The Chronicle

by David F. Farris

  Bryson leapt to his hands and knees, spotting a frozen crown encircling a head of frost-entwined violet hair. Clouds of white expelled from his mouth as his breathing grew heavy. Ice slithered across the ceiling, cracking against the glass as it reached Bryson’s limbs. It crept up his hands and calves, pinning him to the glass. He tried to writhe free, but the ice was too strong. Even his clout couldn’t counter it.

  He opened his mouth to scream, but only silence escaped. Apoleia strolled across the room, away from Shelly. Bryson became confused—until he saw the crib. He had forgotten about the baby—probably because he had never seen it. What kind of father was he?

  Swaddled in gold silk, the baby’s face couldn’t be seen. Apoleia stood next to the mahogany crib, gazing down at the infant. After a painfully long moment for Bryson, Apoleia glanced toward the ceiling. The sinister smile that Bryson had expected wasn’t there. She cried as she stared at him.

  Please, walk away, Bryson thought. Spare my child and come for me instead. I’m right here.

  Apoleia’s face disappeared as she looked into the crib again. She reached a hand down toward the silk and clutched at what Bryson could only assume to be the baby’s neck. The bundle of blankets began to squirm. Bryson tried to yank his hands free from the ice with all of his might, but by this point, it had spread up his arms to his shoulders.

  This was his greatest fear: not only his baby’s death, but for it to happen right in front of him—to be utterly hopeless. He had never been so scared in his life.

  “Bryson.”

  The sound of his own name startled Bryson. The frozen glass beneath him morphed into a room of ice consumed by shadows. He was confused, until he heard that damned screech, jarring him back to his senses.

  “Why don’t you ever summon me when you should?” someone asked.

  Bryson turned to see Thusia. She crouched next to him with a hand on his shoulder, tears rolling down her face.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  “I am not immune to a Linsani,” she said shakily.

  “But you’re a Branian,” he croaked.

  Thusia closed her eyes and wiped them with her sleeve. “Doesn’t mean anything when confronted by such a beast. Not only is it as powerful as I am, but it’s my weakness.”

  Another screech ripped through the sky. Bryson keeled over and covered his bloody ears. “What do you mean?!” he screamed.

  “Spirit Energy has the power to negate Cyn Energy, but the opposite is also true depending on the power level of the two sides.” She paused and grimaced, as another screech reached their ears. “My spirit isn’t strong enough to counter the darkness of a Linsani.”

  “Then what do we do?” Bryson asked, losing control of his emotions. “I’m too scared to even move!”

  Thusia grabbed his arm. “I can give you some of my spirit.”

  “No!” he said. “I’ve heard how that story unfolds!”

  “Not like with Mendac,” she replied. “I will give you enough to regain mobility. What flies outside this wall is the Linsani of Fear. I can’t dispel the fear it’s instilling in you, but I can soften it to a certain degree. Your soul will leave the dead state that it’s in now.”

  Bryson looked down and clenched his jaw. “Fine!”

  A bit of warmth returned to Bryson’s core—a surreal sensation. He moved his arm and legs, struggling to stand. Every movement required battling the fear within him. Thusia stood with him, still gripping his arm. As more warmth spilled into Bryson, he began to question his Branian’s tactic. This felt like a lot more than she had explained.

  “Can you muster up a lightning bolt?” she asked.

  “I’ve been conserving my energy, so I should be able to weave a few of them.”

  They watched as the skeletal wyvern nosedived toward the sea. “In this scenario, it’s not your energy or weaving abilities I’m worried about, but your mental state.”

  “I think I can do it,” he said. “The visions have stopped.”

  Thusia nodded. “Good. That means your spirit is being restored. On the count of three, we’ll attack together. One, two, three!”

  A gale burst from Thusia’s chest and blew over the battlefield, catching the Linsani and blowing the skeleton off its path. The wyvern tumbled through the air, its shadows nearly extinguishing around its bones. A bolt of lightning struck the beast, lighting the night sky and making its bones appear black. For a brief moment, the fear inside Bryson subdued. Thusia shot three more gales through the sky, and Bryson began to weave another bolt. Then the Linsani released a scream louder than anything that had come prior.

