Rended Souls

by Daniel Kuhnley

  A wretched grunt sounded behind him. He turned quickly, dagger slashing, but his reaction came moments too late. A crude club struck him on his left side, right in the ribs. Bone cracked. Pain shot through his chest and across his back. His dagger fell from crippled fingers. The ground rushed toward him and smashed into the side of his head before he had a chance to brace for impact. He rolled onto his back and clutched his left side, the pain far greater than anything he’d ever experienced. Each breath ratcheted the pain up another level.

  Three zhebəllin surrounded him. They growled at each other, perhaps in a language Calen couldn’t understand. Wicked grins parted their thin lips.

  Chapter Five

  Wizard Wrik lumbered down the corridor, looking over his shoulder now and again to make sure no one followed him. Spies came in every shape and form, even shadows. His future—no, the world’s future—hinged on events that would unfold over the next several days. He’d leave nothing to chance.

  Ten paces ahead, two steel doors, each three feet wide, ten feet tall, and nearly a foot thick, capped off the corridor. Thick, fire-resistant, black steel framed the doors and extended several feet into the rock walls on either side, into the ceiling, and down through the floor, creating a nearly impenetrable room beyond.

  Wrik stopped in front of the two doors, turned around, and watched the shadows for more than a minute, listening for any noises beyond his own breathing and heartbeat. Satisfied he hadn’t been followed, he turned and faced the doors.

  In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the runes he’d used to conjure the trespass ward that protected the room beyond the doors from even the most skilled of wizards. Anyone who stepped beyond the doors’ threshold without removing the ward would be cut into pieces as though they’d walked through a grid of thin, razor-sharp wires. Non-wizards wouldn’t even know the ward existed and would have no warning before meeting their death.

  Wrik didn’t like the idea of killing innocent people, but he couldn’t risk anyone finding the items contained within the room, some of them more powerful than even Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh.

  With a finger, he began drawing runes in the air. Tendrils of blue flame followed his finger and ignited each rune as he drew them. The runes ebbed and flowed like blue spectres, each lingering for several moments before fading out of existence.

  In all, he drew seven of them. A tabletop with two outward-curving legs: π. A lowercase letter ‘p’: ρ. A lowercase letter ‘o’: ο. A capital letter ‘T’ with a forward-facing tail: τ. A curvy ‘e’ or an ‘m’ on its side: ε. The letter ‘x’ with tails on the top left and bottom right: χ. And last, another capital letter ‘T’ with a forward-facing tail: τ.

  Thin beams of blue light, crisscrossed and woven together like a spider’s web, emerged from the darkness, covering the entire door. The beams separated and turned until they paralleled each other, and then they pulled together and formed a single beam of light. Then the beam of light shrank until nothing remained of it.

  Wrik reached into an inner pocket of his robes and pulled out a ring of thick, black keys. He selected the largest key and shoved it deep into the lock on the left door until only the bow protruded. With a clockwise, half-turn, a loud click sounded. After several moments, gears began churning within the doors. Click, clack, clank, pop!

  He waited until the last gear ground to a stop before turning the key a full turn-and-a-half counterclockwise. More gears wound for several moments, another loud pop sounded, and then the right door swung inward. Darkness lay beyond the door.

  Wrik removed the key from the lock and placed the ring of keys back inside his inner pocket. He stepped across the dark threshold and pushed the door closed behind him. Once again, gears ground together, and large steel bars slid into place across the backs of the doors. The locking mechanism engaged with a final pop, and the gears halted.

  Wrik breathed deep and gathered his thoughts. With his finger, he drew the same seven runes as he had on the other side of the doors, only backward—the last one first, and the first one last. A blue beam of light formed across the doors, separated into numerous beams, and those beams turned and wove themselves into a web of light. The web sank into the doors and disappeared.

  Wrik moved to his right and flipped a switch attached to the wall. Across the ceiling, glass tubes affixed to metal fixtures buzzed and flickered before fully coming to life and filling the entire room with light. No amount of candlelight could ever compare to the light the glass tubes produced. No matter how many times he flipped that switch, its power stole his breath away.

