Asphales was falling in a sea of fog and froth. He descended into a night with no moon or stars, featureless black enveloping him in dark embrace. As he sank into the void, he felt the pressure of an immovable wall of water, as if he was trapped under miles of ocean.
And still the beast pursued him with vigorous desire. The unseen creature was a cyclone of movement, flitting forth in the shadows forcefully. It moved among the heavy mass of black invisible but indomitable. Asphales realised he was in its playpen, and he was the prey.
Then he came to a sudden halt, suspended in midair. Weightless, upside-down perhaps, pulled in every direction, like a moon free of its orbit. The silence was in the black and the black was the silence.
And the beast was in front of him. Staring.
He could not see it, but he felt it, each breath a blast of winter seeping into his skin. He sensed its eyes, immensely deep and vile, locked on to him. Flames in a frozen visage.
What are you trying to show me!? Asphales screamed, but nothing came out. Puffs in a powerful wind.
The creature let out a sound, a laugh, a crash as if the earth split. And Asphales was falling again. He fell for a long while, but he could not measure distance or time. An object began materialising in the distance, a grey splash in the infinite dark. Asphales found himself before a many-sided gate, great chains hanging between its pillars. Ten latches adorned the mysterious apparition. Each link glowed diffusely, as if they were veins conducting light within. Words were engraved along the length of each chain, every respective contraption locked to a seal stamped with runes.
Four seals were broken. Their light was extinguished, the metal cold and dead. A gentle thrumming ran through the active seals, a melody which permeated the blackness. But the other four were silent and still.
Four seals…
Asphales awoke sharply. He was in his bedchamber, tangled in sheets. Clammy with cold sweat, he threw them off and swung onto the bedside. He rubbed sleepy eyes. Golden morning light burned through his windows. Why could he still hear drumming, insolent rapping pounding against his ears? Then he realised someone was knocking at his door. He got up hastily, raced across his room, and opened the door. Ithilìr stood, seemingly unperturbed by sleep and looking as ready as ever.
‘It is time, master Asphales,’ he said. Asphales could only stare blearily. The servant looked him over briefly and held out a bundle of clothing. ‘You’ll need these. I’ll give you a moment. See me in the foyer.’ He bowed, perhaps the most polite gesture he had extended so far, and retreated down the corridor. The door closed shut behind him.
Asphales changed into the attire Ithilìr had brought, a dark blue doublet edged with pearl-white buttons, and matching trousers. He inspected himself in the standing mirror. The outfit probably cost more than he could earn in an entire year. No longer was he the shabby sailor; in these clothes he appeared to fit in with the royal holdings of Fara’ethar. And now it was time to go face whatever answers would rear up to the questions he’d held in too long. On his way out, Asphales stepped into fine shoes of black leather, completing the look of the castle resident, and walked down to the foyer.
Ithilìr waited there with someone else, a tall man who looked comfortable in deep black vest and trousers. His dark hair was cropped short, only a few wild strands spiking out. He turned to face Asphales with cool topaz eyes which—That was Valinos.
‘I could get used to this, Asphales,’ he said, fingering down the line of golden buttons adorning his shirt.
‘What—’ Asphales sputtered. ‘What happened to you? It’s all gone!’
‘Oh, this?’ Valinos fanned a hand through his short hair and brought it down to his clean-shaven chin. ‘I figured it’s time for a new look. And with all the fighting we’ll do, I thought it’d be handy to keep something low maintenance.’
‘Fighting, master Valinos?’ Ithilìr asked. ‘And just when I thought you’d disowned the image of the brute.’
Asphales laughed delightedly. ‘No longer a ruffian, indeed!’
‘Yes, far more presentable, I must say. Come along, it is time to meet the steward.’ Ithilìr walked on ahead out through the doors.
‘Ithilìr,’ Asphales called after the servant. The man turned with an intrigued pout. ‘Thank you,’ Asphales said. ‘For everything.’ Ithilìr nodded and kept walking.
Asphales neared his friend and patted his shoulder with a smile. ‘Let’s be off. Ah, but it will take me a while to get used to this.’
