because of this, they did not conquer their neighbors. Instead, they became one people, learning from each other. This unity gave me hope of the healing of my people. They were so like how we had been…a‘Nation of Kings’.
Their wealth became well known. When I write wealth, I do not mean just a full treasury, though they did have that. I mean the land itself. Almost as lush as it had been before the war. Knowledge was vast and all could get to it. Marlhema was not perfect, but it tried. Its wealth and guidance was known. Even to the north. The Sheyestivans hungered for that wealth and power. Desperately they sought for a way south.
It was around that time that I made my first big mistake.
Hoping that the Marlhemans would have a mellowing effect on the Sheyestivan rage, I let the Sheyestivans come. At first, things went well and my hopes seemed to have been realized. But that was only at first.
Alone, ambition can be good. Mixed with greed, it can never be.
Shantév, Emperor of Sheyestiva, was a conqueror to his core. He was addicted to power and wanted more. Always. There was no more power to be had in Sheyestiva. So, he had turned his eyes to the south. He had heard the rumors of the power held by Marlhema and he craved it. Craved it to be his own and no one else’s. I regret opening a pass for him, but at the time I truly hoped.
After seeing with his own eyes the splendor of the southern kingdom, Shantév knew he must possess it. A few months after I opened the pass, the Sheyestivans returned for blood. The insanities of war will never cease to sicken and amaze me. It was a relatively quick war, a passing shadow. But it was not unlike most chaotic situations. To those involved it seemed to drag, each minute becoming an hour, an hour becoming a day. Each passing day seemed the passing of a lifetime. Many a thousand lifetimes seemed to pass.
It was only a year.
The Sheyestivans are nothing without their militaristic prowess. They used the element of surprise with deadly effect. Confusion and fear ran wild on the outskirts of Marlhema. It took precious time for the people to figure out that they were actually in a war. It took even more time to figure out what was attacking them. They were slipping fast. However, that did not stop them from fighting back. Desperately the Marlhemans clung to life like a burr. The Sheyestivans were forced to change their attacks to cope with the dragons dangerous magics.
I watched the Shadow War unfold and felt sick. Was the rift between my people so great that they couldn’t reconcile? I worried. Hope was dying in me as it became apparent that Marlhema was drowning under the hoards of the Cursed. About me, the Nirami became horribly restless. I had never seen its storms so riled. My dreams were like the storms of man and nature; chaotic. The only solid thing was a verse whispered to me. It was the only thing that stayed with me between waking and sleeping;
Hope rests in the Star;
Something that is seen in the endless darkness of night.
Hope rests in light;
The light that shines the edge of a blade.
Hope rests in balance;
A sword can preserve as easily as it can take.
Hope rests in the soul;
A blade is a mirror, reflecting its wielder.
Hope rests in the Sword;
A sword is double edged so to cut both ways.
Hope rests in the choice;
One way to destruction; the other to Salvation.
Hope rests in the healer;
This is the last chance to heal tortured wounds.
Hope rests in the young.
Fresh eyes can repair the damage.
I don’t know if this hope is justified or how it will come to pass. Only time is wise enough to tell.
The Emperor’s heir, the Winged Dagger, gave the Marlhemans no quarter. He was young, a youth on the threshold between boyhood and manhood. Yet, for his lack of years, he was keen, keen as a sword’s edge, and just as feared.
There was reason. Kaishan showed no emotion. He was cold and merciless. If he set his mind to something, one way or another he would succeed.
I knew deep in my heart that Kaishan was the one to watch. His father was dangerous, true, but he was like an open book to those who knew how to read. Kaishan was different. One could not trust their eyes around him. He could melt into his surroundings without really trying. It was then, when one had to look for him. Be wary or pay dearly. Many pay dearly. Kaishan was the force who put the Marlhemans on their knees.
The Sheyestivans were on the eve of victory a year after the war began. They had the Marlheman king trapped in his own hall. It was then that the Marlhemans ignited the greatest spell since the rise of the Nirami.
The world paused in its daily spin. Even the Nirami’s storms stilled. When the world resumed its natural rhythm, the Sheyestivans were back on their lands, their bodies trapped in a timeless sleep. The hoards of Cursed were laid to waste. The Marlheman king and several others of his court were found dead; every ounce of strength they possessed to the working.
To their hope.
