by Luke Tarzian
A man approached, a soft smile drawn across his lips. He had a rather hawkish face, with eyes the color of spring and dark hair pulled back behind his ears. It was the feathered wings wrapped around his frame that really drew Serece’s gaze. The color of midnight, they shimmered in the fading light, and Serece felt an immediate sense of peace as her questions and worries faded to nothing—for the moment at least.
“How are you feeling?” the man asked. He unfurled his wings and took at seat beside her bedroll. The dark feathers fluctuated midnight to moonlight and back again. It was hypnotizing, and Serece realized the discomfort the plague had caused her had subsided almost completely. She felt the occasional tickle but nothing more, nor did her insides feel like they were tearing themselves apart. The man took her hand in his, caressing it. “Not up to speaking?”
Serece looked around for the first time. They were in a building wrought from stone and wood, and every person here was phantaxian. This must be one of the enclaves. Though craning her neck for a better view out the window, Serece realized they were not in Helveden. A sea of tress spanned before her.
“Where…how?” Serece managed. “Who are you?”
He chuckled softly. “The answer is complicated. I have many names and I am many things to many people. For now, you may call me Dren.”
Serece looked at Dren. The word was a phantaxian epithet, but it also meant father, and father sometimes referred to a god. “Is that you, Phantaxis?”
Dren smiled sadly, caressing her hand. “Phantaxis is dead.”
Serece stammered. “…Dead.”
“Things do not end well for those who try to bargain with Te Mirkvahíl, especially not with those monsters the Origin at his beck and call.” Dren bowed his head, sighing heavily. “The fool. I’ve no idea what he did but the consequences are clear.” He raised his eyes and they fell on Serece’s skin. “I cannot reverse this plague, but the snow that now falls on the Phantaxis Mountains will keep it at bay. There your people can continue to live.”
Tears streamed down Serece’s cheeks, but she could not feel their warmth. Just as the plague had taken their flesh and taken their ability to roam the world as the phantaxians saw fit, it too had taken their ability to comprehend warmth. She sobbed into her hands, harder yet as Faro’s white-eyed stare found its way back to the forefront of her thoughts. How had this happened?
She closed her eyes, feeling for the peace and serenity Dren’s wings had first brought her. What she found was something else, something intimately familiar: the bestial frenzy and rage of the energy Yssa. Serece’s eyes snapped open and she pointed a finger at Dren. “Are you—”
There was no sound as Dren mouthed the name Yssa. Fog swathed the forest enclave, withdrawing as fast as it had come. When all was clear Serece found herself beside Fiel in a field of tall grass. Before them stood a portal of brilliant blue light. Above them was a vast expanse of swirling colors and stars.
“How could you have repressed such a thing?” Serece asked.
“Shock, I suppose,” said Fiel. “And sorrow. So much happening in such a short time, I think I struggled to process it all. Phantaxis’ betrayal, the start of the plague, and Faro’s madness all in one night…” She closed her eyes and Serece could see her aunt was trembling at the thought. “No matter. We are here now.”
They held hands and started toward the portal. As they neared, a slender figure of shadow and tattered wings manifested to impede their progress. Tall and hooded, it extended a warning hand.
“You are Equilibrium,” Fiel said. “I have met you on my previous journeys to The In Between. Will you not let us pass? We have come to save a spirit named Yssa. She is trapped in Lea Mort.”
Equilibrium scrutinized them with a faceless stare. Then it relaxed and stepped to the side. “If Yssa is what you seek then you may pass.” The portal whirled and shifted color sporadically, quickly enough that Serece had to look away for fear of a seizure. “But know that Lea Mort is a dangerous place, especially for those who are not dead.”
“Thank you,” Fiel said, and she led Serece through.
* * *
Vare could hear Phantaxis’ shrieks in the distance. The deranged god was growing nearer and Fiel and Serece had yet to arrive. He stood, fingertips aglow, and began to vigorously trace the air. Fiel possessed the ability to wield illum and he hoped her keen enough to discern what he was leaving behind. Vare yearned to be free of this wretched place, especially with all he had come to learn from watching the world pass him by, but it seemed his time had not yet arrived. He wiped the air clean then did what he had been doing for years—he ran.