Valinos ignored the comment, his eyes on the doorway. When Ithilìr was out of sight, he leaned closer to Asphales. ‘I haven’t forgotten why I’m here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You heard it yourself. By all rights, I was not even expected. Still, I intend to make the most of this place. A castle will have records, documents, something to help me discover what I need. And about Shurun’el… I will see it done.’ He hissed the last sentence and left the building. Asphales stood immobile for a long time before he followed.
The morning outside cast the grounds of Fara’ethar in a different light. The halls and towers were no longer intimidating shadows, but proud bastions standing tall and bright. The path Ithilìr led them through today took Asphales and Valinos along the other side of the Hall of the Elders. They passed by the Hall of Records, a grand rectangular block which emanated the silence and severity of a research hall, and the Hall of Recovery, a suitably solemn and serious medical building, almost featureless. The stark white stone of the structure contrasted with the grey of the castle.
Asphales glimpsed another courtyard through open alleyways. The bailey was filled with smaller buildings, likely dedicated to storage. Granaries, stables, and liveries were tended by other servants and maids. Directions and measurements were shouted among them. Asphales turned to the servant ahead of him. Ithilìr proved a far less animated guide than El’enur. They were brought to their destination with his customary lack of communication.
Upon arrival at the Hall of the Elders, several figures were already waiting by the steps. Nadros was there, fidgeting idly with his hands. Asphales’ heart pained to see El’enur again, the young man looking distracted, eyes toward an undefined distance. The bald Guldar was already sitting, chewing at something with an impatient frown on his grizzled face. A woman paced across the stairs intently, dressed in dark leather and sporting a sailor’s hat hiding curls of luscious black. She walked restlessly with sharp features etched in a scowl. Asphales reasoned she must be Nadros’ sub-commander.
At the top of the stairs, a man of imposing stature waited motionless. More so than even Ledner, this one breathed authority. He held a large black blade effortlessly on his shoulder, resting on the collar of a fur coat. The pelt was held in place by chains spanning across his chest, a metallic insignia at each end. Asphales wondered what beast had died to give this man his clothing, and he had no doubt the wearer had done it himself.
Ithilìr cleared his throat, alerting the small crowd to his presence. ‘Here we are, masters,’ he said to Asphales and Valinos. ‘The steward should be with you shortly.’ With that, he turned and left.
Asphales looked up at the expectant eyes which had fallen on them. If it had not been for Nadros’ calming gaze, he would have felt like a morsel left for the lions.
‘You two look spectacular,’ the old captain said with a laugh. ‘Quite dashing, I must confess.’ He huffed, satisfied.
‘So you are the ones,’ the man with the blade said. In that moment, Asphales could not help but feel as if he had disappointed them, as though he was not fit for whatever they were awaiting. This man saw through the veneer, through the impressive exterior he had donned and could see that underneath, Asphales was simple and scared. He shrank under the warrior’s chilling turquoise eyes.
Guldar shot them a menacing gaze. ‘Bearers of bad news, it seems. We’ve had enough of that these days.’ He chewed and spat the gristle between his teeth.
‘Now, now,’ Nadros placated them. ‘They have been through a lot. Please, Guldar. And in any case, Amaleron should arrive soon.’
As if on cue, a door opened behind the gathering. Out stepped a paradox of a person, a man of great contrasts. Exceedingly old, the steward nevertheless seemed lively. He took gentle strides but stepped with firmness. Amaleron towered above the others and yet his frame seemed humble. The others stepped back before the frail man, their deference obvious in their posture.
The steward had the appearance of a sage, his thick, white beard reaching below his chest, long locks of white hair atop a wrinkled, wise, and friendly face. Warm eyes of deep amber were set under bushy eyebrows like twin moons beneath ashen clouds. He looked around contemplatively.
The final paradox concerned the man’s apparel. Though ruling Anardes from the royal seat in Fara’ethar, Amaleron wore a simple grey robe. No adornment, not even the land’s iconic lion, was embroidered on the old man’s cloak. The only indication of his reign was the crooked staff he carried in his left hand, a twisted wooden sceptre undistinguished except for the large gem which crowned it. A strange light glowed softly from the cut jewel.
