by Luke Tarzian
Theailys kicked one in the face. He brought his boot down, the skull crunching loudly under the weight. He retreated further into the reliquary chamber, Leyandra with him, putting herself between Theailys and the priests. He felt useless. He hadn’t trained nearly enough with a blade, and he dared not try to channel, not after waking up in the middle of a necropolis.
He shifted focus from Nor to Cailean, who even with a useless left arm was still plenty capable with a blade; from Cailean to Dual, lingering on the twins, so graceful, so fluid in their movements as they danced and ducked around the priests’ reckless swipes, their mauve eyes bright.
Theailys crashed to his knees, writhing. Something else had come, something wreathed in shadows, something birthed from chaos. He felt its shrieking laughter in his head, sure his skull would split at any moment from the agony. Faro erupted into laughter of his own, as if in direct competition with the encroaching threat.
“Oh fuck! Reaver!” Cailean bellowed. “REAVER!”
The hall and chamber were enveloped in a cloak of shadows. Metal raked against stone and a flash of luminescence forced the darkness back, pushing the mirkúr toward its source. An illum barrier stood between them and the aggressor, pulsing every time it was struck by mirkúr. Dual channeled continually into Neyma as she worked to keep their safeguard strong, the black power surging hungrily.
Theailys rose to his feet, eyes fixed on the massive shape looming at the end of the hall. He could see no visible limbs or head, but at the center of the smoky mass were a pair of white almond-shaped eyes. Somewhere in there was undoubtedly a mouth, stretched to form a monstrous grin.
What are you doing? Theailys thought at Faro as his laughter persisted. Stop! His breathing labored and he realized he had no control over his actions. No control, and yet he was conscious.
Theailys’ hands shot forward, fingers splayed as he first drew the illum from the barrier, then the mirkúr it’d been keeping at bay. The two contrasting forces rushed toward him in a spiral of luminescent smoke. They slammed into the center of his chest, nearly knocking Theailys from his feet. He remained standing though, pressing past the others amid shouts, toward the menace situated in the chancel.
“My dear Flesh,” Faro hissed. “I told you one day I would let you watch. Behold!”
The mirkúr crashed against him a second time, and Theailys felt something rupture inside of him. Physical or spiritual, he was not sure. A plume of hot illum erupted outward from the center of his chest, connecting with the Reaver, growing brighter, brighter yet as it devoured the monster. Theailys’ own scream braided with the demon’s roar and he discerned a wiry humanoid shape beyond the light.
Faro hissed and Theailys surrendered wholly to his will, the hallway fading into blackness as the screams around him fell to silence.
* * *
Theailys smelled smoke on the air, felt the heat of fire. He sat up far too fast, overcome with dizziness, but was able to discern his general surroundings despite the blurred vision. He was in a camp; the smoke was from a fire several feet away. The flames were gentle, the heat welcoming.
“How are you feeling?” Neyma came into focus, kneeling at his side. “Lost your voice, did you? Shall I fetch more soup and tea? Been spoon-feeding you the last few hours or so.”
“I feel…like I’ve just roused from the worst hangover of my life,” Theailys said. He recalled mirkúr and illum surging toward him, siphoned hungrily by the voice in his head. There were the faceless priests as well, and the Reaver, veiled in shadow. “What happened? After I blacked out, I mean.”
“You destroyed the Reaver, sure as anything. Impressive, certainly,” Neyma said. “But your actions have dug you one hell of a grave. Reaping the souls of Naldunarian priests?” She sighed heavily. “A capitol offense. What you did deprived our holy brethren of the Second Life. I cannot say for certain what consequences you will face, but mark my words, they will be profound.”
Theailys shook, brow knitting in disbelief. “I…reaped their souls?” He massaged his temples. “You must be mistaken. I didn’t—I couldn’t have.”
But in his heart Theailys knew her words were true. The solemnity of her expression said as much; the ethereal chuckle in the depths of his mind only gave further credence to this.
Keepers, what have I done?
Theailys looked about the encampment, at the various silhouettes and half-illuminated figures. His companions were nowhere to be seen. He glanced at Neyma. “Leyandra and Cailean…?”
