Awake the Cullers (History of Ondar)

by Amanda Young

  “Which way do we go?” Traelene asked.

  Everyone turned to Samantha. “Does anyone know where the tunnels lead?” she asked.

  “Some lead out of the city,” one of the guards answered. “Others lead to similar access points within the city.”

  Samantha considered their options. As appealing as the idea of distance was, leaving the city also meant they were further from reinforcements. She thought back to the last time she spoke with the three lords. Pielere could feel the suffering of his people. Mirerien could sense where Kern was. They all seemed to possess strange powers. If they still lived she knew they would find their wives and children. “What tunnels go south?”

  “The one behind you leads to the healing clerics’ tree,” the guard answered. “The next one to the right lets out at the guard tower on the southern wall, just north of the river, and the one on the side goes south, but I don’t know where it ends.”

  Samantha closed her eyes and said a prayer for guidance. She felt a tug on her chest, pulling her toward the clerics’ tunnel. Needing no other sign, she turned that way.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m sorry Marcy,” Bryce shook his head. Thomas rested on the grass, a rolled up jacket for a pillow. Despite Bryce’s bandaging, his wound continued to bleed. He coughed, and Marcy ran back to his side. Bryce stepped away uncomfortably. “What are you even doing back here?” he asked, not knowing what else to say or do.

  “We went with Kern,” she said, her voice breaking into a sob. “First Kern, now you,” she cried into Thomas’ shirt, unable to hold back her emotions any longer.

  “Kern . . . was hurt?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Kern was killed at the wall,” she swiped the tears from her red, swollen eyes.

  “Oh, Marcy, I’m sorry.” He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. Deciding to give her space, he turned his attention to the girl who was with Marcy when he found them. She sat with her back to the wall of the building they were hiding behind. Her eyes looked forward blankly, in some kind of shock. From what he overheard of her mumblings he could tell she somehow blamed herself for what happened, though he couldn’t fathom how. Knowing there was nothing else he could say for Marcy right now, he pulled the girl to her feet and led her around the side of the building.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, pulling a napkin from his pocket, folding it several times and handing it to her.

  She looked down at the napkin, now a delicate white flower, and smiled, a look of complete innocence and wonder melting her face. “Candice,” she answered.

  Physically, he guessed she was about fifteen years old. Of course, he wasn’t very good at judging human ages. Most people he knew had at least a little elf in them. Emotionally, she acted very much younger, at least at the moment. Then again, Suriaxian children tended to grow to maturity quickly, so maybe he was misjudging her. “Candice, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Bryce. Where are you from?”

  Her eyes shuttered slightly, but she answered, “Breakeren.”

  “Ah,” he nodded, beginning to piece things together. “Is that where you met my sister?”

  She shook her head. “We met in the forest when I was running. We’ve been running ever since.”

  Bryce closed his eyes and sighed. “Well, we will just have to see what we can do to change that,” he said with more confidence than he felt. She smiled and seemed comforted. Now if only he could think of the right words to say to make things easier for his sister. “Come on,” he said, standing. “Let’s get back to Marcy.”

  * * *

  Marcy held her hand over the bloody wound and felt tears run down her face. “Thomas, Thomas.” She shook him, but he did not open his eyes. She felt his heart beat slowly under her fingers at his neck. His breathing was shallow. His chest rose only a fraction of an inch. She felt his life slipping away and looked around for help. There was none. They were alone with no potions or spells to heal his injury.

  She sat up straight, her eyes wide. Spells. There was one chance, but it was risky with no guarantee of success. Looking down at his face, she made her decision and began to sing the song of binding. She only hoped she could remember all the words. There weren’t many bindings in Suriax.

  The ritual was created for King Emerien, the founder of Aleria. He was an elf in love with a human. Unable to imagine life without her, he had the clerics find a way to bind their lives. He shortened his life to extend hers. To be bound was a permanent choice, and it could not be done by force. Only true love could allow the magic to work. Only the willing could be bound.