  He’d found a book several years ago by a man named Derrik Spencer describing a technique that used gases inside glass tubes. Applying what they’d called “electricity”—a source of energy like stored lightning—to the trapped gases caused the tubes to glow and produce a bright light. A watermill deep underneath Galondu Castle provided the “electricity” to the room. Derrik had called this and many other things “technology,” but Wrik understood it to be mezhik of another kind.

  White-washed walls, ceilings, and floors made the room appear even brighter, but they also left the space devoid of character and charm. At its center, the twenty-foot-square room contained a rectangular table carved from a single piece of golden oak, a chair made of the same wood, and several stacks of books.

  Wrik moved past the table and over to a steel door inset in the wall on the far left side of the room. A hinged steel bar secured the door. He lifted the end of the bar and flipped it backward, clearing it of the steel, U-shaped clamp that held it in place. The door moaned as he pulled it open. He stepped backward.

  Wrik swept his arm outward. “Please come into the light, my young friend. I’m sorry to have kept you here for so long, but other matters that couldn’t wait have occupied my time. Alas, your arrival here was… unexpected.”

  A young man stepped out of the small room and into the light. Blonde hair hung past his shoulders, front and back, some of it tucked behind his rounded ears. Red veins fissured the whites of his eyes, but his green irises shone brightly, miniature glass tubes reflected in them.

  The young man stared intently at Wrik, his forehead creased, and his eyebrows angled down over the bridge of his slightly curved nose. His squared jaw set, and thin red lips pursed, he said nothing. Not a single hair lined his chin or jaw, but a long, bright-red scar ran across his throat.

  Wrik pointed at the scar. “A recent injury?”

  He absently rubbed his neck, his nostrils flared. “Let me go, and I won’t kill you.”

  “Kill me?” Wrik chuckled. “Oh, I’m certain you possess the power to do so if you really wanted to, but I don’t think that’s who you are. In fact, I’d venture to say that’s exactly who you’re not. Isn’t that right, Alderan?”

  † † †

  Alderan circled the large, dark-skinned man. “You know me, do you? Then you also know what I’m capable of.”

  The man grinned and held out his hand. “I am Wizard Wrik.”

  Alderan stared at the large hand. It dwarfed his own by more than a length. “I don’t care who you are. You’ve no right to keep me—” He looked around the strange room and at the ceiling. “—wherever we are.” The odd, light-filled tubes overhead mesmerized him.

  What are those?

  Wrik pointed at the tubes. “Fascinating, aren’t they? They’re powered by electricity.”

  Alderan nodded but frowned. “I’ve never heard of electricity.”

  “Few have.” Wrik folded his arms behind his back. “Suffice it to say it’s equivalent to lightning.”

  Lightning?

  Alderan scratched his head. “How do you put lightning into tubes?”

  Wrik chuckled. “It’s technology, my friend. A type of mezhik, if you prefer.”

  “I don’t think we’re speaking the same language.”

  “Check this out.” Wrik walked over to the far wall where a metal handle protruded from it waist-high. He pulle
d the handle down and the tubes of light dimmed overhead. Then the room fell into total darkness and silence.

  Alderan had wondered where the incessant buzzing had come from. Now he knew, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have time to waste. Zerenity and Qotan needed him.

  He took a deep breath. “Look, Wrik. All of this is fascinating, but I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  Click!

  The glass tubes flickered, buzzed, and sprang to life with light once again. “I promise I won’t keep you much longer, but there are a few questions that need answered first.” He motioned toward a chair with his hand. “Please take a seat.”

  Take a seat?

  Alderan snarled and willed the electricity flowing through the tubes to leap into his hands but nothing happened. Why would it? I’m pathetic.

  He walked over to the chair and sat down with a huff. “What do you want from me?”

