by Luke Tarzian
“What is the point of this dream,” he inquired, “if you refuse to let down your guard? You longed so badly to gaze upon your wife, yet here she is, and you erect a wall?” Varésh unfurled his wings and pulled Theailys into a gentle embrace. “Why, dear friend, do you allow yourself to live in such pain?”
Tears fell from Theailys’ eyes. “I ripped her soul from her chest when she was alive”— he sucked in a ragged breath, then the truth came tumbling free—“and I was afraid if I let myself get close to my memory of what she once was I would destroy the only thing of her that I had left.” His body shook as he sobbed into Varésh’s chest. “I miss her, Varésh. I miss her so much.”
Varésh wrapped his wings around them, permeating Theailys with warmth. “Then allow yourself to relive your time together every night when you close your eyes,” he said. “The pain of absence will weigh a little less when you wake if you allow yourself to find peace in your dreams.”
Theailys looked up at Varésh. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” said Varésh, “we have had this conversation many times before and it always seems to work.”
Theailys blinked and he was alone in the grass. Varésh and Anayela were gone. Night had come and the oak tree loomed, moonlight dancing off its leaves. Theailys sighed and approached the old thing at a measured pace, wondering when his friend and his wife might appear. As he neared the tree, he discerned something he never had before: a city in the distance, a city first like ice and rock, then choked in flames, and then at rest as though the ruin never had come. What did that mean?
“In your heart you know,” said a voice not unlike his own.
“That sometimes dreams are more than dreams,” a second said.
Theailys turned to acknowledge whatever had come. Before him, to his right, stood a figure of shadow. On the left, one of brilliant light. Mirkúr and illum. “My dreams are naught but wartime fears,” he said. “Anxiety and sorrow made manifest.”
“Think that, if you wish,” said Mirkúr. “But beware the triptych.”
“Dream your dreams,” Illum said. “But heed the signs.”
“Truth from madness,” Theailys said, and he narrowed his eyes. Another of Khar Am’s tenets.
“Indeed,” the figures said, and then they fell away to radiant mist and smoke and Theailys was alone.
He turned to look at the oak tree, but it was gone, and in its place remained a stump and…
He took a seat in the grass and crossed his legs, gazing out into the vast peculiarity of his dream. The tree stump, beneath a sky of night; beyond that, a sapling in the cloudy dawn; further yet, the oak tree, stout and green beneath the azure sky and shining sun. A triptych.
What, he wondered, is its truth?
* * *
Serece awoke buried up to her chin in the snow. It was night, the moon was full, and Fiel sat at her side.
“How do you feel?” her aunt asked.
Serece pushed herself to sit up, shedding snow as she did. She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust after having been out for… Keepers, how long had it been? “Light. Airy.” She stood up from the snow. “Almost weightless.”
“Something to consider the next time you feel a bit sluggish,” Fiel said. “Extended sleeps in the snow do wonders for our plagued bodies.” She stood, gazing out into the night at nothing in particular. “Do you remember what you saw?”
“Your memory of Faro Fatego,” Serece said. “Vare Tal-úlm’s message.”
“Then you know what must happen next,” Fiel said, turning to look her niece in the eyes. “We must return to Te Vétur Thae and impart what we’ve learned upon our people, regardless of whether or not they see us as pariahs.”
Serece nodded slowly. She could just imagine her mother’s reaction to all of this, to her return, to Aunt Fiel’s return after Keepers knew how many years she’d been gone, proclaimed dead. “Father will believe us,” she said. “He always thought Te Mirkvahíl might still exist and what we saw in The In Between proves he was right.” She paused, chewing her lip. “If Yssa is dead…”
“Then we need not worry about tempering rage,” Fiel said, “though it would serve us well not to let such practices fall by the wayside. Who knows what comes next? Something more primal than Yssa, perhaps?”
Serece was not keen on the possibility of such a thing and so let the thought dissolve. “We should be on our way.”
“Yes,” Fiel said, and she dropped to all fours.