  Bryson’s eyes widened, dread suffocating him. He stepped onto the window’s ledge and gazed down the side of the towering wall, ready to step off ... to end everything.

  “No, get down!” Thusia grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him back, but he somehow stayed planted on the frozen surface.

  The Linsani recovered and flew directly toward Bryson and Thusia. It continued to unleash its cry, its monstrous wings spread wide and flat. At a certain distance, it pulled up, its bony feet hanging beneath it. Its jaw spread, and a mass of black erupted from its mouth. A powerful breath of fear billowed toward Bryson.

  “Let me go,” Bryson said, as empty as a younger Olivia.

  Just as the shadows were about to reach them, a wall of ice appeared outside the window. The wyvern’s attack was halted momentarily, but based off the gradual change of color in the barrier from white to gray, it wouldn’t last much longer. Bryson didn’t know who was responsible for the barrier, nor did he care. He only envisioned his body plastered against the ground below.

  “Let me go,” he said again.

  He felt someone grasp his other arm with cold, clammy fingers. Such a touch did not belong to Thusia. He gazed down to his other side and saw the same crystal crown that had belonged to the woman in his vision—the woman who had strangled his child.

  Still Queen Apoleia gazed at Bryson with stern eyes, studying whatever it was concealed within him.

  “I know you’ll let me jump,” Bryson said. “At least I can count on you for that.”

  “I will not,” she said. “I will not allow you to do more damage to this family than I have already done. I’ve heard there’s a little you in this world now.” Her expression became solemn. “Bryson, you and your friends gave me my father back. I want to make sure that my grandchild doesn’t lose his ... especially one as powerful as you ...” A tear slid down her cheek. “Or as generous as you.”

  Bryson stared at her in shock. Had he heard her correctly? He backed off the ledge, placing his feet on the room’s floor. Both Thusia’s and Apoleia’s grasp slid down to his hands. The barrier was now nothing more than a sheet of ice. The Linsani’s screech continued to drown the kingdom, but it no longer affected Bryson—not with these two women by his side.

  He feared nothing.

  The barrier vanished. A blast of wind emitted from Thusia’s chest and cut through the incoming shadows, clearing a sight line to the Linsani and extinguishing its shaded body. A beam of ice shot from Apoleia’s chest, colliding with the Linsani’s wings and trapping them midair. The wyvern’s skeleton hung there, trying to break free.

  “Hurry!” Thusia said while the bones of the Linsani’s wings cracked the ice. “Before it rebuilds its Cynergy!”

  Bryson screamed, using all of the clout he could muster up, expelling Intel Energy from every pore in his body while focusing on the weaving needed for what he was about to attempt.

  Bolts of lightning struck the sea—a half dozen of them—stringing together the sky and the land like that of a puppeteer and his puppets. For a split second, it seemed as if the sun sat directly over the kingdom. A couple bolts struck the enemy forces in the distance, annihilating mass numbers of those who had tried to flee earlier. Those who didn’t die from the electricity were swallowed by the frigid sea as fissures were carved into the ice.

  Most of the bolts, however, converged half
way between the sky and ground, striking the pinned Linsani from several different angles. The beast cried, but it sounded different than anything prior. It was in agonizing pain, its bones beginning to disintegrate.

  Bryson rescinded his clout and gasped for air. He leaned over the window’s ledge and heaved, watching as the ashes of the wyvern’s skeleton swirled in the returning breeze. In the backdrop was chaos. Entire sections of ice turned sideways, sinking into the waters. Enemy forces fought to stay afloat before ultimately disappearing beneath the surface.

  Thusia and Apoleia let go of Bryson’s hands, and he toppled over immediately.

  38

  A Mere Number

  Shelly stood in the war corridor, a room she had never entered in her life prior to today. Her father, King Vitio, sat in a cushioned chair that had been dragged in from another room. Flen, meanwhile, stood at the front of the room, having just broadcasted the conclusion of the Still Kingdom’s battle.