‘I see we are all here,’ the steward said, his voice like kindling embers. ‘My apologies for the delay. Please, let us all go inside.’
He motioned toward the doors and everyone present filed in unquestioningly. Asphales and Valinos followed suit.
The gathering stepped into what seemed to be the hall’s antechamber, a spacious, high-ceilinged room. Five colonnades on each side supported arches above, where light peered through shapely openings. Tiled marbled flooring patterned the ground in alternating designs of nondescript spirals or scenes of bravery captured in muted colours. At the back, more doors stood closed, probably leading into the main chamber of the Hall of the Elders.
But Amaleron seemed content to host the meeting in this room, as simple chairs were brought out—obviously temporary and not part of the fixtures of the antechamber. He sat first, and then the other took their place. Even the pacing woman settled into hers, while Guldar lounged into his seat like a tavern stool. Together, the gathering sat in a rough circle, the steward at the head.
‘I believe some introductions are in order,’ Amaleron said. ‘No doubt you have many questions. No doubt you have experienced a lot coming here. I am sorry for the suddenness and the confusion the request must have caused you. But all things in their order. I am Amaleron, steward of Anardes, keeper of the Blood Throne.’ The old man spoke clearly, even through the thickness of his beard. The warmness of his voice kept Asphales from rushing to questions.
‘I have asked all the available heads of military to be present today, for I believe you also have valuable information to share. The quest, it seems, did not go as planned.’
El’enur shifted in his seat. He was pointedly looking away from the procession.
‘First, the Amarants,’ the steward said. ‘To my right is Darius Inidirōn, commander of the cavalry and the archery.’
Darius. The man of two manes. The Amarant did not stir at his introduction.
‘To my left,’ Amaleron continued, ‘is Nadros Nìthonel, commander of the navy. I surmise you have already been acquainted.’ The old sailor gave a curt smile.
‘Now, our third Amarant is not here, unfortunately. She—’
‘I believe we have already met her,’ Asphales said, hesitant to interrupt.
‘Oh? How did this come to pass?’ The steward’s eyebrows were raised curiously.
‘In Gohenur, on our way here. I will hold the story until I am asked. But Ad—’ Asphales bit back the name. ‘Lady Catena. She is the third Amarant, right?’ He was unsure why the knight among the flowers used a different name at Fara’ethar—and even more confused as to why she divulged to him another still.
‘Ah, so you have. Yes, she is. She commands the infantry.’ There was a glint in Amaleron’s eyes. ‘Good. Very good.’
‘We’re still waiting for her and Ishak to arrive,’ Darius said. The man’s eyes were narrowed, focused unnervingly on Asphales. He felt that those who saw this stare did not live long, if they were enemies.
‘Amarant Darius refers to her second-in-command,’ Amaleron explained. ‘And speaking of, three of them are present here. To your right is Leara Arandel, subservient to Amarant Nadros.’
‘She takes care of all the administrative side of sailing,’ Nadros said with a chuckle. ‘What would I do without her?’ The woman sniffed.
‘Over to your left is Guldar Kene’dorn, second-in-command to Darius, holding charge over the cavalry.’ Guldar threw a nod of acknowledgment toward Asphales. ‘And beside him is El’enur Tharadin, in charge of the archers.’
‘We have also already met,’ El’enur said darkly.
‘Now, Asphales Esélinor, I am glad to see you have not come alone,’ Amaleron said. Asphales wondered how he was known to the steward. Questions threatened to burst free once more. ‘Who is your companion and how did he join?’
‘That,’ Valinos said with a shrug, ‘is a matter we must speak about later. I am curious, myself. But I am Valinos.’
‘Oh, is that so? Very well.’ The steward didn’t seem to take Valinos’ forwardness as rude. ‘Then we will move on. Please, tell us how you came to Fara’ethar, and what came to be of Captain Ledner’s company.’
