Row after row of rosewood shelves, each polished to a mirror-like sheen, marched away into the gloom. Oil lamps dimly lit the expanse. The lights were carefully set away from the shelves, planted within braziers and sconces. And for good reason. This was the fabled library of the Guardians, and the slightest ember might set the whole room ablaze. Thousands of books and parchment scrolls lined the shelves. Some of the books were leather bound and dutifully maintained, while other were so aged they appeared as if they would turn to dust if pressed with the slightest touch. A sudden pang of sadness gripped Desperous as he beheld the wondrous sight. This grand collection made Nochman’s High Tower library seem meager in comparison. How his father would have loved to have just one day within this most coveted room.
A dozen or more scribes were busily filtering through the rows, seeking out tomes and returning others. Two figures were lounging at a table set in the midst of it all. They were loudly engaged in some innocuous banter. Desperous’s ears perked when he heard the two voices. One was Thatcher, as he had supposed it would be. But the other was a genuine surprise.
“Ivatelo!” exclaimed Desperous, unable to contain his joy. He rushed forward, and before the old magic could resist, he gave the man a hearty hug. Ivatelo almost toppled over in his chair.
“It is a joy to see you as well,” said Ivatelo kindly. “But in truth we have been expecting you for awhile.”
Of course, thought Desperous, as he pulled away. Ivatelo would have sensed he was coming. The webbing of their souls were intertwined. The bond between wraith and necromancer was eternal. Desperous turned to Thatcher. But one look at Thatcher’s face caused Desperous to fall to his knees in awe of the dragon’s sacrifice.
Thatcher had paid a dire price for fighting the Wyrm. His right eye was gone, and even the flesh of his creaton guise was mangled with rough ridges of scarred flesh.
“The land owes your race a debt of gratitude,” said Desperous, holding his hand to his heart. “Were it not for the sacrifice of your people, we would be lost.”
“We have all made sacrifices,” said Thatcher solemnly. When he spoke, the words rattled from his throat with a rasp. He grabbed Desperous’s elbow and lifted him upright. “Rise, Desperous. Bow to gods and kings, not me. We have all fought hard enough to speak with one another as equals.”
Ivatelo motioned for one of the scribes to bring Desperous a chair. “I have caught flickers of what has transpired, but perhaps you would be willing to paint the picture in finer detail.”
Desperous complied. He told them about the events that had transpired following Ivatelo’s disappearance in Ravor. Ivatelo’s face lit up with a broad smile when he heard of Dolum’s triumphant return from the depths of the River Deep. Desperous gave his account of the final battle before Luthuania, sharing all save his encounter with Yansarian within the recesses of his mind. Ivatelo simply nodded when Desperous skipped over that section of the tale, perceiving much that Desperous did not say. When Desperous finally came to Bently’s death, the room fell silent.
Ivatelo gazed earthward, only speaking after a suitable amount of time had passed. “It grieves me that Bently would die. But I feel that this may have been fated from the start.”
Desperous found himself choking back a tear. “Bently died with great honor. Were it not for him the men of Caper would not have taken the field. He resides with his family now. He is at peace.”
With that sobering note, Thatcher and Ivatelo shared their versions of what had happened within the tower of Yasmire; Ivatelo’s confrontation with the necromancer, Thatcher’s heroic stand against the Wyrm, and lastly the cataclysmic blast that turned stone into vapor.
Awed into silence, Desperous had to take a second to collect his thoughts. He found an uncertainty gnawing in the back of his mind. “Are you positive the Wyrm perished?” pressed Desperous. The Wyrm’s mere mention caused Thatcher to noticeably shrink. The poor dragon had battled the demon of nightmares; he was not going to soon recover. Still, Desperous had to be certain there were no doubts. “I see the ruins of the tower, and the scourge of fire, but how can you know for certain?”
“Like a river undammed,” said Ivatelo, speaking for Thatcher. “The Guardian let loose the energies of the Orb. I heard the chant, I saw the light. Nothing could survive such a force.”
