“I have had a report from Sylvane, Obed.” Mo said as he appeared at the Surelikhan’s side.
“Were they successful?”
Mo hesitated over his next words, disbelieving the outcome the werewolf described to him. “The Last Word has opened crossing points across both worlds.”
“How many?” Obed said patiently.
“We cannot say for sure, but reports suggest it’s over two thousand, all of them in heavily populated areas.” Worry was creeping into his tone, Obed not seeming to be concerned with the Lucid and Naïve worlds mixing so openly. Mo had spent a large amount of time with the Naïves in the past, sharing some of his non-magikal knowledge with them in an effort to enlighten and empower them. From his years there, he knew they were a long way from true integration, but he saw a hopeful future, however distant it was at the time.
“And The Reapers?” Obed asked, indicating reports had reached his ears from other sources. The party that he’d sent to help included some of his most trusted clerics. It often saddened him that he couldn’t trust all that he lived with, knowing there was a growing rot within their ranks he couldn’t cure. His attention had been elsewhere for too long and saving The Balance as it currently was, seemed an impossibility. Although hope always existed, his lost Dyad’s relentless positivity leaving its mark on him even after all these years.
“Not as many as there should be.” Mo said gladly.
Obed hadn’t taken his gaze away from the lights but at this, he turned to look at his friend. “A gift on the wind of misfortune.” He said, asking the senior cleric to continue with encouraging eyes.
“It appears The Last Word didn’t complete her spell. Or should I say, couldn’t.” Obed’s eyebrows raised, the complication another welcome gift.
“Eve claims that she and Tor got through to her, or at least they were getting through to her, before The Fall intervened.”
“The Fall made an appearance?” Obed’s eyes looked a little away into the distance, his mind ticking over the events and concluding unknown outcomes.
“Yes. He came and bent her mind back to the darkness.” Mo thought about the young woman who first came to the Monastery, full of potential and joy. Seeing her grow in strength was an incredible privilege, that kind of talent a rare occurrence. It was ever more devastating when she turned from the light, no one able to sway her back.
“Interesting.” Obed mused, pulling Mo back from his daydreaming.
“They think they cast enough doubt that The Last Word couldn’t bind the right emotions and memories to her spell, reducing its effectiveness.” Obed sensed doubt in the cleric, his eyes returning to Mo’s with an intensity that wasn’t there before. The younger man, his Surelikhan and leader, was blessed with unsaid communication skills that impressed, more than scared Mo. The same couldn’t be said for his peers and other clerics at the Monastery.
“Sylvane thinks it was The Soulmonger’s doing.” Mo continued.
“It appears that at the very last moment, right when she was saying the final word, her eyes rolled into the back her head, there was a strange light emanating from her and then she fell.” Obed recognised the spell, it was definitely The Sunder.
“Her body was fine, but her soul was snatched away, her Reaper spell losing its potency and not fully realising itself.” From the Werewolf’s description, Mo knew it to be the work of Leopold too.
“Perhaps it was both.” Obed surmised. “If Eve and Tor believe they were getting through to her then so do I. If Sylvane thinks another hand was responsible, then so do I.” He stroked his beard, calculating what this meant for them. “So, Rosalind may still be saved and the Soulmonger isn’t the cynical despot everyone thinks he is.”
“You can’t let her go can you, Obed?” There was no challenge in Mo’s voice, more of a rhetorical question than anything else.
“Hope comforts. Hope strengthens. Hope is never lost.” Obed recited, his own hope burning bright in his chest. Mo saw The Master’s thoughts drift to another place, one that looked happy from the small smile that’d formed on his face. He let him sit there with the feelings for a moment before going on.
“You think Leo has chosen a side?” Mo asked.
“Perhaps. He does not want anyone to see who he truly is. Bad for business I suppose.” Satisfied, he turned back towards the purple lights. “What of Rosalind’s body, and her companions? Are they en route back to the Monastery?”
Mo sighed, pausing before answering. “They are gone.” Obed swung himself back around, the intensity returning to his eyes at more twists and turns in events as Mo went on. “A portal appeared right in the middle of Sahld’veba, allowing their escape.” On hearing this first time around he had to ask Sylvane to be extremely clear on what he saw. The Barren Sun magik’s birthplace had been surrounded by a void ever since she died, and he had to be sure that a magik from the outside was being used. Sylvane was sure.
“To where?” Obed asked, knowing the answer.
“We do not know. Sylvane didn’t recognise any of the features from the other side of the portal.” He’d made sure he probed the Werewolf prince on this as well.
“Rosalind, an Archfiend, two Furies and two seeds are now roaming free, somewhere in the two worlds?” Obed had turned back to the lights, whispering the words to himself and stroking his small beard. His suspicions at another’s hand being at play here was confirmed and although he didn’t know their identity, he had a few ideas.