With attention turned to him, Asphales felt small, like a pebble among pearls. But he began to speak. He relayed everything that had befallen him and the company, from Silnodìr to the tragic ambush in Gohenur at the hands of Shurun’el. He recounted Amarant Adélia’s rescue and the subsequent journey down the Valarion. Each face in the room listened wordlessly. Darius seemed to be fuming, but Asphales was unsure at what. There was a long period of quiet after he had concluded with the arrival at the docks.
‘Starlight preserve us, I never knew things went so wrong,’ Nadros said.
‘No one was meant to know,’ Guldar commented. ‘The reason we sent a small Guard was to not draw attention in the first place! Curse it all, how were they found out?’
‘That is troubling indeed.’ The steward’s forehead was creased with frustration. ‘I cannot help but take some responsibility for this, since I believed discretion was necessary. Better-trained soldiers may have fared more successfully…’
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
‘I only have one question,’ El’enur said, who was suddenly attentive. His blue eyes were welling like an overflowing tide. ‘Did my brother fight bravely?’
‘Yes,’ Asphales said, looking the young man straight on. ‘More than any man I’ve known. And he cared for us, taught us how to fight back. If it were not for Serìn, I would not be alive. Your brother died as he lived, happy and singing.’
El’enur turned away, sniffling. He brought a shaking fist up to his mouth, trying to restrain himself. When that proved futile, he rose from his seat promptly and walked out of the gathering. Asphales looked to the floor, tightening his eyes shut to halt any more tears.
‘Leave him be,’ Amaleron said. ‘But you spoke truly, Asphales, more than you know. We owe a great debt to Serìn, Ledner, and the others. But we must go on to further matters.’
‘Hang on,’ Leara said, finally speaking up. ‘The supposed message from Gidius, from Fara’ethar, troubles me. Do you have proof of it?’
‘No, we don’t,’ Valinos said. ‘It was probably on Ledner and lost during the battle.’
‘Then how can we know for sure?’ she asked.
‘We have no reason to lie! Go dig him up if you want!’ Valinos’ voice echoed through the hall, settling into an unpleasant, hushing silence.
‘Cease, please,’ Amaleron said with a raised hand. ‘That did not make sense to me, either. We can inquire with Hasel later and see if we can sort it out. For now, I must ask you, Asphales, to follow me. There is something of great importance I must show you. The reason you, and all of us, are here today.’ The steward rose and stepped toward the back of the hall. ‘I am sorry, I must ask for privacy. Please, remain here. Once this is done, you will all know, I assure you. Asphales, you come along.’
Asphales got up, hating to be the centre of attention once again, and followed Amaleron. The steward pushed on the door gingerly, stepped through, and beckoned for Asphales. He complied, entering through the narrow opening, and shut the door behind him.
On the other side, the majestic open space of the main hall confronted Asphales. A chamber of proportions which defied imagination spread out before him. Asphales stood in a massive, thirteen-sided gallery. The walls led his eyes up several hundred feet to an apse high above, a dome-shaped recession in the ceiling which formed the peak of the column-like protrusions around the hall. Stained glass windows shone with effervescent colours in each space created by the pattern. Asphales lowered his eyes, feeling the bewildering heights of the chamber. Arched hallways on the sides led into alcoves and balconies, complete with ornamented balustrades.
But the most peculiar aspect of the awe-inspiring architecture was the ring of statues around the circumference of the chamber. Thirteen shapes carved from marble stood beneath each pillar, their forms seeming to guard the hall. A decorative floor much like the one in the antechamber filled the space between. Asphales spotted the steward walking toward the end of the hall where a stone dais extended between three statues.
And on it was the Blood Throne of Anardes. Empty, of course.
The royal chair was the only raised structure, diverting all attention to itself. The place from which Ulmìr once ruled. The very heart of Anardes.
‘So this is where it all happened,’ Asphales said to himself, walking reverently toward the centre. Each step sent echoes rippling with the weight of time. He felt as if he passed through the pages of his book. As he got closer, he spotted an object resting on the throne. Small and golden-red, the circlet was laced with gems which seemed to hold the blue light of stars themselves. The Blood Crown. The symbol of the king’s rule. Had it sat here unworn for eons? Asphales felt overcome with determination. It was time to find out.