“They are fine,” she said. “Shaken, and save for a few cuts and bruises, relatively unscathed.” Neyma touched Theailys’ arm, her expression softening. “I do not blame you for Tal, but my word means little in the eyes of the Church, of the Seraph.”
Neyma stood. “Rest. Try to keep your mind clear.”
She withdrew, and Theailys snorted at her words. He flopped back down onto his bedroll and gazed up at the stars draped across the black-blue canvas of night. What consequences would his actions bear? It was impossible not to come up with wild guesses. Maybe they would imprison him or force a complete and total burnout of his illum and mirkúr, leaving him with absolutely nothing.
Or maybe they would sentence him to death. And would that really be so bad? He tried to brush the thought from his mind, but it lingered, festering as the seconds passed.
Just breathe, he urged himself. He filled his lungs with crisp air and held that breath for a seven-count before exhaling slowly. He did so four more times before he finally felt the weight begin to lift. It still remained, but it was light enough to bear, to continue on without too much trepidation.
Footsteps neared.
Theailys sat up—slowly this time—to see Cailean and the twins approaching, bundled in cloaks. They took seats in the grass beside him, the twins wearing expressions of curiosity and Cailean one suggesting he was either drunk or nearly so.
“Feeling better, I hope.” Ronomar said. “That was quite the display. Darkly bedazzling.” They sniffed Theailys’ face and he recoiled, glaring. Ronomar rolled their eyes. “I was merely curious.”
“Yes, well, maybe instead of sniffing me you might ask me whatever questions are on your mind,” Theailys grumbled, feeling very weary.
“That mirkúr of yours has gotten stronger since last we met,” Raelza said. “We trained together at the Hall for a year, do you remember? You were always so…” They looked at their sibling, eyes narrowed, wrinkling their mouth and nose. “Haughty.”
“Haughty? I was never haughty,” Theailys said coolly. “Not my fault I excelled where so many of my fellow apprentices did not.”
The twins giggled. “Nothing’s changed.”
Theailys clenched his jaw. “I’m feeling a bit better, thank you.”
Raelza clapped. “Oh, fantastic!”
Cailean thrust a flask toward Theailys. “Look like you could use a drink. Go on. Get some warmth in your bones.” He shot a quick glare at the twins. “At least take a swig to silence these mouthy mirror image fucks.”
“Cailean Catil, ever the poet,” Ronomar said. “A pity you can’t lead as well as you brood. If you could then perhaps things might have turned out differently.” They rubbed their left arm ever so slightly.
Cailean swallowed hard. “Keep the flask. Was yours to begin with,” he muttered to Theailys. Then, to the twins: “Bastards.” He stood and stalked off.
“A bit much, don’t you think?” Theailys snapped at Ronomar.
“Cailean was impolite. Would you have me coddle him with silence?” Ronomar crossed their arms. “It would teach him nothing.”
Raelza eyed their twin and cleared their throat.
Ronomar sighed. “I suppose I was a bit harsh. As Mistress Khal once said, people can and will be cruel, but their taunts are simple, meaningless words. I suppose I can’t be too annoyed with Cailean. That’s how he’s always been, even before…” They rubbed their left arm again. “He’s just a tad snappier now, and understandably so. It’s probab
ly wise to ignore him as necessary.”
Silence. Dual looked at Theailys, the fire dancing in their round, mauve eyes. He could tell they were hesitating.
“Indulge our curiosity if you would,” Ronomar said. “What’s it like to harbor such a primal force?”
“Maddening. Taxing.” And that was without the added weight of his dreams, especially those of late. Theailys narrowed his eyes, a small lump forming in his throat. “Lonely. I never asked for this, I don’t walk the streets brandishing the mirkúr like a sword, and yet the people curse my name. Some call me Te Mirkvahíl…” He trailed off. It stung even coming from his own mouth. He looked at Dual. “Not the answer you were hoping for, was it?”
“No. But it’s the one we expected. We empathize with you,” Raelza said. “People think us strange and usually not in a kind way. We ignore it as best we can. It’s like Mistress Khal said.”
Theailys nodded. He yawned wide.