Serece gawked, withholding a scream as her aunt snarled and writhed. Bones snapped. Flesh and muscle tore only to reknit themselves beneath tufts of thick white fur. Serece blinked and pinched her cheek as hard as she could. The great wolf—her aunt—remained, large as a horse with azure eyes. Fiel snorted, dropping down so Serece could climb onto her back.
Serece did so, body trembling, though whether with fear, awe, or some combination of the two she wasn’t exactly sure. She had seen beasts such as this several times in her life—High Wolves, they were called—and here her aunt was one of them! But how?
The question lingered as they took off into the night.
* * *
Theailys inhaled the smoke, letting it sit for a moment before he breathed it out through his mouth and nose. His body tingled, and he felt the weight of the questions his dream had invoked lessen a bit, though they refused to completely leave his thoughts. And why should they? With everything that had happened these last few days maybe it was time to consider the notion his dreams might actually be something more. But if that were the case then what were they hinting at, what were the various triptych manifestations trying to say?
The tree, he recalled. The city. Had there been anything else? He frowned as they rode the shaghounds up the mountain path, dawn light creeping out from behind the clouds. The idea that had come to him was as much insane as it was plausible. Me? He had been standing in that field with illum and mirkúr—was he supposed to represent some sort of middle ground, some sort of balance? Or might it all have something to do with the calendar? The first third of the year was Dawn Year, the second was Mid Year, and the last was Black Year.
“You look like you’re thinkin’ a bit too hard,” Leyandra said, eyeing Theailys from the back of Cailean’s shaghound.
“Weird dream.” He fell back into thought and the madness swarmed like house cats toward milk. Dawn Year, sapling, illum; Mid Year, oak tree, balance; Black Year, stump, mirkúr. Where the hell did the city fit into this? A city in frost, a city in flames, a city at rest—what did it all mean?
They crested the incline, coming to a collection of boulders dusted with snow, beyond which stood a length of trees that ran for miles in all directions. “It’ll take us a while to pass through,” Theailys said. “After that it shouldn’t be more than an hour to the phantaxian city.”
Cailean snorted. “Paleskins sure like their privacy.”
“Yes, and they also like beheading the mouthy fucks dumb enough to sling slurs,” Theailys snapped. “Remember what I said in Helveden, Cailean—country over person. I’m not afraid to let them have their way with you so long as I get the argentium I came for.”
Cailean waved him off, muttering indiscernibly, and they continued into the trees.
They rode for a time in silence, listening to the birds and the breeze.
“Do you hate them, Cailean?” Leyandra asked. “The phantaxians.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you call them paleskins,” Theailys said. “Not exactly the friendliest of terms.”
Cailean chewed the thumb of his glove, then brushed his hand through his hair. “I don’t hate ‘em, but I’m not fond of ‘em either, you see? Something unnatural about ‘em. ’S almost like…” He grimaced. “Like they’re dead. I s’pose I don’t really trust them. If something looks dead then damn it all it should be dead, not walking around.”
Theailys arched an eyebrow. “That’s got to be one of the stupidest excuses I’ve ever heard.”
“I suppose that makes a little more sense,” Theailys said, rolling his eyes, “but the phantaxians are people, not the undead. They’ve come under enough scrutiny already so why fan the flames? Why not give them the respect they ask for? That’s really all they’ve ever wanted.”
Cailean frowned. “They’ve killed people I—”
“People you know?” Theailys said. “Cailean, they slaughtered my requisitions team—a team I personally put together. And we’ve slaughtered them! Ariath treated them horribly when they lived in the enclaves. Ariath cut down those who remained after the onset of the plague. The barbarism goes both ways.”
Cailean remained silent for a time, brooding as they broke, as they mounted up and continued through the trees. “You’re right,” he said finally.
Theailys nodded. Leyandra gave Cailean’s arm a squeeze.
Twigs snapped and the sound echoed. Theailys looked about, listening; Leyandra and Cailean each had a hand on the hilt of their blades. They hadn’t encountered any hostility three days into their ascent, but Theailys supposed things were subject to change. A snarl followed the snaps, and a chorus of shrieks superseded the snarl. Shrieks that sounded almost like cackling.