‘Anardes anardethameren,’ he spoke, reciting a well-known line, ‘anda mitharanah nui eméredeth dro frìr.’
Amaleron turned to him with a look of horror on his face. ‘How do you know those words?’ he asked.
Asphales suddenly felt foolish, as if he had done something entirely forbidden. ‘They… they’re written in a book I own. It tells the story of King Ulmìr and the arrival of the Nodirìm.’
‘So then you know about the folly and fate of the Dragonking.’
‘I do. So it’s true?’
‘Yes,’ Amaleron answered. ‘But I know of no such book which includes Ulmìr’s ascension speech. How did you come by it? You must show me.’
‘I have it with me. In my room, I mean. But I do not know the author, though the book has been a great source of encouragement to me. Actually, that was one of the things I hoped to find an answer for here. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’
‘I see. If such a book does exist, it would be very useful.’
‘So the things it mentions… They really happened? Ulmìr descended into madness and… Was he truly sealed by a song?’
Amaleron closed his eyes. He focused for a long moment. Then he began to sing.
A king to whom all splendored nations turn
The hostile flame of fate and vice would burn
His dream of purged decay and peoples bowed
With darkened force his vanity endowed
Against his stride could stand no flesh and bone
This ruler’s visage, shut in blackened glade
‘til rises one who claims the glistening blade
Both starry crown and blood to them belong
Their destined strength unveiled by Elders’ song
By turmoil, toil, and trial ascend the throne
The song carried through the hall with melodic power such as Asphales had never heard before. The music struck and left stranded echoes of the past in its wake. Asphales felt it resonate within the walls, each high and low tone shaped by the story behind the words. The steward had sung like an…
‘I am Antares of the Ten. Yes, the Dragonking was sealed by the song of Nodirìm.’
Asphales’ head spun. He bowed beneath the steward’s strength of will. And if this was only a fraction of their power, having diminished after the Dragonking’s sealing… Still, to be face to face with a living Elder. ‘So everything… everything I went through, it was not for nothing. I was right to trust in these stories.’
‘I cannot image what has pained you all these years, Asphales. But you must be strong.’
‘What happened between then and now?’ Asphales asked weakly, still reeling from the realisation of whom he was speaking to. ‘Are there other Elders here too?’
‘The tale of the nation’s fall and division in the days of dimming starlight is a tragic one. And that of what is happening with the Nodirìm now even more so. We will have time for those stories later. Do you not want to know what brought you forth from Silnodìr?’ Amaleron stepped aside, revealing a wrapped bundle resting on the dais, to the side of the throne. ‘That is what arrived for you. That is what brought you here. Please, open it and understand.’
Asphales stumbled to the raised step beneath the throne, nearly collapsing into the object cloaked in a white sheet. With shaking hands, he unfolded the linen wrapping until he could see inside.
It was a sword.
A white blade engraved with strange runes.
It gave off an aurous glow.
‘That weapon was sent here,’ the steward said, ‘along with your name and your location. I dispatched for you immediately. Since you know the tale, I’m sure you comprehend the meaning of this artifact.’
Asphales stared at the sword blankly. It was like a relic, a piece of legend, had fallen through the mists of fantasy and landed into the living realm. And it was his own; his place in the story came together.
‘That sword belonged to your father. You knew him once as Hiraeth Esélinor. But he was Hadar of the Ten.’
Hiraeth. Hadar. Father. So his memory had been there all along. Floodgates opened in Asphales’ mind, a sweeping tide that brought back pictures and pieces of his family. Now long departed, Asphales desired their embrace. Be brave, my little hero.
‘I wept when the sword arrived,’ Amaleron said. ‘I wept for my friend, because I knew what it meant. But I also wept because hope had been found. That sword is rightly passed to you now.’
‘So my father…’ Asphales voiced, but didn’t finish.