  Wrik sat on the edge of the table to Alderan’s right. Despite the height of the table his feet stayed planted on the floor with length to spare in his legs. He folded his hands over his stomach. “Let’s start with why you’re here.”

  Alderan raked his fingers through his hair. “First of all, I don’t know where here is.”

  Wrik nodded. “Fair enough. Where were you headed when you opened the mirror portal?”

  Alderan tilted his head back and stared at the tubes of light. Something swirled inside them. “Home, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “And where is this home of yours?”

  Alderan straightened and eyed Wrik. The man’s smile revealed the whitest teeth he’d ever seen. Perhaps his dark skin contrasted them further, but his teeth weren’t his most interesting feature. No, that title belonged to the golden eyes glowing behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Alderan eased down in the chair. “Viscus D’Silva.”

  Wrik nodded knowingly. “Northernmost town on the continent, just edging out Vermislignum for the title.” He chuckled. “There are few other places in the Ancient Realm that would place you farther from home than where you are now.”

  Alderan huffed. “Not surprising. I always wind up right where I don’t want to be. Where are we?”

  Wrik smacked his lips. “You’ve found your way inside Galondu Castle. It lies on the northeastern edge of Atrum Moenia.”

  Alderan shrugged. “Never heard of it. Why would the mirror take me here when I wanted to go home?”

  “Were you thinking of something or someone before you touched the mirror?”

  “Only home… well sort of.” Alderan scratched his head. “I was thinking about my twin sister Aria as well.”

  Wrik lifted his head and breathed deep through his nostrils. “Ah, that explains it.”

  Alderan frowned. Did I miss something? He straightened in the chair. “Explains what?”

  Wrik lowered his gaze and met Alderan’s. “How you came to be here. It was dark when I grabbed you through the mirror, but even then I thought you looked familiar. Your likeness to Aria is remarkable.”

  Alderan sprung to his feet. “You know Aria? Is she here? Can I see her?”

  Wrik held up a finger. “I’ll make arrangements for you to see her when we’re finished here.”

  “Arrangements?” Alderan thrust his arms in the air. “She’s my sister!” His voice echoed in the room. “She’ll want to see me. She called to me before I went through the mirror.”

  Surprise flashed in Wrik’s eyes, or so Alderan thought. He could’ve been wrong though. “You must understand that the current atmosphere of Galondu Castle is… delicate. I fear your arrival here will not be welcomed by most.”

  Alderan paced back and forth. “Why? What have I done? Why does it seem like everyone wants me dead?”

  Wrik stood, straightened his silver robes, and adjusted his spectacles. “It’s not a matter of what you’ve done but of what you’re destined to do. People fear that which they don’t understand. Prophecy is a fickle friend to some and an enemy to most.”

  Alderan stopped pacing and leaned over the chairback. “Who are you and what do you know of prophecy?”

  Wrik smiled wryly. “I am a friend of your sisters and a friend to you by extension.”

  “But why are you here? What role do you play in her captivity?”

  Wrik laughed aloud. “Captivity? Is that what you think has become of her?” He shook his finger. “No, no, no. You’ve got it all backward, my friend. She rules this castle and everyone in it with her deadly charm.”

  Aria ruling a castle? That’s not possible.

  He rounded the chair and sat back down. His dream of her standing atop the castle wall flooded his mind and left him adrift in its wake. The room tossed him about like a ship in rough waters.

  How much have I missed?

  He closed his eyes, leaned forward, and placed his head in his hands. “She does this under your authority?”

  “My authority? Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am employed by Lord and Lady Rosai. Lord Rosai is the figurehead, but his will and ear bend to all of Aria’s desires.”

  Lady Rosai?

  It took several moments for Alderan to wrap his mind around the context of those words, but then understanding shot his eyes open and him upright in the chair. “Aria… she’s… married?” The bitter words lingered on his tongue like dandelion paste and plunged a dagger deep into his heart.

  Has she forsaken me?