* * *
Serece and Fiel arrived on the shore of a lake. It shone bright as the moon and the air smelled of rain. Fiel narrowed her eyes and paced, muttering to herself as she brushed her fingers through the air. Serece looked on. “Aunt Fiel, what are you—”
“Hush!” Fiel continued to brush. She stopped and stood with her hands clasped behind her, head slightly inclined, eyes darting back and forth. Her expression soured as her eyes grew level with the lake. She took Serece by the hand and suddenly Serece could see words in the air, written in light.
You will find my body in and beneath the cities and towns of my name, the first line read, and Serece recognized the phantaxian symbols for Vare, Tal, and Ulm, named for the old phantaxian Illumurgist Vare Tal-úlm. Make me whole as once I was and from this wretched place can I escape.
Yssa is dead at the hands of Phantaxis, the second line read. His spirit hunts me even now and I fear history has begun to repeat. The weapon of old will soon be made whole and the world will know the Keepers’ wrath.
Serece eyed the third line and her heart nearly stopped. Te Mirkvahíl yet remains.
She looked at her aunt, who bore a grim expression. “Is any of this true?”
Fiel said nothing, and that was all Serece needed to know.
* * *
Behtréal sat in the farmland grass, gazing at the moon, at the city Helveden in silhouette. It reminded him of Ouran’an, of home. Of home in all its shining, architecturally impressive glory, the whole of which he’d looked upon from spires so tall they kissed the clouds. Of home, where erudition had been born. Of home, where the plague had come and claimed his people for its own—mother, father, brother, son, and wife, turned to ash and lost to time.
Behtréal closed his eyes, affording himself the opportunity to weep and lament the life he had lost. You could have quelled the pestilence, he thought of his brother, who had been the smartest of them all. You could have kept our people safe. He clenched his fists and the tang of iron found his nose. But you forsook us, abandoned blood and history for a mortal woman brittle as the sun is bright. Because of you I’m all that’s left.
Three millennia wandering the world. Three millennia with little more than memories, nightmares, and the hope for reclamation to keep him pressing on. It’d been lonely save for a period of time little less than half a millennium ago. He’d lived in a small house, in a small city, in a small kingdom, and he had loved it there. Somehow, it’d been enough. Simple folk by worldly standards. A kind, hard-working people who had welcomed him with open arms, only to eventually be slaughtered by the invading Ariathan Empire bent on conquering anything that breathed.
Behtréal recalled that night, coming back to a necropolis of snow and flesh after a month or two away. So many dead, preserved by winter’s touch as if to taunt him on his way, to show him where his journey led.
The bold may wisely cage a wolf that wields the power to raise an army, Behtréal thought, but it is the arrogant, the ignorant who reach between the bars to slay the wolf’s cubs. Emendation, a goal once small in scope, had grown broader by the year. Where once he’d sought simply to traverse the Temporal Sea, he now also strove to bring the Ariathan Empire to its knees. Vengeance for the sake of retribution. Vengeance for the sake of reclamation. It’d been by twistedly delicious chance that Ariath’s Illumurgists were the key to his suc
cess.
Behtréal sighed at the prospect of his enterprise. He had earned the right to catch his breath, to mourn what and whom he had lost, for soon the endgame would arrive. A month or two was all he had to wait—and that was but a blink to one who’d soon possess the means to rewrite time.
7
Whispers
“You seem at ease, my Flesh,” Faro whispered. “Is it the snow, perhaps? Or freedom from that cage you call a city; solace from your sister’s secret sins, your wife’s defiled tomb?” Faro trailed a wispy finger down Theailys’ cheek, then brushed his chin. “Something else, perchance? Something…primal?”
Theailys glanced up from his notes on The Keepers’ Wrath. He frowned at Faro as he adjusted his spectacles, then stored his notes away in his bag. “You really do ask questions at the most inopportune times.” A grin spread across the silhouette’s face to reveal teeth like knives. Theailys rolled his eyes. “Do you really want an answer or are you trying to get me to drop my guard so you can run amok and maim whatever it is you think is lurking out there in the night?”