‘He was killed for what he was, Asphales. There are terrible things happening now, dark forces which would clutch at that hope and snuff it.’
‘My father did not abandon me,’ Asphales said, composure weakening. ‘He did not leave me.’ He hugged the sword and broke down with heavy sobs.
Where do you go, Father?
‘No, he would never. I suspect Hadar died protecting you. Both he and your mother knew you were far too precious and so they did all they could to keep this from you. For your own safety, until you could understand and the danger had passed. I do not know what circumstances drove them to such lengths. They knew this hope must be protected at all costs.’
‘You keep mentioning hope,’ Asphales said, wiping his eyes. ‘What do you mean? What do the runes say?’ he asked, suddenly curious.
‘One side of the blade has always been written, long before Anardes existed. But the other side was new to me. It seems that a new song is being composed. An Ode of the Nodirìm which complements the song of sealing. There are but fragments for now, but it speaks of hope and restoration. Your father engraved his part onto the blade before he passed.’
An ancient king clad in the pow’r of death
Will rise and seek the world to bend
When breaking seal with might and forceful breath
The elder youth his reign will end
Ascending grim from dark and hollow depth
With fury filled his force will send
Against an army laid with matchless breadth
The seed of Nodirìm shall fend
Amaleron had sung again. This song was different to the previous one. Asphales felt a surge, a change, a stirring within him. Then it was as if he saw him there, his father, pouring out his all into a song for his son. Soon, the image passed but the vigour the melody brought remained, straining weakness out of his body.
And for one blinding moment, the sword in Asphales’ hands gleamed to life, burning and bursting. An exploding star in the dimness of the night. Then it was gone, and the blade returned to its natural shine, a simmering gold. There was a lingering strength and vigour, as if his veins pulsed with life anew.
‘What happened to me? I felt something just then.’
‘Yes. The quickening of your lifeforce. It seems this song stirs the lifeforce of an Elderchild, one born of a union between man and Nodìr.’
‘So my mother was… mortal?’
‘Yes, I suspect so. I am sure Hadar truly loved her, also. His portion of the song came later, long after he fell for her. It appears that it is only as one of the Ten approaches death that such a song is inspired in them. At least, that is how it has happened four times so far. We have already lost four of the Ten.’
Four broken seals.
‘And what happens if they all die? What are we up against?’
Amaleron gave Asphales a grave look. ‘You have read the account, have you not? You realise, then, the danger of the returning Dragonking.’
‘Ulmìr will be unsealed?’
‘Not only Ulmìr, but the foul beast that gave him power in the first place.’
‘Anarah, right?’ Asphales recalled the beast’s resounding voice in his nightmares, a storm of ice and wind.
‘Where have you heard that name? Did this volume mention it as well?’
‘No, I have heard it in… dreams. Or they may be visions, I’m not sure. And I have seen it too. Or felt it, rather.’ He clutched at his arm as if suddenly cold.
‘Yes. The beast may be sealed but its consciousness is still active. Even in its dormant state, it wanders and manifests in the dreams of those most closely connected to the starlight. Like you.’
‘What is it? Where did it come from?’
Amaleron was silent for a while, as if reminiscing. Then he spoke, his voice ethereal. Asphales closed his eyes to listen.
‘Of old, there was Regulus and Carinae. They were light, life, and power itself. Stars beyond stars. They longed to create and craved to love. So the two began a great work. In skies beyond our own they painted worlds and played songs which sprang to life through their energy. They moulded mountains and shaped seas. The flattened fields and raised up ridges. They spread the foundations of a world and scattered the luminaries above for guidance and light.
‘But there was Sirius the Black Star also. A force opposed. A vile and vicious opponent. Sirius grew jealous of the love between Regulus and Carinae. He burned with envy at the creative energy birthed from their company. He wished nothing but the undoing of their labour, the unravelling of their song. Long he brooded in the dark, long he watched starlight bring beautiful things into being in the world that was slowly taking shape. And his hatred grew.