  Wrik said something, but the room spun around Alderan. Darkness crept into his vision until he could no longer hold onto consciousness.

  † † †

  Wrik retrieved a bottle of hartshorn oil from one of the cabinets at the back of the room and returned to the chair where Alderan slumped over the table unconscious. He pulled the stopper from the bottle and held it underneath Alderan’s nose.

  Alderan’s nose wrinkled, and he snorted several times before his eyes fluttered open. He gasped and pushed Wrik’s hand away. “What are you trying to do to me with that stuff?”

  Wrik returned the stopper to its bottle and placed the bottle on the table. “You passed out, so I revived you with it.”

  “It smells terrible.” Alderan sat up and rubbed his nose.

  “I believe that’s the point.” Wrik glimpsed a mark on the inside of Alderan’s left wrist. A wizard, just like his sister. “It’s made from the horns and hooves of red-tailed deer.”

  “I’ve killed many deer in my life, and none have ever smelled so foul.”

  “And you’ve never ground the horns and hooves and distilled them either. The process brings out a distinct smell akin to urine, and it’s perfect for reviving a person.”

  “I think I’d rather stay unconscious than smell that again.” Alderan rose from the chair and grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and shook his head. “It’s time you took me to see Aria.”

  Wrik held up a finger. “One last thing before we depart.”

  Alderan huffed. “What now?”

  Wrik looked down at Alderan’s left arm. “I see that you’re a wizard, like your sister. May I look at your marking?”

  “Aria’s a wizard too?” Excitement filled his voice.

  “Yes, of course, but I’ve yet to see her abilities manifested since she wore ƨäbräƨär until recently.”

  “What is ƨäbrä—whatever?”

  “Ƨäbräƨär. It’s a silver collar that traps and suppresses mezhik. Often, the collar is placed on an individual who manifests mezhik abilities right after their sixteenth name day to keep them from harming themselves and others until they can be trained to use their mezhik properly. Some find the practice of using the collar barbaric. I can see both sides of the argument, especially when the individual possesses great potential, like your sister.”

  “Aria has great potential?” He shook his fist. “I knew it! She must be the one who saves the world, not me.”

  “Don’t discount yours
elf. Power comes in many forms.”

  “I can’t even—” Alderan grimaced.

  “You can’t control your mezhik yet. That’s understandable. Many find it difficult to master at first. Given time, you will find your way. Now, let me see your wrist.”

  Alderan pulled up his sleeve and stuck his arm out, palm up. “Be my guest.”

  Wrik leaned over and examined the inside of Alderan’s wrist. “A gray scroll…”

  Where have I seen that before?

  “I don’t remember what it’s called, but it allows me to see events of an object’s past.”

  Wrik smirked. Mustapha. How long had it been since he’d seen the old hag? He couldn’t recall. “Fizärd Mämärä.”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Alderan lowered his arm.

  Interesting. “A memory wizard. With time and practice your power will grow well beyond seeing events.”

  Alderan shrugged. “Maybe. I have a mark on my other wrist as well.”

  Wrik nearly choked on his own saliva.

  Another mark?

  He finally understood Lord Rosai’s fear of the boy. He’s the first mage in over twelve hundred years.

  Then, another thought occurred to him. Aria is exceptional, but Lord Rosai went to far greater lengths to retrieve her than he would have done for anyone or anything else. She must be a mage as well.

  But what does it mean?

  He leaned closer to Alderan. “May I see that one as well?”

  Alderan pulled up his right sleeve and held out his arm. An opened, transparent-purple book marked his wrist. “This one allows me to read books in languages I don’t even know.”

  “Neəlläzh.” Jealousy swelled within Wrik’s chest and tightened his jaw. He glared daggers at Alderan. “Do you understand the rarity of this gift?”

  Alderan shrugged. “I’ve been told so by others, but it doesn’t change the way I see it. Everything is new and rare to me.”

  He grabbed Alderan’s shoulder and shook him. “Two entire millennia have passed since that mark has been seen.”