Grim-faced, Thatcher spoke. “I could feel it. A lightening of the air, a lessening of woe. The Wyrm, spirit and all, was consumed.” Thatcher’s lip quivered, displaying an emotion Desperous would never have guessed possible for a dragon. He considered Thatcher’s losses; Baelac, Camara, Marshal, all were dead. His father, Dai Horan, had been driven to a babbling madness. He would press the dragon no further.
Desperous mercifully changed the subject, motioning to the great archive that surrounded them. “So this is the library of the Guardians.” He thumbed through a few sheets of brittle parchment that lay on the desk. The writing was scarcely visible, the ink had long since begun to fade. He knew Eremor script. These pages were adorned in arcane runes he did not recognize. “What language is this?”
“Wyserum,” answered Ivatelo. “Remember, the Guardians and the Wyrms were once brethren. Their secrets were written in the Wyrm tongue. Few creatons ever learned the archaic language.”
“I imagine you stand amongst those few.”
Ivatelo smiled coyly.
“So this is the fate that has been bestowed upon you,” said Desperous. “To read and to learn from the Guardians. Perhaps to see behind their veil and discover secrets only they have known.”
“If this is my fate, then I have been divinely blessed,” said Ivatelo. “Few have been granted access to this vast wealth of knowledge, and even fewer have had the ability to comprehend what is written here.”
“What do you hope to learn from the gods?”
“We know now that these creatures were but pretenders of a greater power. All that they ever did was an emulation of the true gods that came before. What they have done, we might also do.”
Thatcher fidgeted uncomfortably at this notion. It was clear from the frown on his face this was not the first time they had discussed the matter.
Ivatelo dismissed the dragon’s glower with a wave of his hand. “There are other merits in delving into these archives. There may be a way to undo the spell that has bound our souls to our bodies for all eternity.”
Desperous looked to Ivatelo inquisitively. So Ivatelo felt the same hollowness that plagued Desperous. Sadly, Desperous knew that such a search was futile. “Yansarian told me there was not a way to release the soul from the wraith body.”
“Did he?” said Ivatelo with a raise of his eyebrow. “It is true that the Wyrm and Guardians held no sway over the creaton soul, the separate branches of our tree have grown too far sundered. This is why the Wyrm needed the necromancer to raise the carrion army. But I have little doubt that the Wyrm knew the spells of necromancy. And what the Wyrm knew, so did the Guardians. While Yansarian did not have the ability to release your soul from its bounds, he likely knew how.”
“Is this what you would want, to end this eternal life and venture to the lands of Elandria?”
Ivatelo sighed, and for the first time since they met, he sounded genuinely exhausted. “I have been in this world for far too long, and I have played my part in full. It is no longer my right to remain. In time you will feel the same.”
Desperous knew the truth in Ivatelo’s words. He had welcomed death at Coralan and again on the fields before Luthuania. But when the Guardian gave him a second life he began to understand his purpose. His father’s final message was clear. He was destined by Fate to carry on despite the emptiness. It was to him to find a purpose. He looked to Ivatelo with some certainty.
“I’m beginning to understand the implications of what you have made me,” began Desperous. “It is both a curse and a blessing. While I will outlast all whom I have ever known, I will also remain as a memory of the past. I will not forget the sins that have transpired. It is to
this end that I know of the one task that is mine.”
“Oh?”
“The Wyrm. Was Tyronious truly the last? You served them once, and you of all people should know if any still exist.”
Ivatelo looked to Desperous and smiled, perhaps perceiving his intention. “We are blessed; all those I have known have been reduced to ash.” But then his voice darkened. “However, the lands beyond our borders are vast, and in past eras the dominion of the demigods was wide.”
“Is there any way to be certain?” asked Desperous.
“I suppose this could be done, but I do not know precisely how...,” began Ivatelo, his interest clearly stoked.
“There are matters in which mortals should not meddle,” chided Thatcher, his voice rising to a growling menace.