  Marcy sang and prayed. She prayed the gift of her life energy could save him. She did not know of any binding being attempted under such circumstances, but where magic was involved anything could happen. And if she did cut her own life in half and lose him anyway, so be it.

  She felt her palm warm over his wound. Her body grew heavy. Her head spun. She closed her eyes, feeling tired and weak. The sense of heaviness eased off, beginning at her head and peeling off her like a snake removing an old skin. She felt it last at her fingertips and toes. Then Thomas grew heavy in her arms. She opened her eyes, the dizziness gone, and watched as his features elongated into a more elven look. He took a deep breath, his eyes blinking several times. His hand went to his stomach. His fingers searched through the blood for an injury, but the skin was healed. He looked at Marcy, his clean hand wiping the tears from her face. His eyes searched hers. “What did you do?” he asked softly.

  She leaned her face into his hand and cried quiet tears of relief. “We are joined. The magic of the binding saved you.”

  His eyes shone with gratitude and uncertainty. She could see he wanted to ask if she was certain she wanted this, but they both knew a binding would not work otherwise. He tilted his head, catching the distant sounds of battle with his newly heightened hearing. He stood and pulled her to her feet. “The battle is getting closer.”

  Marcy shook her head. “No, the sounds are as loud as before. You just couldn’t hear it, then.”

  He looked at her in confusion and reached up to touch the soft points of his ears. His eyes grew with comprehension. “That will take some getting used to. Alright, well we still need to move.”

  “Marce?” Bryce called out, looking between her and Thomas. Candice held onto his arm, holding a paper flower with her other hand. Her face glowed at seeing Thomas alive and standing. Bryce just looked confused. Then he saw the changes in their appearances, and the confusion turned to sadness. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “It was the only way,” she defended.

  Oblivious to the tension between them, Candice ran happily to Thomas. Laughing at her excitement, he knelt beside her. “Your ears look funny,” she said, poking them. “Are you okay?” a hint of fear entered her voice at the question.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  She hugged him tightly and cried. “I’m so glad. I thought my father killed you.”

  “Your father?” he pulled back to look at her face.

  “I . . . I didn’t want you to get hurt. I just saw you two fighting and . . . I know he’s not my daddy anymore,” she began sobbing into his still bloody shirt. “But what if he is? What if it is still him somehow?”

  Thomas patted her back. Marcy and Bryce shared a look, their own argument seeming far less important given the pain of this young girl. “Come on,” Bryce said to her instead. “I’ll brow beat you later, if we survive this mess.”

  “Wait,” Thomas said, raising his ring to activate it.

  “Kern’s ring?” Marcy asked hesitantly. Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I think it’s Frex, though he sounds strange.”

  “Frex? How?”

  “Kern gave him another ring like ours before we left Aleria. It was set up to speak to Kern’s ring first and only come to mine if the call went unanswered.” He fell silent, listening closely. “He is in trouble, at the bakery. They are under attack.”

  “We must help him,” Marcy said adamant
ly. With Kern gone, there was no one else to offer aide.

  “Good luck with that,” Bryce snorted. “I take it this bakery is in Aleria?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “It isn’t too far from the main bridge.”

  “Wonderful. And how do you expect to get there through all the invaders and Alerian troops likely fighting to keep anyone and everyone from crossing into the city? And even if you can get over there, what makes you think you’ll do it in time to actually be of any help?”

  “I hate to say this,” Thomas said, “but he has a point.”

  Marcy closed her eyes and grabbed her broach, as she often did while thinking. Only this time it burned her. “I think I have a way,” she realized, holding on despite the heat. “My broach,” she answered their questioning faces. “Feel this.” She lifted it from her cloak for each of them to feel.

  “Why is it so hot?” Bryce was the first to ask.

  “And how is that going to help?” Thomas added.