Faro frowned. A whimper escaped as he coiled his wispy self around Theailys like a snake. “My Flesh, you wound me! Do you really think I would do something like that?” Theailys offered an arched eyebrow and the tilt of his head in response. Faro chuckled. “Keen to my games, I see.” He paused, frowning, and it was one of the strangest things Theailys had seen. “Indulge, if you would, my genuine curiosity: why are you so at ease?”
Theailys shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Is it the red-head with the chest?” Faro asked. Theailys glared. “The one-eyed Warden?”
“Neither,” Theailys said, and he rubbed his thumb and index finger together to renew the wisp of light that he’d been reading by. Faro hissed and Theailys smirked. Sometimes it was the smallest victories that meant the most, and the smallest victories usually involved bestowing irritation upon Faro in the simplest of ways, such as wisps of illum or a happy thought. “Do you really want to know?”
“Oh yes.” Faro tapped his fingers together eagerly.
“If you must know,” Theailys said. “I’ve figured out a way to make you go away. It came to me in Ulm.”
Faro arched an eyebrow, then withdrew from Theailys, cackling all the while.
Theailys looked on as the silhouette wheezed and howled. He snapped his fingers and the wisp of illum bloomed, brighter than it ever had before, strong enough to bathe the tent in warm blue light that drew a guttural shriek from Faro as he disintegrated into absence.
Theailys grinned. He produced a matchbook and pipe from his bag, packed it with smoke, and lit the source of Faro’s demise. The stuff was stronger than what he and Mistress Khal had smoked a couple nights prior, stronger yet than what he’d smoked atop the ramparts overlooking Ulm. It was a temporary solution to the demons in his mind, but a solution nonetheless. If he could find the balance between intoxication and sobriety Theailys felt there was a decent chance the rest of this journey might proceed without a hitch, especially since the high not only rid his mind of Faro’s nattering, but also amplified his joy. And with an elevated mood Theailys could once again properly channel illum, something he hadn’t been able to do since Anayela’s death. He looked at the wisp of light, curled his fingers, and called it home with but a thought. To his great relief the wisp obeyed, and he drew its illum back into his hand, watching the pale blue luminescence permeate his veins.
Feeling both bold and warm Theailys rose to his feet and withdrew from the tent to find Leyandra and Cailean having a drink and meal by the fire. The two shaghounds lay at their sides, one asleep and the other gazing intently at the piece of meat Cailean meant to shove into his mouth.
“About time you joined us,” Leyandra said. “This one’s nearly drunk himself out of the conversation.”
Cailean grumbled indiscernibly as he chewed, nearly choked, then swallowed his food. “Booze makes for better warmth than a blanket, my dear.”
“That so?” Leyandra said. “Why you shakin’ like a pup that’s pissed himself then, eh?”
“Hmm.” Cailean gave his crotch a pat. “Well. Probably ‘cause I pissed myself.” He took a swig from his flask, which Theailys guessed he’d filled while in Ulm. “Oh, don’t give me those judgy stares. I’m quite warm and I’ll change my pants when I’m done if you want.”
“Nothin’s changed much, I see,” said Leyandra. Cailean gave her the finger and she blew him a kiss.
“You mean he was always so charming?” Theailys inquired, pulling his flask from the folds of his cloak. “I never would have guessed.”
Leyandra smiled softly and leaned against the log at her back. “It’s a facade.”
“I know,” Theailys said, soft enough only Leyandra could hear. “That much is easy to tell, especially having worn masks of my own.” He took a breath. “I’ve never been to war, but… Keepers, I can only imagine what something so violent does to one’s mind.” Searyn flashed across his own. He hoped she was all right, that Khoren and the Faithbringers hadn’t subjected her to some violent form of interrogation. “My sister is a general and…”
Leyandra placed her hand on his arm. “Cailean told me what happened to her the other night. He thinks about her a lot.”
“Searyn always spoke highly of him,” Theailys said. “Said he was one of the best she’d ever commanded.”