Mo wasn’t surprised The Master had details he thought were only privy to him. He learned a long time ago that the Surelikhan saw many more things than anyone gave him credit for. That in mind, he hoped The Master would have some answers he didn’t. “How could a portal form there? Wouldn’t the void stop any magik from the outside getting in?”
“Same way I helped Taeonia fly in the void.” As he said this, he got up, smiling a little and walked over to a smooth part of Felther’s internal hull. His hands moved and flowed on the surface of the ship, purple lines revealing a small hatch that held a book. He mind-thanked the Wind Dancer and reached into the cavity without any haste. He then turned and showed Mo the spine of the book he was holding. It was marked with a symbol. A loose spiral, with a cross through the middle of it.
“Necromancy?” Mo gasped, uncharacteristic for a man of his age. Not much could catch him off guard, but his master holding such a dark and terrible book, did.
“Perhaps.” Obed said absently before moving on, encouraged by a whisper from the book in his hands. “The worlds are changing Ta. Ours and the Naïve’s have grown apart with time and by design, I think.” He looked at the spine of the book, as if listening to it. He was trying to make the whisper louder in his mind. “Another’s unseen hand is at work here.” He drifted off, palm on the book and listening again, eyes closed in concentration for the voice that came from the pages.
“Where are we going Obed?” Mo interrupted.
“In good time, Ta.” The old cleric knew in that moment they weren’t going anywhere to support in either; managing crossing points or stemming the flow of The Reapers. Mo had spent more time that he cared to count at the monastery, shirking the role of master more times than he cared to count, but now he wondered whether he’d made the right choice. He was a great leader in many ways, but never had a taste for the more political elements of heading an order like The Balance. Obed with his powerful voice, stature and past deeds was a logical choice if it couldn’t be him. With his powers of deduction and calm and revealing demeanour, he played the game well. Yet now, he was concerned by Obed’s actions, some choice words coming into his mind and questioning the situation.
“Perhaps you should have taken the job, Ta.”
Mo cursed himself, knowing that all their minds were connected to some degree in the Wind Dancer. Felther apologised to him, his deep tones genuine and wise.
“Very colourful language for someone as old and... Experienced, as you, Ta Mo.” Obed chuckled as he sat back down, Felther’s
lights rippling with the same emotion.
“Why did we not go to Tor and Eve’s aid, Obed?” Mo gathered himself enough to ask, trying to change the subject away from the old curse words of ancient China and the jinxed book now nestled in The Surelikhan’s lap.
“I was trying to protect them.”
Mo was lost at this, questioning The Master’s sanity. All of them heard his thoughts, Obed raising his eyebrows again, but this time he was indicating the old monk should be careful, rather than teasing him.
“All will become clear eventually Ta, but for now, you must trust that Tor, Eve, Khar and K'Chool were incapable of failing.” Mo’s eyebrows raised this time, his mind a lot quieter than a few moments ago.
“They have all, only just begun to realise their full potential and whatever events they were to face, would have just unlocked new parts of themselves. There was no doubt in my mind that; not only would they survive, but they will have been made stronger as a result.” Mo believed Obed, the resolve in the younger, potentially wiser, man clear and honest.
“Besides, us old boys need to figure out where the last one of these are.” He showed Mo the spine of the book again.
“There is another one!?”
Obed nodded. “We must find it and find out whoever is unburying the strings we do not want pulling. A larger, darker threat looms, one more insipid and eviller than Rosalind or The Reapers. I fear they are just puppets in the larger game at play here.” Obed gave Mo a knowing look and reassured him that they were on the right path.
“Onwards.” He thought-said to Felther and they sped off towards Camelot, a purple trail of glittering light in their wake.
END
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
A child of the eighties, Daniel was born to parents who were trying to run a business and raise two children. A sleepy village in North Devon was where he called home, but his childhood was spent growing up in imaginary worlds of his own, or others’ invention, just so he could escape reality.
Movies and fantastical TV shows could steal him away for hours before he would dive into fantasy and science fiction novels; marvelling at the places he could only visit in his mind and connecting with characters he could only dream of meeting. When computer games came around, he then found himself committing to adventures in wondrous places, always wanting to know more about the realms he was exploring.
Tolkien, Brooks and Pullman were his fantasy gurus. Roddenberry, Herbert, Dick and Lucas, his science fiction spirit guides. He always wished he could share an ale with Gimli, voyage with the crew of the Jerle Shannara and wondered what his daemon would be. He once asked Patrick Stewart to be his grandad, imagined what melange tasted like, thought he was a replicant and practiced moving objects with the force. He still does most of these things.
Working in advertising and marketing for over 10 years has taught him many things, mostly though, it taught him he should have been, “a creative”. Mums tell you what to do all the time and his told him he should do something creative, that he should make things. So, he’s doing it for her, his dad now passed, and the black dog that has lived at his side since as long as he can remember.
A Dyad in Time Page 52