  “Lynnalin gave this to me as a gift,” she explained to her brother. “She said it could have any number of spells on it. I felt it get warm like this once before when it activated a spell that allowed me to fall slowly. I think it wants to activate another spell. Come closer.”

  The moment they all were touching, the air shimmered and shifted. The bushes and ground turned to stone and overturned tables and chairs. Three people attempted to put their weight against the door to keep it from being busted in. One, Marcy recognized as the baker’s grandson, Alnerand. The baker, an older elven woman named Elisteen, and Frex, Kern’s aged uncle, were no were to be seen. The man and woman helping Alnerand were much younger, though they dressed strikingly similar. Outside the Culler invaders ran at the walls and windows. “Candice, get in the back,” Marcy commanded, running forward. Bryce and Thomas went to help the others.

  Pulling her heat in to her, Marcy sent it outward. The others flinched visibly as the wave passed through them and continued on outside. Once she felt the heat surround the building on all sides, Marcy sparked it, setting up a tall wall of fire around the entire building. Closing her eyes, she pictured the fire, watching it thicken and burn hotter. It was a death trap to any who entered it. Some still tried, but those who did make it through did not live long. Marcy kept feeding the fire heat until she felt her own skin begin to flush. “That’s enough,” she heard Thomas say. Inclined to agree with him, she tried to pull the heat back, but it was free now and did not want to be restrained.

  Heat continued to rush out of her in waves, stealing her air and baking her skin. She felt her body falling, wrapped in something soft. Shocks of cold that she soon recognized as water, helped break the hold the heat had on her. She opened her eyes, the pain down to a tingling in her fingertips and toes. Filling her lungs with welcomed oxygen, she took the glass of water Thomas offered her. Bryce beat a towel against the curtains to put out a small fire. There were singe marks everywhere. “Sorry,” she coughed, struggling to sit.

  “Don’t be,” the woman said. “That was quite a show.”

  “And it worked,” the man added. “The streets are quiet again.”

  Marcy squinted, sure her ears or eyes were deceiving her. The man and woman sounded remarkably like Frex and Elisteen, but they were much too young. The man laughed and helped Marcy to stand. “I know. It’s me. I promise. I’ve been getting younger ever since I returned to this city. I thought it was my imagination at first, state of mind and all that, but, well there’s no denying it anymore. Especially once it started happening to Eli, too.” The couple shared a loving look and a chaste kiss on the cheek. Marcy smiled at their happiness. Whatever was at work here, it could not have happened to a nicer couple. Frex dedicated his entire life to keeping Kern safe in exile and hiding his royal lineage from those who may want to harm him. Now, Frex was given a second chance at that life. If only Kern could be here to see it. She felt her eyes moisten.

  “By the way, where is Kern?” Frex asked, somehow tapping into her train of thoughts. “Not that I don’t appreciate your help, I’m just eager to challenge my stubborn nephew to a wrestling match.” His eyes twinkled with mirth.

  “He is with his brothers and sister,” Thomas jumped in, saving Marcy from having to break the sad news. She squeezed his hand in thanks for the rescue and sighed. They would have to tell him eventually, but it could wait a little bit.

  “Who are you?” Alnerand asked, seeing Candice in the back of the shop.

  “It’s okay,” Marcy assured her. “These are friends.”

  Alnerand walked over to her, coaxing her out of hiding. “I’m Alnerand,” he introduced himself.

  “Candice,” she replied, responding to his kindness and youthfulness. Leaving the two of them to get acquainted, the rest of them developed their defenses. There was no chance of convincing Elisteen to leave her bakery, so the best they could do was have a plan in place for when the invaders returned. As the sounds of fighting grew louder again, they settled in for the next wave of battle.

  * * *

  “So you are Kern, the man who plays with gods.”

