Vultures

by Luke Tarzian

  “Fascinating,” Ronomar said, crouching by the desk. They put their fingertip to the glass and the dark matter finished its recession, this time with a burst of light that left it snow-white instead of black.

  They watched it for a minute or two, transfixed, and noticed that the light had dimmed ever so slightly.

  “Keepers,” Raelza laughed. “It’s a time piece, an hourglass of sorts! How ingenious.” They clapped their hands lightly. “What else do you suppose is in here?”

  “I would say it’s a safe bet there’s a descending stairway,” Ronomar said, gesturing to a half-concealed passageway, at the entrance of which a spirit had appeared. It flickered beckoningly, its yellow eyes a stark contrast to the study’s murk and rime. This was not the spirit they had seen initially.

  “What are you?” Ronomar tried.

  The spirit’s head cocked. Did it understand? Could it not speak? It gestured to a mouthless face before fading into mist.

  Ronomar stepped toward the stairway.

  “Down we go.”

  * * *

  Theailys pressed down into the tower’s bowels, following the occasional dot of light. He could feel her presence growing stronger the further he descended; Ana’s face was a vivid image in his mind. It led him to a spiral stairway, at the bottom of which was a hallway bereft of death. It was smooth and led to a room of pedestals and orbs. Theailys ignored this, instead focusing on the ghostly figure at the far end of the room. Behind her stood an open door. Beyond it, darkness.

  “Close, now,” she said. “Come. You’re so very close.”

  So, they went.

  * * *

  The stairway descended in a spiral that seemed to stretch forever, which was reasonable, Ronomar decided, if in fact it led them to the catacombs. A people as clandestine as the Reshapers would take no chance at having their secrets uncovered.

  That brought to light another question: how had the twins gotten this far into Ouran’an, dead city or not, without some sort of innate resistance? As Ronomar lingered on the thought they began to feel a bit sick and uneasy—they had been allowed to delve this deep. But why, and at who or what’s will?

  The stairway leveled out into a corridor of smooth stone untouched by the frost and rot above. The spirit flickered intermittently as they went, eventually leading them to a chamber of pedestals and crystal orbs, some empty, some bright, and others black as pitch. The spirit gestured frantically at one of the dark orbs.

  “What should we do?” Raelza asked.

  Ronomar frowned and pressed their finger to the orb, the blackness shifting, hissing at their touch, at their illum, they realized, fingertip aglow. They hadn’t called upon it, so what was happening?

  As the square of glass in the study had, the orb exploded in a blaze of illumination. “O Celestials… At last!” a wispy voice came. The spirit looked at the twins, a pale smile drawn across even paler lips. “Thank you. Thank you!”

  The twins took a step back. “You can talk,” Ronomar said, blade extended. “Were you restricted before?”

  The spirit nodded. “My heart essence was corrupted. Celestine and Feran locked me away in this orb to preserve me until they could return to cleanse my blight.” It seemed to shiver. “So long I was in there…but I understand. A nasty business, that plague. Is everyone well? Has it passed?”

  The twins looked at each other. “Have you looked outside?” Raelza asked.

  “Of course,” the spirit said. “Beautiful streets, white as snow. Empty, but beautiful.”

  Again, the twins exchanged awkward glances. “They aren’t white,” Ronomar said slowly. Keepers, but this dream was getting odd. “I mean they are, but with actual snow. What does Ouran’an look like to you?”

  The spirit hugged itself, stammering. “Such a question. Something is wrong. Tell me, what year is it?”

  Ronomar swallowed. “Mid Year, eleven fifty-five.”

  The spirit moaned. “I’ve been in here for… Perdition. It’s been centuries. The city…?”

  “Sits in ruin,” Raelza said softly. “None live. We’ve seen many bones.”

  The spirit bowed its head. “Celestine and Feran Dov’an, I pray your spirits rest well.”

  “Were they your friends?” Ronomar asked.

  “Friends and progenitors. I am called Nether. I was their familiar. Celestials, did they hate that term,” Nether chuckled. “Derogatory, they said. They preferred to call me their research partner. They were brilliant, they were.

