“The ways of healing are not well known to me,” the old man uttered, removing his hand. “My specialties lie in other areas. I did what I could, but perhaps you can do a fairer job of it yourself when you are feeling a bit better.”
Darien frowned as the import of the words sank in. Then his eyes widened. He was perfectly capable of healing himself, now, and hadn’t even remembered it. Instantly, he reached within and felt for the surge of the magic field inside him. It was there, singing quietly in the back of his mind.
“No!”
The urgency of the command caused Darien to flinch as he forced his mind back from the touch of the field. He opened his eyes, staring up at the old mage in dim confusion.
“Never attempt that again with a head injury,” the man admonished sharply, shaking a finger. “You ought to know better, boy, especially this close to a vortex. But you’re new, aren’t you? Only yesterday, you passed my gate as an acolyte. Yet now I see a fresh set of markings on your wrist.”
Darien frowned, staring down at his right arm. He was surprised to see the image of what looked like a heavy iron chain engraven into his flesh. The mark had not been there yesterday; the old man was right. He had an identical emblem on his left wrist, which he had acquired sixteen years before when he had spoken the Acolyte’s Oath. Now, he bore a matching set on both arms, the symbol of a fully Bound mage. Darien held his wrist aloft, staring as he turned it over and admired the complexity of the pattern that wrapped all the way around his arm, seamless and glimmering like silver in the softly muted light. It must have appeared there on its own last night as he had spoken his Oath to Tyrius Flynn. He hadn’t even been aware of it.
“I suppose I should introduce myself,” the old man smiled. “My apologies, but I’m unused to the ways of civilized manners anymore. My name is Edric Torrence, Third Tier Master, if you must know.”
Darien nodded weakly in acknowledgement, then reminded the aged Master of his own name with a feeling of apprehension. Only yesterday he had introduced himself to the same man as “Darien Lauchlin, Acolyte of Aerysius.” But now it felt incredibly odd hearing his own lips uttering his new title, “Grand Master of the Fifth Tier.” The old man blinked at him. Such an elevated ranking was almost unheard of, as the system went. There was only one mage in all of Aerysius who was a level above him, and that was Meiran. He had fallen in love with the only Sixth Tier Grand Master in existence. But Meiran was dead, now. Along with all of the others.
“The city?” he whispered faintly, though he really didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Utterly destroyed.”
Darien closed his eyes as a shiver passed over him. He had guessed that would be the case. His last memory of Aerysius was a shattered, desolate tomb. He wondered if his mother had managed to escape. The explosion of the bridge that had trapped him against the cliff may have offered her a chance to get away. If she was still alive, he had no idea where she could be; the Catacombs could have taken her anywhere.
“Have there been other survivors?” he wondered, dreading the answer.
The old man shook his head sadly. “As far as I know, my friend, you and I are the only mages left alive in the entire world. And you are indeed lucky to be alive. The whole Vale was turned out this morning, witnessing the destruction on the cliffs above. Your fall from the mountain was marked by many. Including myself, for which you are most fortunate,” he added with the slightest smile. “I slowed your decent as best I could. Unfortunately, there was not much I could do while you were still within the throes of the vortex.”
Darien winced, hearing that. He remembered nothing of the fall. The last thing he remembered was thinking of Meiran and holding her image in his mind as he stepped over the edge of the cliff. It was well beyond fortunate that Master Edric had just happened to be looking up at just the right time.
“You have my thanks,” he whispered sincerely.
“I was actually rather shocked at finding you still alive,” the old Master went on. “It took a few townsmen to haul you up from the river bottom. One of them recognized you; apparently, he knew you from before, from when you lived down here in the Vale. Hmmph. I’m surprised we never met. Ah, bother, I’m rambling, aren’t I? Please forgive me. I’m no longer used to the company of people, you see. My work is a solitary thing.”