  For an excruciating few minutes, Flen had lost contact with his identical brother. The last they had seen before contact had been reestablished was the blizzard falling from the sky to reveal a haunting beast. And once the broadcast returned, they were met with a display of lightning that could only be seen if one were to visit the Intel Kingdom’s Thunder Alley—and not only that, but there was the strange encounter between Apoleia, Bryson, and Thusia.

  The silence went on for maybe ten minutes. Even Flen had taken a seat on a wooden table behind him, staring somewhere in the distance, likely reflecting on what had just transpired.

  The door opened. Shelly turned to find her mother peeking inside, baby Leon cradled in one arm. “What happened? It’s been silent for far too long.”

  “We won,” Vitio said without turning to address his wife.

  Delilah nodded slightly and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  They should have been celebrating, for this was a much-needed victory after the many losses suffered by the True Light alliance in the past couple weeks—the loss of the Adren Kingdom and its king, the death of Himitsu, and the failure to infiltrate Phelos via Flen and Joy’s teleplatforms, resulting in the death of General Lars. Shelly looked at her father. What was he thinking? For some reason, through all of these defeats, he had remained level-headed.

  “You don’t know what’s going on, Shelly,” he had said when she last addressed him. “Everything will work out in the end.”

  Was this what he had meant? That Himitsu and Lars might have died, but Bryson, Olivia, Toshik, and Vuilni proving victorious made up for it? No, even he couldn’t have relied on Jugtah performing a miracle and returning motor functions to Still Queen Apoleia’s father, nor could he have predicted someone as erratic as that woman joining his efforts even if Jugtah had been successful. That had all been chance—albeit, calculated chance, but still chance nonetheless.

  “What are you thinking, Father?” Shelly asked.

  He scratched at his scruff and slowly gazed at his daughter. “I’m thinking about the power I just witnessed.”

  Shelly nodded in agreement. “That wasn’t of this world.”

  “No,” he muttered. “No, it definitely was not. To weave a storm of lightning ... one that could have incapacitated a Branian or Bewahr.”

  “We learn about Linsani when we’re young,” Flen said, catching the two royals by surprise. “In the Dark Realm, it’s sort of a necessary precaution because it is believed that they can travel between the kingdoms of the realm. It’s not something the Light Realm must worry about.” He glanced at Vitio and Shelly with narrowed eyes, placing a hand on his leg. “Do you know what they teach you to do if such an event were to occur, if a Linsani neared your city?”

  Neither of them answered, so Flen said, “They tell you to kill yourself.”

  Shelly raised an eyebrow. “What’s the point if that’s what the Linsani make you want to do anyway? I just witnessed a battle in which it seemed like more soldiers killed themselves rather than their enemy.”

  “Do it without thought,” Flen said. “If needed, have someone kill you on your behalf.”

  “Insane,” Shelly said.

  “Is it?” he asked. “When faced with a Linsani, you’ll experience a rapid and torturous degradation of your soul. Depending on the Linsani sibling, a series of visions—ranging from concrete memories to falsified prophecies and mirages—will flash through your mind, each one designed to kill your will. Once again, it’s a special kind of torture—one that drives you to suicide just to end it. Wouldn’t you rather end your life on your own accord, without having to experience your greatest fears?”

  “Or you can fight and kill it,” Shelly suggested. “Like Bryson just did.”

  Flen let out a single laugh and shook his head. “No, you can’t—not any normal person at least. Come on, Princess. Even you just said it: ‘That wasn’t of this world.’ And you were right. It takes someone who wields otherworldly clout to defeat an otherworldly beast.” He shrugged and leaned back. “Still, even Bryson needed help. He had a Spirit Branian next to him, yet it was his Stillian mother who infused his soul with a reinvigorated spirit.” Flen sighed. “That’s the kind of thing that only a mother can accomplish.”

  Shelly and Vitio remained silent. Flen slid off the edge of the table and stood up. “Well, I’ll be off then. That’s the last favor I do you guys, for I am now this palace’s permanent leech.”

  Flen left the room. Shelly glanced at her father and asked, “Is this why you’ve been telling me not to worry?”