  “It’s strange. I suppose the plague must have twisted my perception of reality,” Nether continued. “I thought you two were Celestine and Feran for a moment.” Nether raised his face, as if inhaling. “You bear a similar scent. They were twins too, you know. Maybe it’s a twin thing. What are you doing in Ouran’an?”

  “Research of our own,” Raelza said. They sensed no ill will in Nether. “We’ve come looking for the Prime Vault so that we might learn more about the Reshapers and their lost history.” Then, with a raised eyebrow and a chuckle: “We fancy ourselves scholars.”

  “The Prime Vault,” Nether mused. “The fact we’re having this conversation says more than words ever could. It takes something special to bypass the door to their study. Noble intent. Scholastic yearning. I find myself genuinely impressed, if not indebted.”

  “Could you take us to the vault?” Ronomar asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” Nether said, “but you will not get far. There is a remnant of the plague that haunts Ouran’an. I can feel it as plainly as I see you now.”

  “What about the journal?” Raelza whispered to Ronomar.

  Nether eyed the twins. “Journal?”

  “The journal of Remulus Dov’an,” Ronomar said.

  “Ah, Remulus,” Nether sighed. “I fear he is gone too. What a kind man. If Celestine and Feran were the most intelligent of the Reshapers, Remulus was most certainly the kindest. He had a certain fascination with the mortals. It irked much of the Reshaperate, but then again, they always were a bit wound up.

  “Alas, I know not where his journal might be,” Nether said, “but I can take you to the Vault if you so desire. Follow me and be on your guard.”

  * * *

  The horrible sense of familiarity and longing grew the further in Theailys went. The network of hallways, the labyrinthine feel to it all as he descended deeper yet…had he done this all before?

  He came to an anteroom. There were nine doors total: four on either side of him, and one larger at the far end. Each door bore a symbol. The largest was engraved with a raven, its wings outstretched. Theailys approached. Ana was nowhere to be seen.

  “Do you really think it wise, opening that door?” Varésh asked, materializing to Theailys’ right.

  “Do you think it unwise, bird?” Remy countered, manifesting to Theailys’ left.

  “That door is sealed for a reason,” Varésh said.

  “Yes, and the point of revisiting this dream is to apparently find out why,” Remy said, glaring at the winged man. “Honestly, for someone so concerned with our wellbeing, Varésh Lúm-talé, you seem incredibly wary of whatever lurks beyond that door. Skeletons in your closet, perhaps?”

  The room fluctuated as the city had earlier, and for a moment Theailys saw the anteroom caked in gore, two figures fighting for their very lives, wielding illum blades. They looked horribly familiar. He reached for them, but the fluctuation ended, and the room returned to its current, barren state, save one tiny difference.

  “Ana.” Theailys eyed her standing just a foot before the door.

  She glanced at them, holding Remy’s gaze for an extended period of time. She smiled softly at him, as if they were old friends, then turned her attention to Varésh, glaring. The winged man dissolved, leaving Theailys and Remy to question Ana.

  “Whatever it is I’m meant to find is behind that door, isn’t it?” Theailys asked.

  “Yes.” She furrowed her brow, looking from Theailys to Remy and back. “But…you’ll not like
it.”

  “The truth is never easy, is it?” Remy said. He held his hand out to Theailys, nodding.

  Theailys took the silhouette’s hand, the two becoming one. The room fluctuated again, each instance of the chamber overlapping one another in triptych: barren; gore-filled; occupied by several inverse silhouettes. Theailys approached the door, walking through each third of the triptych. Instinctively he placed his palm on the door, letting his illum flood the engraving until the door dilated inward with a groan.

  “The truth,” Ana whispered, gesturing to the darkness beyond.

  Theailys ventured inside.

  Ana screamed, and everything was bathed in light.

  * * *

  The pedestal chamber bore a second door, beyond which sat another labyrinth of hallways and corridors leading Keepers knew where. The entirety of the network bore a musty, earthen scent, having not been used for centuries.