  Kern opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He found himself in a room, draped in red curtains, with shields and swords proudly on display. The room was comfortable, yet efficient, with simple wooden furniture and a carpet made of grass. Across from him sat a man draped in a black tunic bound by a twisted golden cord. His armor rested on the floor beside his chair. A glistening black blade with ruby accents sat on the table to his other side. Kern knew without question this man was a warrior. Even without wearing his armor or weapon, he carried the air of a dangerous and lethal opponent.

  “You reject the gifts of one and die saving another,” the man continued. “You know it isn’t every day a mortal sacrifices his life for one. Oh, of course people die for their gods all the time in one war or another, but they never die from actually physically protecting one.”

  “One what?” Kern asked, still completely confused, having difficulty following the conversation. “Am I dead?”

  “A god, and yes, you are dead, at least for the time being.”

  “But,” Kern struggled to remember what happened before he woke up in this strange place. “I was protecting my sister.”

  “Exactly.”

  Kern tried to wrap his sluggish mind around what the man said. “You are telling me my sister is a god?” he asked, finally making the connections.

  The man put a hand on Kern’s face, his fingers gripping Kern’s chin. “Now you are getting it.

  “Pielere and Eirae?”

  “Also gods. They may be new gods, but gods non-the-less.”

  “That . . . well that explains a lot actually,” Kern said, accepting the answer much quicker than he probably should. But it really did explain everything about how they acted and the powers they wielded. “And who are you?”

  “First answer me one question. How is it you find it so easy to reject power? You rejected Venerith’s gift of fire, which caused quite a stir by the way. And you reject any hint of mortal power or influence the Siblings try to give you. Why? What is it you desire?”

  What did he desire? Kern asked himself that very question many times over the past few months. For years, his life made sense. He was an assassin, a mercenary. Then he found out he was of royal blood. His half sister, Queen of Suriax, wanted to kill him. His full siblings were the rulers of Aleria. All four of them were beings of immense power; politically, magically and otherwise. They were leaders, people whose actions shaped the world. Their choices mattered. They mattered. Who was he compared to all that?

  The man looked at Kern expectantly. Not sure what he would say, Kern began speaking the thoughts in his mind, hoping his ramblings would lead to something meaningful. “I want to help people,” he said honestly. “Leading the refugees was probably the first time in my life I really felt I was doing something I was meant to do. Before last summer I never thought about what was right or just. But now . . . when I found out th
ere would be no reinforcements and the refugees were on their own, it felt wrong. I know Pielere and the others were doing everything they could, and I don’t blame them. They had many other responsibilities to worry about, but when I looked in the eyes of the survivors, I knew I had to protect them.

  “Suriax and Aleria are both so centered on the law. In Suriax justice comes from the legal right to defend yourself and take revenge on those who wrong you. In Aleria justice is about protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty. It’s about maintaining order. But where was the justice for the refugees? Unable to defend themselves and too far from the protection of the cities, they fell through the cracks, lost and abandoned by both systems. They were victims of strategy and politics. There are some people laws cannot protect. There are some places the power of the law cannot reach. There are times the laws are less important than the lives of the people affected by them.”

  “Are you saying you, brother of the Three Lawgivers, do not believe in the law?” The man’s excitement at the irony of that question was evident.

  “No, it’s important,” Kern clarified. “But it is just one part of a bigger picture. Laws can be great. They can help people, but they are only as just as the people who write and enforce them. And even the best laws cannot help everyone.”

  “Couldn’t you do more to help those people if you possessed greater power?”

  “No,” Kern answered adamantly.” With power comes restriction, limitations. You have to do what is good for the whole and think about the big picture. You miss the individuals. I don’t need power. I need freedom to act and go where I am needed, regardless of borders or politics or any of those other distractions. I want the freedom to do what is good and right because it is right. Just because something is legal doesn’t make it good, and just because something is illegal doesn’t make it wrong. I’ve been mired in laws my entire life, justifying my actions based on what was allowed and accepted in Suriax. Eirae opened my eyes to the error of that thinking. There is a higher moral imperative that supersedes the laws of any man. Without that guidepost, following the law is meaningless.