  “Huh?”

  “You keep telling me everything will work out in the end,” she explained. “Is this what you meant? Because if so, I don’t want to be anywhere near you and Bryson when you try to tell him that his best friend was killed by Elyol, and that it’s okay because at least we gained the Still Kingdom’s loyalties.”

  Vitio placed his hand on Shelly’s. “Everything’s covered.”

  Shelly groaned. The room’s door opened, and in walked Queen Delilah. Shelly got up and marched over to her mom, embracing her in a hug. Delilah’s eyes widened, surprised by a gesture only typically given to her by her other daughter, Lilu. She relaxed, smiling as she rested her cheek against Shelly’s temple.

  * * *

  Dev King Storshae sat on a step leading up to his dead father’s throne. He gazed emptily at the stone beneath him, having just watched a display of clout the likes of which he’d never seen before—not even from Bewahr Fonos when he had still been alive. All of the Jestivan were highly skilled; Storshae had come to accept this fact within the past year. But Bryson LeAnce was different. He now understood how Rehn could have been bested by Mendac.

  Despite the loss on the Diamond Sea, Storshae remained calm. The many other victories his alliance had sustained recently allowed him such a luxury. The Archaic Kingdom was beginning to thrive, proving itself by stopping True Light’s sneak attack through the secret teleplatforms; Elyol had slain a Jestivan; Yama and Kadlest sat atop the Adren Kingdom; and, most important, Toono had acquired his eighth sacrifice, two away from the threshold needed to bring Storshae’s father, Dev King Rehn, back to life. Considering these gains, the loss of the Still Kingdom as an ally could be dealt with.

  Storshae turned and stared at the throne. He would miss the festivities in Phelos to celebrate the aforementioned accomplishments, which was a bit disappointing. But it didn’t seem to matter that much when compared to the euphoria that would consume Cogdan after Dev King Rehn’s rebirth. In the end, that’s all Storshae felt deserved celebration.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the grand double doors opening at the far end of the throne room. He pried his gaze away from the throne, expecting to see a soldier or guard, for they were the only people who communicated with Storshae. He didn’t really have any other relationships; his life had been dedicated to his father.

  Instead, a man in his mid-to-late twenties walked down the hall, a bandage circling the top of his head above hi
s eyes. He wore white robes and carried a cane by his side, his clogs echoing against the marble floor.

  Storshae’s forehead crumpled. “Toono, what are you doing here? You should be off looking for your Intel sacrifice.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Toono said, coming to a stop at the bottom of the steps. “I’ve decided that the Intel sacrifice should be last, not the Dev.”

  The two men locked eyes for a few seconds. “Did you now?” Storshae shook his head. “Well, you know that is not how this plays out.”

  “I know what happened on the Diamond Sea,” Toono said.

  “How?”

  “As I was strolling through the palace, I passed a corridor holding one of your intelligence personnel and a few of your less talented grunts. The intelligence officer was broadcasting the battle from a Devish officer’s perspective on the sea ...” Toono trailed off, placing his cane on the ground and leaning against it. “That lightning could come from no other but the son of Mendac.”

  “You don’t think I’ve already connected those dots?”

  “You have,” Toono said. “But have you connected others? You are not strong enough to beat that young man. I’m providing you with an ultimatum here. Either you hand over the Dev sacrifice now, allowing me to make quick work before moving on to the final sacrifice, or you continue with this stubborn game of yours, and I quit trying to achieve this resurrection of your father.”

  Storshae stood up, the steps beneath him making him a bit taller than Toono. “Then I will plan for your replacement. I have options to choose from after all: Elyol Brekton, Vliyan NuForce, Sigmund Archaic.”

  “You honestly believe that any of them have the ability to work an ancient as powerful as Anathallo?” Toono asked. “Not only that, but an ancient that requires a second piece: Dimiourgos. If you had planned for a replacement, you would have tried to keep Praetor Poicus or Mynute Senex alive; they are the only two who could possibly wield an ancient such as Anathallo. Anyone else would be a gamble, including my dear friend, Agnos.”