  They kept to a course that went something like left, right, right, left, left, right—so many times until the twins thought Nether might have forgotten where he was going, as everything seemed the same. They passed many doors, these too locked and sealed, before they halted at a heavily warded egress.

  “Beyond this,” Nether said, quivering, “sits the Prime Vault anteroom.” He flickered, his pastel figure mottled with faint gray spots. “I can go no further, I’m afraid. The remnant would corrupt me should I pass beyond this ward. I would not be of much use either. We familiars are lacking in that respect.”

  The twins summoned their blades. “We’ll come fetch you when it’s destroyed,” Raelza said with a nod. They looked to Ronomar. “Ready?”

  “As always.” The twins placed their free hands on the door, imbuing the glyphwork with illumination until they heard a click.

  Nether withdrew from the egress. “Best of luck!”

  Ronomar pushed the door ajar and they stepped into the gore-filled antechamber. There were nine doors total, the first eight of which stood parallel to one another. The last, the Prime Vault, was further on. Each bore a labyrinth of grooves, which extended outward from a unique symbol carved in the center of the door. The crests of the eight Reshaperate families, the twins assumed.

  “It smells awful,” Ronomar said, wrinkling their nose as they approached the door at the far end of the room. “Like death.”

  The door was all but concealed behind a thick layer of whatever this membrane-like substance was. Raelza wiped a hand across the door, revealing the engraving of a raven. “This must be it.”

  “Auntie Cela, Uncle Feran,” came a small, disembodied voice. “Have you come to play? It’s been so long since we’ve played…”

  A small figure, black as pitch, with bright white eyes, materialized in the stains, rising up to meet the twins. It smelled like sun-bathed rot. “Why won’t you play with me anymore?”

  “Oh…” Ronomar extended their blade. “It’s…a child, Raelza.”

  “Was a child,” Raelza said. “The poor thing.”

  “Please hold my hand,” it gurgled. “I’m so scared here in the dark.”

  The twins stepped back. They could feel the anteroom shifting around them, bent by the dark will of this dream-thing. Had this ever been a child, or was it some malevolence keen to play horrific games?

  “Please,” it begged. “We can be a family again. Stay here with me, always and forever.”

  It lurched at the twins. Tendrils of gore shot toward them from all directions. Whatever this was did not want them to reach the end of the dream. Ronomar swung their blade in a circular arc, deflecting the incoming assault with a momentary illum shield. Raelza followed their example and the twins fought to subdue the entity, whatever it was.

  The mirkúr giggled, echoing in their minds. “Auntie, uncle, we can play here in the shade, always and forever.”

  Ronomar and Raelza cracked their blades together and an orb of light exploded. The mirkúr recoiled into itself, shrieking, hissing. The tendrils melted back into the stains, crackling with smoke, leaving only the frail, muck-covered corpse of a small child.

  “Keepers,” Raelza uttered. “It really was a child.”

  “Do you realize what this is?” Ronomar asked. “The shifting, the mastery of the mirkúr—Raelza, it’s one of the lokyns! This means our enemy originated all the way in the Deep Rock.”

  “A reach, but it makes sense,” Raelza said. “Maybe not precisely lokyn, but most certainly its predecessor, which makes me wonder how it got all the way to Ariath to start.” They paused. “It’s strange to think our armies might be fighting something that the Reshapers could not quell.”

  “Which makes opening the Prime Vault even more important,” Ronomar said.

  They turned to the corpse. “The child needs a proper burial.”

  “In a dream?” Raelza arched an eyebrow.

  Ronomar shot them a scathing look, then led them toward the Prime Vault door. The twins hacked at the membrane until it came free, burning and recoiling at their light.

  The door was smooth stone; the engraved raven’s wings were stretched wide. There was no seam. How were they to open it? Ronomar looked about for something that resembled a lock while Raelza examined the door for any irregularities they might be able to exploit.

  “Puzzle.”

  The twins started at the voice and raised their blades to the corpse rising from the floor. No—not a corpse, they saw, as the membrane darkness fell away. A little girl with azure skin and snow hair, clothed in rags. The twins were confused, though they sensed no illness as she neared.