“I am no mortal,” said Desperous sternly. “Think on this. If the old gods remain, how long do you imagine they will let this land remain free? The Wyrm is dead. The Guardian is dead. We are ripe for a new god. We ought to be forewarned. We ought to be prepared.”
Thatcher leaned back in his chair, grunting with displeasure.
Desperous looked to Ivatelo keenly. “Tell me what you know.”
“The Jeta Stone that you possess was not made by the Guardians, nor the Wyrm as you might presume. It was constructed by an even greater force than they. At one time the demigods used the stones much as you have.”
“The Creators!” said Desperous. “Then it is true, the Wyrm and Guardians were once servants of a higher caste.”
“So I believe,” said Ivatelo. He grabbed a piece of clean parchment and hastily drew a sketch of two figures connected by a single line that spanned from head to head. Desperous remembered the tendrils of light that ran between him and Yansarian, and he caught himself touching his own forehead.
“Initially, the Wyrm and Guardians would have worn the Jeta Stones and sapped the energies of their lords,” continued Ivatelo. “They existed as servants to exact the Creators’ will. But for whatever reason, the Creators departed this land long ago and left it devoid of a ruler, thus the Guardians and Wyrm inherited the world. With the stones no longer of use, most were lost. But a few were passed on to the creatons so that they could serve their gods more fully.”
“As it was with Yansarian and me.”
“And the necromancer Demetry and the Wyrm Tyronious,” said Ivatelo. “But creatons are not immortal, so clearly the pairs joined by the Jeta Stones have had to change many times.”
“You believe we can use the stone to find any demigods that remain.”
“Precisely,” said Ivatelo. “I am just not certain how to do it.” He sat in silent contemplation for a moment. “If there is trust between us, grant me your stone and give me time to study and reflect. I will send for you when I know the answer.”
Although Ivatelo had misled them about his identity at the start, the magic had more than vindicated himself. Desperous now trusted Ivatelo as he trusted few other people. He gave Ivatelo the Jeta Stone, certain that they both fought on the same side. Even so, he found it hard to relinquish the stone into the possession of another person, and he felt a hollowness once it passed hands.
Desperous stood and excused himself, needing to walk away from the object he had come to covet most of all in this world. Thatcher joined him for the long journey back up the stairwell.
“Is this what you really want?” asked Thatcher when they reached the top of the winding stairs.
“No,” replied Desperous in earnest. “But it is what Laveria needs. I have been granted a life eternal. This struggle might prove to require as much.”
“I’ll wager it will take a whole lot more than that.” Thatcher squeezed his shoulder, and the two parted ways.
Desperous was granted an apartment within the city, and for a few days he simply waited. But as days passed and Ivatelo sent no word, it became apparent that his answer would not arrive with haste. He was asking Ivatelo to unlock the secrets of the gods, and it would take time, perhaps forever. There was a good reason this task had long remained outside the knowledge of creatons. Still, Desperous had faith in Ivatelo. He was the last surviving servant of the Wyrm. He of all people would know how to unlock their secrets.
Desperous met with Dai Ferrivo, and he was put to work rebuilding the shattered city and gaining the trust of the people. At first, the inhabitants of the Nexus remained skeptical of their new rulers. But soon word began to arrive from the west. Capernicus was tearing itself apart. The house of Westerhip had raised a host to march against Manherm, and the southern provinces had declared themselves independent. Triremes bearing the standards of Donast and Tarmaly were harrying the coast as far north as the Orith Bulge, and the lord of Emotria had called a crusade to put down the sea lords. The men of Caper had forgotten the scourge of war sooner than Desperous had supposed possible. As news of the atrocities and hardships became known, the people began to welcome the new authority in earnest. The dragon lords came to be seen as a symbol of stability, and the foreign lumani as a source of security. Slowly, the city took on the semblance of its old self.