“Fuck,” Cailean hissed. “Lokyns.”
He squeezed his shaghound into a gallop, Theailys quickly following. “If it’s lokyns,” Theailys yelled over the sound of paws pounding snow and earth, “then why the hell are we running toward them? And what about whatever that snarl came from?” Neither of his companions offered a reply. Great. Theailys tensed his jaw and sighed. He focused, drawing from his internal well of illum to conjure an orb. He wasn’t sure if Cailean—a Warden—would be able draw power from it like he was supposed to, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
They erupted into a clearing in the trees. In the center was a massive white wolf, beneath the wolf the unconscious body of a woman, and around them a dozen or so lokyns. Theailys cringed, lips drawn back in a rictus of disgust. Lokyns came in various shapes, though they were primarily humanoid, but these looked like several corpses amalgamated and held together with mirkúr. Some had heads were hands should have been, others heads in the center of their torsos with limbs protruding from wherever the hell they saw fit.
“Can’t take them all,” Cailean growled.
“No shit,” Theailys said, wincing at the demons’ grating cackling.
“Dear Flesh…” Faro offered a wispy chuckle. “Might I come out to play?”
Fuck it. Theailys slipped from off from atop his shaghound, landing in the snow with a crunch. Mirkúr streamed from his fingers, cold as the snow beneath his boots. Theailys closed his eyes and Faro grinned back from the void.
* * *
Serece awoke in her bedroom in the citadel of Te Vétur Thae. Her body ached horribly, and she could recall little if any of how she had arrived here, let alone what had transpired in the time between now and when she and Fiel had been ambushed in the forest by lokyns. She sat up and, wincing, stood from her bed and crossed the room to the window, looking out into the dusk.
Presently there was a knock at her door. She bid them entry and in stepped Undrensil. Serece ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He returned the gesture with a firm embrace.
“I was worried about you,” he said. “You were in horrible shape when they brought you home.”
They? Serece furrowed her brow. “Who? Is Aunt Fiel all right? Where is she?”
Undrensil rubbed her back gently. “Fiel is all right. She is resting. The others, the Ariathans…”
“Ariathans again?” Serece spat, pulling away from her father. “Did they not learn their lesson after the last time?”
“They saved your life,” Undrensil said, tone measured as ever. “That is cause enough for me to permit them entry into our realm. That and the fact the Illumurgist at their head is a friend.”
Serece narrowed an eye, studying the momentary twinkle in her father’s eye. The way he had said the word ‘friend,’ especially about an Ariathan Illumurgist… “No. No. You have got to be kidding me!” Her eyes went wide and struggled against her father’s superior strength as he held her against him. “Please tell me it’s not Theailys An. Father, please!”
Undrensil chuckled at her aggravation and it was all Serece could do to keep herself from thumping his chest. “One day the pair of you will learn to get on,” he said. “But until such a day comes, I expect you to be civil, Serece. They will not be staying long, I think. Argentium is most likely the reason for this visit, but…” He frowned and faraway look entered his eyes.
“Father?” Serece said. “But what…?”
“Curiosities,” he said after a moment, and Serece’s memories of what she had seen in The In Between came rushing to the front of her mind.
“Might I accompany you, then?” she asked, and with a begrudging sigh added, “I promise not to offend your little Illumurgist. Not too much, at least.”
“I suppose,” Undrensil agreed. “You had best get properly dressed. I was on my way to meet with him before I stopped to check on you.”
“He can wait just a moment,” Serece said, and she ushered her father out the door so she could change.
* * *
Theailys sat in Undrensil’s study. The phantaxian king had yet to appear, but Theailys found he didn’t mind too much at the moment. He was busy trying to recollect what had happened between their arrival at Te Vétur Thae and their encounter with the lokyns in the woods.
I don’t suppose you might care to indulge me, would you? So much for banishing Faro. At least he had the strength of will to dictate when the stupid voice could take possession of his body.