“You should rest.,” Ronomar said. “We ride for Naldunar at dawn and the marshal is intent on reaching the city as quickly as possible.”
The twins rose to their feet. “Dream well, Theailys An.”
9
Masks
Behtréal walked the old foyer with measured steps, breathing in the dirt and dust and darkness of this house he’d once called home. This wasn’t the first time he’d returned. He’d been here several times before, half to feel the anguish lingering in the floorboards, walls, and air, and half to reminisce about the memories he’d made. They were good memories and he knew he’d be a fool to refute that.
The furniture was broken. Shattered glass and shards of splintered wood lay strewn across the floor. They’d not moved an inch in three years’ time. He held his hand out to the air, palm upturned, and called the mirkúr with his mind. Threads of shadow, cold as ice came streaming through the cracks and Behtréal caressed them, shaped them to a sphere of smoke he then imbued with what little light he could. That was getting harder these days, his ability to wield illum, but that would change once he had obtained The Keepers’ Wrath.
Dear Faro, he thought. I will see your ingenuity to its full potential. His memories drifted through the years, to Ouran’an before its fall, to his beloved Aveline and Jor, his wife and toddler son; they had been among the first to perish when the plague returned. He squeezed his eyes shut, throat tight as tears dripped between his lids and down his cheeks.
“Your eyes are wet once more,” the darkness hissed. It called itself Te Mirkvahíl.
Indeed, they are, Behtréal thought. This is a thing that happens when I think of all I’ve lost.
“It is a weakness,” said Te Mirkvahíl. “An affliction of the heart.”
Without my heart I would be nothing, Behtréal thought. He could feel his freedom waning as the darkness fought to wrest control. Without my heart this undertaking to restore my people would have never come to be.
“Without your heart,” Te Mirkvahíl hissed, “you would have killed your wretched brother when you had the chance.”
That was cause for consideration. His brother, because of whom the plague had spread and reaped their city of its life. His brother, who had turned his back on Ouran’an to aid the mortals when the plague had come.
What good would have come from that? Behtréal had despised his brother, but he had never sought to kill him, not even in their final moments.
Te Mirkvahíl remained silent, relenting its urge to possess. Behtréal took this as a sign and continued through the house. He came upon a mirror hanging in the hallway and stared into his own emerald eyes, half concealed behind a mane of dark hair, remembering the night he’d sown the first of many seeds imperative to the deliverance of his people.
“Such hope I saw,” he whispered, thinking of the gray-eyed man for whom he’d masqueraded as a wife. “They will know your name, Theailys An. I will tell them of the man who made their reclamation possible and they will pray to you like once they did to Varésh Lúm-talé, their god.”
“I sense remorse,” Te Mirkvahíl hissed.
Indeed, you do, Behtréal thought. It is a thing I feel for knowing I will one day have to kill a man I loved.
“Theailys An is a martyr for a cause,” said Te Mirkvahíl. “A means to an end.”
Indeed. The darkness wreathed itself around Behtréal. But one can still love a tool.
* * *
The air was strange this night. Heavy, almost suffocating, more so the further north through Helveden Serece and Fenrin went. Her ears twitched at every sound and shadow, at everyone they passed. Madness, she thought. Madness in the air.
They crouched in the gloom of the prison ramparts, the towers rearing up like jagged teeth, wisps of illum bright like eyes. Faithbringers, Wardens, and Illumurgists patrolled the grounds in trios, every step, every movement mechanical. Serece shivered; there was something about this place that made her sick. And to think, you’re going to walk inside to find out why. She looked at Fenrin. “What now?”
“We wait.” He tapped his forehead lightly. “All part of the game.”
Serece arched an eyebrow, whispering, “Have you…seen what’s going to happen?”
“I’ve seen the two of us in there. Nothing more, nothing less,” Fenrin said. “The vision is always clouded, like whatever’s in there doesn’t want us peekin’, you see? Ever since the Ariathan forces made their grand return three months ago my ability to divine has been limited. I’ve only been able to see bits and pieces.”
“So, we’re more or less going in blind,” Serece said, taking a deep breath.