Weeks passed and still Ivatelo did not send for him. He began to accept that the task he had asked of the magic was beyond mortal skill. Some questions were better left unanswered. Desperous decided to go to Ivatelo and instruct him to relinquish his quest, but when he arrived to Ivatelo’s quarters, it immediately became apparent that something was amiss. Ivatelo’s servants were gone and his window covers were drawn shut. An unsettling chill shivered through Desperous’s body as he knocked on the door. A call from within bid him to enter. He found the door unlocked.
The interior of the apartment was dark, save for the slivers of light that cut around the perimeter of the drawn shades. It took a moment for Desperous’s eyes to adjust enough to discern form from shadow. He discovered the Jeta Stone resting atop a table. Ivatelo sat beside it in an old wicker rocker. He motioned for Desperous to sit.
“I opened the conduit three days ago,” explained Ivatelo. His voice was heavy, filled with apprehension. “Without a specific Guardian or Wyrm in mind, I had to open up the stone to all of their race.”
“Have you tried it?” asked Desperous. He eyed the stone longingly, remembering the warmth the Guardian had instilled within it.
Ivatelo shook his head. “This is your stone and your quest. It is not my right. But now that I have created this link, I am not certain any should touch the stone at all. If you hold the stone and do not detect another, we will know for certain that the gods have perished from this earth. But if others still persist, know this; while it is true that not all of the gods were wretched, some certainly were, and if they detect you, they will know all of your secrets. We will be revealed to them, however far away they may be.”
“And you fear that a demigod in some faraway land will know that we are free of their brethren’s rule and come here to lord over us?”
“I don’t know,” said Ivatelo in all truthfulness. “I just feel dread, and this is why I have sat and thought carefully for the past few nights. I hoped that I might come to a clearer understanding of this fear. In many ways I feel it is unfounded, but we have both seen the treachery that has arisen from the gods. Yet I, like you, want to know with all certainty that they have been blasted from this earth, and are never again to return.” He shook his head in frustration. “I am filled with many prejudices from my long life, and you are wise. You must make this decision on your own.”
Desperous understood Ivatelo’s fears, but his unsated need to feel the basking warmth of the light overpowered all other instinct. Steadfast, he reach for the stone, but Ivatelo halted his hand mid-motion.
“You must be fully prepared. If you are detected they will be able to see your thoughts. They could draw from you all of your strength. It would kill a mortal.”
“But not I.”
“No,” said Ivatelo. “But your body would become a wasted shell, an eternal tomb for your soul.”
“I am prepared to r
isk all to know,” said Desperous, blinking away the nightmarish memory from the field before Luthuania.
Ivatelo released his grip, and began to nervously thrum his fingers against his cheek, clearly vexed by the prospect of what might come next. He watched and waited.
Desperous held his hand over the stone, and as he did his heart began to waver. But he was somehow certain this was the destiny of which his father had spoken. He could not falter now. He pushed all craven thoughts from his mind and grasped the stone, bracing himself for the surging warmth he expected to cast over his frame like a wave of fire. The moment passed, and then another. Cold. He felt nothing but the bitter cold.
He exhaled heavily. “It’s empty. There are no others.”
Ivatelo sighed with relief and patted Desperous’s back. “The creaton races are now lords of their own destiny.”
Desperous smiled, but it was a false gesture. Despite his brain telling him that this was splendidly good news, there was a void that existed that he knew would never again be filled. He had felt it only briefly on the battlefield before Luthuania. The warmth imbued by the stone. Without the Guardians he would never again feel that warmth nor possess such strength. Without the Wyrm, the Great Enemy, what purpose might his endless life have?
He looked to Ivatelo, and knew that the magic could detect much of what he thought.
Ivatelo grasped Desperous’s hands in his own. “You will find peace and purpose in these long years ahead, but it will take time.”
• • •
Desperous retreated from the Nexus the following day and made for the desolate western foothills of the Eng Mountains. It was a place where he could be alone and think for however long he needed. He knew his brother would search for him, so he told no one where he was going. He was certain Ivatelo could track him down if he truly needed to be found.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 24