“I had fun, my Flesh,” said Faro almost instantly. “Fun, just as you willed.”
Are Cailean and Leyandra all right?
“As well as can be, considering…” Faro snickered.
Considering what?
“You put on quite a show,” Faro said. “One of these days I’m going to let you watch.” The door opened and in stepped Undrensil and a young woman Theailys thought he recognized. “Until next time, my Flesh,”
Theailys’ mind went quiet, allowing him to focus on the other individuals in the room. He eyed the woman up and down and she glared. Probably thinks I’m trying to pass judgment on her skin— Oh. Perdition. Theailys bowed his head. “Great King.” He glanced up, stare lingering on the woman. “Serece.”
“You look shorter than I remember, Theailys An,” Serece said, taking a seat at the long table opposite her father. “Older too. A bit fatter as well.”
Theailys tensed his jaw. Breathe. Just. Fucking. Breathe. “Yes, well…war tends to perpetuate stress, thank you for noticing. And thank you, Undrensil, for agreeing to meet with me in light of recent events. I offer my sincerest apologies for whatever offense my previous requisitions team made; I should have come myself from the onset, but…” He shook his head. “War, ending a war takes time, time I am afraid I simply could not afford, not with the clock I am on.”
Undrensil bowed his head in response, his platinum locks bouncing. He was a bit more hawkish in the face than Theailys remembered. “Apologies accepted, Theailys An. I hope no offense was taken by our course of action? A covenant broken yields brutal consequence, you understand.”
“None,” Theailys lied with a tight-lipped smile.
“You’re an awful liar,” Serece said. “You always have been, byaun.” Byaun—fool. It had been her favorite thing to call him for as long as he could recall. “What did your people say, hmm? Did they call for phantaxian blood?” She drew a dagger and twirled it airily as she looked
him in the eyes.
“Serece…” Undrensil glared, though Theailys could detect a hint of amusement in his eyes. The phantaxian king cleared his throat. “Politics aside—you are here for argentium. I am inclined to bestow it upon you. It has been a while and you played a part in both saving my daughter’s life and driving the lokyns away, but I wonder what purpose you seek it for.”
“A weapon,” Theailys said. It was best to be transparent here. “The Keepers’ Wrath.”
“You’re forging…that?” Serece asked before her father could speak. Was that fear in her eyes? “Why? Do you know what Faro Fatego did with that thing?”
“Yes,” Theailys said. “I do.”
“Why, then?” Undrensil asked. “Why forge the weapon that almost brought your country to its knees?”
Faro had said nearly the exact same thing. “There is a barrier of energy around the Heart of Mirkúr,” Theailys explained. “I am the only one capable of doing away with it, but to do so I need to amplify my ability to reap. If the Heart isn’t destroyed the lokyns will only keep coming, regardless of the fact Te Mirkvahíl is dead by my sister’s blade.”
“I believe that you believe your words to be true, Theailys An,” Undrensil said, “but my experience begs to wonder if your war-mongering country has once more been struck blind by ignorance.” He stood from his seat and closed the gap between them with three long steps. “Te Mirkvahíl is cunning. The Demon Prime is a force of nature, a wind that starts as but a whisper and evolves into a storm of madness you cannot comprehend.” He ran his fingers along Theailys’ cheek. “You wield mirkúr, dear friend, but you are also naïve.”
Theailys kept his tongue, eyes shifting to Serece. He wondered if it was the cold that made him shiver or the look Undrensil had bestowed upon him.
“I pity the ignorance of your country, the arrogance with which you all speak,” the phantaxian king said in a tone Theailys was not used to hearing. It was almost…hateful. “It blinds you. You believe Te Mirkvahíl to have perished in your last assault on the Heart of Mirkúr, but what proof do you have? What attestation did your generals bring to give this proclamation credence?” He returned to his seat. “I have seen much in my existence but never have I seen or heard of proof attesting to the downfall of Te Mirkvahíl.”