Darien didn’t know what to say. Whatever the Master’s work was, it was certainly an odd branch of magic, judging by the hundreds of dead and yet undecayed birds that were spinning silently in the air above his bed. Perhaps something to do with flight, though Darien knew that was an impossibility. The magic field could support accomplishments that were true wonders, but human flight was not one of them. Yet, it did make him think. It was no simple feat the old man had performed, slowing his fall the way he had. Darien wasn’t sure he could duplicate the act himself.
The sound of a shout made Darien turn his head to stare in the direction of the open window. Now that he was listening, he realized that he had been hearing an almost constant murmur of voices for some time. His brain had simply been censoring out the sounds.
“What was that?” He wanted to sit up and look out the window, but he knew better by now. He had no wish to repeat the same mistake.
Master Edric grimaced, jowls sagging. “It seems rumor travels swiftly,” he answered, spreading his hands. “Folk have been gathering all day. They know that Aerysius has fallen and that some dire evil exists on the mountainside above them. The villagers fear for their lives. Many have come here, looking for hope. Looking for you, my young friend. Apparently, they all expect you to save them.”
The explanation made Darien feel vaguely ill. He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar frustration he had experienced all his life: wanting to be of help, and yet completely incapable of doing anything. What was ironic was that now he really did have the power, finally, to make some sort of difference. Only, he had spoken a vow never to use it, at least not in any way that would be effective. Darien stared bitterly down at the chainlike markings on his wrist, resenting them.
“You know as well as I that there’s little I can do,” he muttered softly.
“I know absolutely nothing.” Edric gazed wistfully up at the feathered ornaments twisting gently in the air above his head. “But for my birds. That is the one thing I do know.”
A memory came then to Darien. Back when he was a boy, there had been an old legend that was seldom spoken of, of a crazy old man who lived in the forest above Amberlie Grove. Some folks called him the Bird Man. Darien stared up at Edric with renewed interest, wondering if the old mage could possibly be one and the same.
The aged Master reached down and patted him on the shoulder. “Rest now,” the old man instructed. “When you awaken, I’ll try to round you up something to eat.”
Darien nodded and closed his eyes. It didn’t take him a moment to fall deeply asleep.
His rest was plagued by a relentless series of nightmares that repeated over and over again in his mind, one only ending to make way for the beginning of yet another. In his dreams, Darien watched Meiran die a thousand different deaths, each with its own twisted and often brutal variation. Sometimes, he was there with her, holding her in his arms as the Hall of the Watchers collapsed around them. Other times, he witnessed her death as only an observer, watching as his brother took her life in a hundred different ways. In one especially vivid dream, he looked on helplessly as Aidan used his own sword to slit Meiran’s perfect wrists and held a crystalline goblet to collect her spilling blood. In the vision, Aidan smiled as he tilted his head back to drink deeply from that terrible cup.
In other nightmares, he was falling. He fell endlessly, over and over again. Sometimes he felt his body shatter with explosive agony as he collided against a wall of solid rock. Other times, there was no end to his fall. He plunged downward into darkness, and there was nothing in the world around him but black emptiness. He just continued falling, downward, deeper, into eternity. Sometimes Meiran was falling wi
th him, the blue fabric of her gown rippling in the wind.
Darien awoke in a glistening cold sweat and had to clamp his mouth shut to contain the scream he was feeling inside. The nightmare he had awakened from had been the most terrible of all. In it, he had seen Meiran kneeling at the feet of the Lord of the Six Hells. She had looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, her eyes empty pools of filthy green light, the same glow he had seen stabbing the sky over Aerysius, the vile radiance of the Netherworld.
Darien lay back into the pillow, panting, sweat streaming down his face. The nightmares had been too real, too vivid. He lay there trembling, trying to slow the pace of his heart, staring upward at the birds above him suspended in the strange semblance of flight. He tried to clear his mind of that last image of Meiran with the green light of Hell shining at him from her eyes.