  “Puzzle,” the girl said again.

  Ronomar knelt before the child. “Are you all right, little one? What’s your name?” They pulled their cloak from their shoulders and draped it over the girl.

  “Puzzle. Auntie and uncle made a puzzle on the door.” The child eyed the twins with a tilted head. “You’re like them. You can solve it. You can get inside.”

  Puzzle. Ronomar turned to the blank door, lips drawn to a straight line. They reached instinctively for Raelza’s hand and the two stared long and hard.

  “’Phantom to unworthy eyes,’” Ronomar uttered, as if they had known the words all their life. Glyphwork manifested like invisible ink beneath the raven’s wings and they sensed that Raelza could see it too.

  “Pretty symbols,” said the girl—Puzzle, Ronomar decided to name her. “Lines of illum.”

  The twins pressed their hands to the door, flooding the glyphs with increased illumination. A seam split down the center and the door withdrew into its frame with a loud grinding sound.

  Then—a flash of blinding luminescence.

  * * *

  Theailys gasped as the meadow came rushing back. He was sprawled in the grass, looking up at the dusky orange and purple sky, sweat trickling down his face. Did…did you see? he asked of Remy.

  “No,” Remy answered. “Just light. Blinding, scalding light.”

  Theailys exhaled raggedly. All of that, chasing Anayela through the ruins, and nothing, save further questions. What was that place? Why had it felt so terribly familiar? Who were the two figures he had seen for just a blink? What was in that vault? He sat up, tearing at the grass.

  “Your agitation is understandable,” Remy said. He sounded vexed as well. They were one and the same, after all. “But perhaps this is our mind’s way of telling us we aren’t ready for whatever lies within. That we’ve repressed that part of the dream because it’s too dreadful to relive.”

  Or, Theailys thought, it’s telling us we need to see what’s in that vault.

  He stood, starting back to camp.

  “Do you intend to dream your dream again?” Remy asked. “Tonight?”

  Yes, Theailys said. Where fear of the unknown once had ruled, now dwelled curiosity and determination. The tingling in Theailys’ gut implored he see the truth in madness, the clarity beyond that blinding light. His dreams—this one and those that’d come before—were more than dreams, and he intended to learn their truths
.

  1 2

  Haunted

  Theailys inhaled and heaved a contented sigh as they crossed the threshold into Avar. As it had before, the town smelled of fresh apple pie and rain. There was something soothing about the amalgamation, perhaps that it made Theailys think of childhood. He’d always loved the smell of rain and his mother had made the best pies in the world.

  “Perdition, but it’s good to be beneath a roof again,” Cailean sighed as they stepped into the inn. He fingered a small cut on the underside of his jaw and let out a low growl of discomfort. “Blasted itchy bastard.”

  “You could be missin’ your jaw entirely,” Leyandra reminded him, “and then how would you be able to complain so often?”

  “I’m sure he’d still find a way,” Theailys jabbed. Cailean had somehow gone face-first off his shaghound the previous night. He’d been surprisingly, yet unsurprisingly drunk. “He’s got a talent for such things.”

  They wandered to the bar, and Cailean’s glare faded as the barkeep strolled into view. He was a young man, perhaps no older than his thirtieth year, with dark hair pulled back behind his ears, a stubbled jaw, and green eyes.

  “You lot look awfully weary,” the barkeep remarked. “Take a detour through Perdition, did you? Have a rest there and I’ll fetch some ale. I daresay you could all use a drink or three.”

  “Way ahead of you, sweetheart,” Cailean said, raising his flask in a grateful, inebriated salute.

  Theailys rolled his eyes. “You’re a walking, one-man tavern.” He turned up his nose. “And you smell like a full-tavern washroom.”

  Cailean waved him off with a snort. “And I suppose you think you smell like springtime grass and flowers, eh? You drink a lot yourself in case you forgot, and if I recall correctly, which I think I do, weren’t you the one who pissed yourself in the Naldun Woods over an owl’s hoot?”

  “Didn’t sound like a fucking owl,” Theailys muttered.