“Hard to believe at first glance,” Leyandra said. “What with the cynicism and persistent stench of booze. Sometimes you get him talkin’ after a couple o’ drinks…and history flows like a river in spring. Takes the proper questions, you see? The proper alcohol too. Nice bit of wine and he sings like a jay.”
Theailys frowned. “The wine I gave him must have been piss because the conversation ended before it really began.”
Leyandra nodded. “Was it a red or a white?”
“Red. I think?” Theailys wrinkled his nose.
“There’s your problem, then,” Leyandra said. “You want the man to speak his mind, you have to white wine and dine the one-eyed fuck.” She rested her chin on her fist, gaze still fixed on Cailean, who had taken to snuggling against the shaghounds for warmth. “He was a such a different man the first time we met. And now, havin’ seen him for the first time in five years…”
Theailys placed a gentle hand on hers. “I remember the day Searyn came back from the front. It felt like talking to someone wearing her skin.” Again, he recalled his incarcerated twin, wondering what hell she was going through, wishing he could do something to help. “It was awful, and the only thing I could do was sit back and wait for things to maybe be as they were before this whole mess of a war began.”
“I suppose that’s sort of what this feels like, then,” Leyandra said. “And it makes me glad I only served as long as I did.”
Theailys looked at her. “You fought?”
“For a time, after the onset,” she said. “I went far to the west when I was discharged. To Harbanan.”
“Why?” Theailys asked. “Why were you discharged?”
A melancholy smile spread across her lips. “Not much use for an Illumurgist robbed of her light.” She yanked her collar down to reveal a web of darkened, risen flesh. Claw marks. “Lokyn bastards nearly killed me. Some days I wish they had.” She rolled up her sleeves and each wrist bore a crisscross of scars. “Ariath isn’t too fond of the dissident to begin with, and it’s even worse for those of us who can’t wield the light.”
Theailys stared, feeling cold, disgusted. Leyandra was one of his own. She had fought in the war, nearly died so that others could live, and this was how she’d been repaid. He grabbed a fistful of snow and squeezed as hard as he could, feeling it melt in his hand and his rage along with it.
“I’m dissident too,” he said.
“I know. The surname gave it away,” Leyandra said. All dissident had one-syllable surnames. “But I appreciate you tellin’ me anyway. Nice to be travelin’ with more than one person to talk to, you know?”
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Theailys nodded, settling back against the log.
“I should probably change my pants,” Cailean said. “I think I may have done more than just piss.”
Leyandra groaned.
Theailys closed his eyes and laughed.
* * *
Theailys stood beneath the oak tree. To his right was Varésh, not a bird this time but a man with great feathered wings the color of midnight. To Theailys’ left was Anayela, garbed in a soft white gown that came to rest an inch below her knees. Her dark brown hair tossed gently in the breeze and her green eyes twinkled in the sun.
“’Tis been a while since your dreams were so serene,” said Varésh, and his wings began to glow.
“Longer yet since I was more than smoke and ash,” said Anayela, and she smiled. “Have you finally learned to cage the beast, my love, or is this mental peace a lie?” She approached, stopping little less than a foot from where he stood, then raised a finger and tapped the air. Waves of energy rippled outward and Anayela’s smile fell. “I had a feeling.”
Theailys tried to speak. He felt himself saying the words though he could hear no sound. He reached for Anayela’s hand and the barrier pulsed, throwing him back through the air. He hit the ground and rolled through the grass, coming to rest on his back, the sky the color of dawn, day, and dusk all at once. Was that simply the nature of this dream or was his mind trying to tell him something?
He pushed himself to his feet and strode to the barrier, stopping just short of where he thought it began. Anayela gazed back, still as a doll. Varésh approached, hands clasped behind his back, wings furled like a cloak. He cocked his head, blinking like a bird in thought, like the bird he was in his heart, then tapped the barrier just as Anayela had. It shimmered with resistance. Varésh tapped it second time and the waves froze; the barrier fell away as if it were mist in the wind. Anayela remained as she was, and Varésh extended his hand to Theailys.