Slowly, his breathing calmed as the terror of the dreams faded into the recesses of his mind. He watched the birds spinning on their strings, feeling soothed by the warm rays of light that beaded in through the window. Dimly, it came to him that the quality of light was altogether different. Before, he had awakened to the golden glow of late afternoon. Now, the hues around him were cooler and had the feel of early morning. He glanced around, finding Edric sitting calmly on his stool, eyes pouring over a manuscript of some type. The old man looked up at him, closing the book carefully and standing up. He shuffled over toward the bed in a stiff, arthritic stride.
“How long?” Darien wondered, focusing his vision on the tiny flecks of dust that swirled around the room, made visible by the glowing rays of light from the window.
“Two days,” Edric responded gently. “I was growing a bit concerned.”
Darien felt shocked by the amount of time that had passed by while he slept. No wonder the nightmares had seemed endless. But his head was feeling better, at least. It only throbbed mildly as he raised himself into a sitting position on the bed. The room spun for a moment then slowly steadied itself. He felt weak, shaky. Probably from three days without anything to eat. But he felt mostly well, maybe even good enough to stand. Perhaps well enough to heal himself.
As if reading his mind, the old man nodded permission. “You can try to use the field now.”
Darien closed his eyes and took hold of the pulsating rhythm in his mind. As he did, he felt a sensation almost like reeling vertigo that took a moment to pass. When it did, he opened his eyes and moved his head, testing the feel of it. The pain was gone. The weakness, however, was still there. Hunger was not something that could be healed with magic.
“Amazing,” Edric muttered, staring down at him in admiration. “That took you almost no effort. You would not imagine how difficult healing comes to someone such as myself.”
Darien nodded, understanding. As an acolyte, he had been allowed to choose the direction his training would take. There was never a moment in his life when he had wished to become anything other than a Sentinel like his father. The charter of the order was to protect the people of Rhen from the aggressions of the Enemy, all without the use of offensive techniques. A key element of his studies had been in the arts of healing, a necessity on the field of battle, and one of the most difficult subjects to master.
Darien thought about standing, but as he shifted his legs over the edge of the bed he became aware that he was naked. He looked around the small room for his clothes, but didn’t see them. At last, his eyes fell upon the robes he had worn to his Raising, the formal attire his mother had picked out for him. They were folded on the floor beside the bed, looking no better than tattered, filthy rags. Reaching down, he collected the robes with a hand and held them up to examine. The black fabric was torn in several places, crusted and rigid with what he could only imagine was dried blood. What had been a new and expensive outfit now looked destroyed beyond repair.
As he held them, Darien imagined how they had looked when he had seen them new. And, mysteriously, they suddenly were. In his hands, the fabric had once again taken on a glossy black sheen, the folds of cloth becoming whole and unrent. Beside him, he heard Edric draw in a sharp breath.
“I was thinking to loan you some of my old clothes, but I had my doubts they would fit.” The old man shook his head in wonderment, muttering, “It’s better this way. Much better.”
Edric turned his back as Darien slipped the robes on over his head. He found his boots by the door, the same worn and tattered pair that had carried him all the way down from the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. It took barely a moment of concentration, and suddenly the boots were shiny and renewed. Darien pulled them onto his feet, running his hands over the soft, gleaming leather. As he did, his eyes were drawn to another object by the window.
Darien’s eyes widened in disbelief. It had been too much to hope for; he had been holding the sword Meiran had given him when he had managed that last step off the edge of the cliff. It could have fallen anywhere. The chances of it ending up here, in this room, were remarkable. He bent down and received the black scabbard into his hand, raising it before his eyes with a feeling akin to reverence. The leather-wrapped hilt of the sword gleamed in the cool morning light. He ran his hand over it lovingly as his eyes wandered to the heavy compound crossguard. There were actually two guards; one that slanted forward and another, heavier piece of steel that was set perpendicular to the blade. The tapering ends of the guard coiled around a matching pair of rubies that were the color of fresh-spilt blood. The stone set in the pommel of the hilt was a larger version, multifaceted. It radiated a dark crimson glow that sent tiny points of light spiraling against his hand when he curled his fingers around it.