“One way of lookin’ at it.” Fenrin stood, pulling Serece behind him. “Here we go.”
* * *
The prison was empty. Every wing, every nook and cranny, completely devoid of inmates, guards, and staff. Serece and Fenrin stood in the center of the moonlit anteroom. “Where the hell is everyone?” Serece asked, gazing about. “Did you foresee this?”
“No.” Fenrin held his hand to the air, palm upturned, and frowned. “Odd.”
“What is it?” Serece asked. “Fenrin?”
“Somethin’ here. Somethin’ powerful, but…” He tilted his head. “Benevolent.”
Serece eyed the darkness around them, ears twitching madly. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He knelt, motioning for Serece to do the same. “We’re in the presence of a deity.”
“Enough with the formalities,” a voice said. “Up off your knees.”
They obeyed, and a dark-haired, amber-eyed woman in robes emerged from the darkness. She had a hawkish face and Serece was certain she had seen this woman before. She narrowed her eyes, searching for the answer, and it dawned. “Master Illumurgist Khal?” Serece was pretty sure that was her name.
“Changed your name again,” said Fenrin. “Shame. I was fond of Mistress Lorésh.”
Khal snorted. “Haven’t gone by that in years. Not that it ever did me any good.”
“You knew we would come?” Serece asked. She was still ignorant of illumancy’s many intricacies.
Khal nodded. “Didn’t know who it would be, but I saw you coming here in a dream. Lucky. This place is infected. I’m surprised you made it past the patrols.”
“Thank you for interferin’, then,” Fenrin said. “I can’t imagine doin’ so was easy.”
“It wasn’t,” Khal said. “For the exact same reason I can’t lay a finger on Te Mirkvahíl, let alone discern where it’s at.”
“Which is…?” Serece said.
“This world is not of my making,” Khal explained, “and thus the capacity and frequency with which I can intervene in certain events is severely limited. Such is the rule of my people, the world builders, the Celestials. I am little more than a teacher here, a font of wisdom for Illumurgists of varying rank.”
“What happens if you break that rule?” Serece asked.
“It depends,” Khal said, “on the magnitude of the event in which I overstep my bounds. Worst case scenario, I die. Be
st case…who knows? For now, let’s move on to the task at hand, yes?”
“Yes,” Fenrin said. “If you came to save us from our blind stupidity you’re aware of what we seek.”
“I am,” Khal said, motioning for them to follow. “And while I am unable to divine the Demon Prime’s location, I can divine where it is not, and I am reasonably sure Te Mirkvahíl is not here.”
“Then why are we?” Serece asked. “I thought we were here to discern the demon’s identity.”
Khal snorted. “My dear daughter of the mountain, what makes you think either you or Fenrin would have stood a chance at surviving if you had come face to face with Te Mirkvahíl tonight?”
“We weren’t going to engage,” Serece said as they started down a spiraling stairway lit by wisps of blue light. “We aren’t fools.”
“You would have been made regardless of your intent,” Khal said. “And whatever you saw, whatever you learned you would only have done so because Te Mirkvahíl allowed you to.”
Serece’s ears twitched. “You may have a point. Where are you taking us?”
“To see the woman who claimed to have slain Te Mirkvahíl,” Khal said.
“Searyn An. I saw her brother only a few days ago,” Serece said. “You surely know he seeks to forge the weapon that nearly destroyed your city centuries ago.”
Khal was silent a moment as they continued their descent. “I do. But like I said, there are certain events in which I cannot intervene—this is one of them. I can offer my opinions, but I cannot physically assist with or attempt to thwart the creation of The Keepers’ Wrath.”
Serece grumbled to herself as the stairway leveled out into a long passageway of white and black polished stone. “Can you tell me whether or not there’s a connection between Theailys An and Faro Fatego? If you weren’t already aware they look nearly identical.”
“I’d seen that too,” Fenrin offered. “In a…dream, I think. There was a tree, if I recall. A tree in a meadow and…” He furrowed his brow. “Three iterations of Theailys An. Dren was there as well. Or someone who looked an awful lot like him. The sky shifted; the meadow and the tree did too. Three moments in time, all seen at once.”