The rest of the dragons were gone without a trace. The Nirami’s storms settled. Five hundred years have passed and I still hear the verse…
Chapter Fourteen- Cries of the Past
The wind howled as it clawed upon the mountains. Like a wounded beast it raged. So high and sharp were the mountains that they tore the wind. It shrieked its pain. Upon the wind’s back rode a slave master of a storm. It drove the wild winds before it without mercy. It sent lighting lashing down through the moaning wind to beat upon the scarred mountains below. Rain water steamed as it fell. Flash streams raced each other into pools of boiling water. Cold stone cracked and heated beneath the scalding pools.
Beaten and torn, the wind moaned. It searched for anything alive to share its pain. It moaned so loud that it woke her up. Bleary eyed, Aritéglared at the entry to her home. The wind had a lot of breath to put into its moans. In a brief silence, the old woman listened to her old flesh and tried to get more sleep. Predictably, just when she was almost out, the wind renewed its moaning. Aritétried to ignore it. These storms were always loud and, blessedly, short. If she could but fall back to sleep, she would wake up and the storm would have blown through. If she could fall back to sleep. But this storm was making it exceedingly difficult.
“What do you want me to do?”she muttered tiredly.“You have survived the last two thousand years. Hush and let me sleep.”Aritéhuddled farther into her thick blankets. There was a soft thud as something fell out of her blanket folds. Aritétried to peer at what had fallen. Bones protesting, she leaned forward and saw that it was her journal. Its burgundy cover edged by gold filigree gleamed in the blue firelight. She had been writing a history. Time might be the wisest of all things, but it never writes its own histories. She must have fallen asleep before she could finish. Too tired at the moment to pick it up, she settled back into her chair. The winds had subsided, giving her some peace.
She was able to enjoy the peace for only so long. An insistent scratching sound intruded upon her. A moment later there were pitiful cries. It sounded like a small child.
“Now what?”She asked sitting up as quickly as her old bones would let her. Her maternal instinct was invoked, as was her curiosity. She pushed aside her blankets, grabbed her cane and worked her way up to her feet. Slowly, for the stiffness in her legs, Aritéshuffled toward the entry of her home. Her home was a cave drilled into this mountain centuries ago. Being that old and holding up to two inhabitant’s at a time, it was full of odds and ends. Thick blankets that she had fancied over the years kept the floor warm and soft. Tapestries that she had saved from old ruins covered the stone walls, keeping in the warmth of the blue magic fire (it was easier to control than a normal one) that burned in the center of the room before her chair. On tables about the room were books and scrolls, some of which were older then the mountains themselves. In all the clutter was a b
asin of polished mountain stone. Water churned within it, never still. Upon a table nearby was a quartz crystal pyramid. Floating within it was an onyx four point star. The star was lined in silver with a black opal set in its center. Slowly, very slowly as if asleep, the star turned.
A small tunnel led from the main cavern on the far side from the door. Through it one would find a larger cave then Arité’s chamber. Within it was a lush world. A garden that would make any gardener cry with joy. There were crop plants such as corn, carrots, cabbage, potatoes, and tomatoes. There were trees bearing fruits. Small deer and rabbits provided Aritéwith meat. The whole place was lit by a petite ball of flames which floated at the top of the cavern. Heat from this sun ran the entire cave like its cousin in the sky. Water vapor rose from the plants and animals and condensed in the colder parts of the ceiling and rained upon the little world. From those points of rain, tiny streams flowed to irrigate the rest of the garden. Besides her chair, the garden was Arité’s favorite place.
Aritéwas heading away from all this. She was heading toward her metalwood door. Before she could reach the door a small voice wailed from the shadow near it.“Mama! Mama!”it cried. Aritébacked as a small…child materialized out of the shadows. The child was of nondescript appearance. So covered in an urchins’filth, one couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl. The child cried softly.
“Who are you, child?”Aritéasked. No one ever visited her. Considering where she lived, that was not a surprise. Any one foolish enough to brave the mountains typically died after a day. The mountains suffered only her presence. The only ones who survived a passing did so with Arité’s knowledge. She grimaced at that thought. She had made a devastating mistake hundreds of years past; she had let the Sheyestivans through. Aritéwished she could correct her mistake, wished she could go back in time. Just like everyone else, despite her magics, she could not go back. Her mistake, like all her actions, was carved into time’s granite surface. Unable to correct her mistake, she did what she could for all those who died. She remembered them.
The Ways of Mages: Two Worlds Page 11