“We found that by your side,” the old man uttered, turning his way. “I recalled you wearing it the other day, so I brought it along.” What he left unspoken was the air of quiet disapproval that was remarked by his tone.
Darien nodded, leaning the scabbard back against the wall carefully. Standing, he found he couldn’t take his eyes away from it, still amazed at the sheer impossibility of it even being there.
“It was a gift,” he explained in a voice gruff with sentiment. “It’s the only thing I have left of the person who gave it to me. You have my gratitude for saving it.” He managed to turn away from the blade. As he did, he caught a fleeting look of sympathy in the other man’s eyes.
“I’m going outside. Have a look around.” He started to brush past the old man, but was stopped when Edric caught his arm.
“Wait.”
Darien watched as the aged Master moved to a chest that was pushed up against the wall. He bent over, carefully removing an odd assortment of various types of birds that were perched atop the chest, setting them down gently on the floor in front of it. He then lifted the lid and rummaged through the contents, finally producing a folded black parcel that Darien recognized immediately. It was a mage’s cloak, complete with the Silver Star embroidered on the back. Darien’s mother had provided a new one for him to wear to his Raising, but it was somewhere lost in the ruins of the Temple of Athera.
The old man pressed the cloak into Darien’s hands. “Here, put this on first.”
“But it’s yours,” he protested, shaking his head slightly in confusion. Why was the man giving him his own cloak?
“I have no need of it any longer,” Master Edric assured him. “You, on the other hand, have the need to keep up appearances.”
Which confused Darien all the more. He was only going out to take a look at the cliff and see what his eyes could tell him of the devastation. The wild creatures of the Vale could scarcely care if he was dressed in a mage’s cloak or a burlap sack. But he donned the cloak anyway, fixing it with a small silver brooch Edric passed him. He felt a strange need to appease the old Master who had not only saved his life, but had also saved his sword.
Darien opened the door, stepping out into the brilliant light of morning. And then he froze, rooted by shock. There were scores of people gathered all around the little cottage in the middle of the forest.
Darien had a sudd
en impulse to run back inside and shut the door on that sea of anxious faces. But Edric had moved up behind him, blocking the doorway and any hope of retreat. The crowd was pressing toward him, people shouting and calling out as he just stood staring out at them, appalled.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered, aghast. “What do they want from me?”
“Hope,” Edric replied.
Darien turned and stared at the old Master with horrified eyes, shaking his head in sickened disbelief.
“I...I can’t,” he protested, raising his hands in exasperation. “There’s nothing I can do for them. And why me? Why not you?”
Master Edric only chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Why, I’m just the crazy old Bird Man who lives in the wilderness up ‘yonder. But you, on the other hand, are the last remaining Sentinel of Aerysius.”
“But I’m not,” Darien objected. “I never had a chance to take an order.”
The old man just looked at him sideways and scoffed. “You are the son of Gerald Lauchlin. Of course you’re a Sentinel. What else would you be?”
Darien shivered then, thinking of Aidan. He, too, was a son of Gerald Lauchlin. Only, his brother was just about the furthest thing from a Sentinel that Darien could possibly imagine.
In front of him, the crowd had stopped stirring as a lingering silence filled the small glen before the Bird Man’s cottage. All eyes were fixed on him, regarding him with a mixture of wonder and fear, along with an almost palpable sense of apprehension. Darien could tell they were waiting for him to speak. Staring from face to face, he realized that he could recognize many of them. Some of the men standing in the crowd had been his childhood friends. He had spent long summers with them building forts and climbing trees, fishing in the river or just reveling in the wonders of youth. Until he had passed the Trial of Consideration. Then Darien had been brought to live up on the mountainside, while his friends had remained behind in the Vale. Their lives had taken decisively different paths.
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