‘Sirius took action when the Lovers crowned their work with one final addition to the world. Men. The first men woke beside gleaming oceans under starlit skies. Regulus decreed that men should share in a portion of starlight, and Carinae imparted her own love to men in their conception. But Sirius was sickened with rage at humanity’s partaking of their heavenly light. And so he attacked the two in a battle too terrible for words. The War of Forming.
‘The Starfall it is called, for Sirius was cast from his position and thrown down. However, the bitterness and venom which Sirius harboured grew so great that it began affecting starlight itself. Regulus and Carinae could not annihilate him without unmaking all fabric and fibre of the sky, something beyond even their power in any case. Rather than risk the undoing of all creation, they had Sirius confined to the only place he could go: our world.
‘With sorrow did they watch Sirius engulf the world in black flame. The yet unmade works of Regulus and Carinae were tainted and spoiled. The world was birthed in blood and black. A great veil was cast over the world, an impenetrable barrier which Sirius could not pierce. Men were enabled to pass through the veil upon their death. So there was some respite in the ravage. But such a force had to be maintained both from within and without. And so in their effort, Regulus and Carinae were doomed to spend eternity apart. Their love and light were rent from one another. ‘All the light between us shall not separate,’ Carinae said. ‘Rather, it shall be our bond.’ Regulus and Carinae could no longer intervene or halt Sirius’ madness, but they had caged it, sealed it in hope.
‘Their hope was that those born of starlight would defeat him once and for all. For a thousand days the fire raged on in the world. And all history is but the dying of those embers. Sirius wreaked havoc in the mortal world, enraged at his trappings, but he could not ensnare all. Some, true, bent beneath his will and became corrupt. But starlight prevailed in the hearts of men and another war was waged. In this battle, those who would become the Ten took part. I fought alongside Hadar in the Thousand-Day War. It was in this battle that Hadar forged his blade and inscribed the runes which tell of the downfall of Sirius and his offspring. Whether it was simply predicted, or whether the forging of the words shaped the rest of unfolding history, I do not know, for Hadar possessed a power greater than any before him.
‘So together we fought, striking at the darkness with the light. We were victorious, but only partially. Sirius assumed a new form, his outer shape destroyed in the ensuing battle. He became a burning shadow and retreated, reduced to wandering the depths.
‘Anarah the beast was called. Anarah the Shadow was named.
‘For their efforts in the war, the Ten were granted ascendancy, a place among the stars. I cannot recall the process, and memory did not survive the transition, much like one cannot remember the liminal moment between the last thoughts of wakefulness and the first glimpse of dream. But the Ten Ascendants, the Nodirìm, crossed the starlit veil, far beyond any mortal step. And they would awake once more and return, as you know, when another stirred the Shadow…’
Asphales opened his eyes, the first objects to come into focus being the three statues behind the throne. Realisation dawned on him. Regulus to the left, Carinae on the right, and Ulmìr in the centre. The king who proved to be an offspring of Sirius.
‘Now do you see, Asphales?’ Amaleron queried. ‘That is what is at stake in this. Anarah is on the verge of awakening. The Dragonking is on the cusp of return. The Elderchildren are needed.’
‘Children?’ Asphales asked. ‘There are more?’
‘Yes. You will understand very soon.’
‘But what I don’t get is; who is mad enough to want something like this? Who is slaying the Elders? Do they understand what that will do?’
‘I am afraid they do. We do not understand their motivations entirely. We cannot track their movements completely. But the efforts of our Amarants and warriors have surfaced hints at what the enemy is planning. And this is, you see, where you fit in. We must be ready for it. The new song is needed to prepare the Elderchildren for the coming of the Shadow.’
‘Wait,’ Asphales said in shock. ‘Are you saying we’re expecting Anarah to come back? That we can’t stop it?’
‘Stopping it is not something we can do. We could delay it, perhaps, but it would do no good. It waits with the patience of the mountains. Ulmìr’s spirit and the dragon would wait until the stars themselves crumble and fall from the sky. Time itself could wrinkle with old age and still it would wait and reawaken. No, it must be faced for the final time. It must be ended.’
‘So I… We… need to be ready.’
Amaleron nodded slowly. ‘We need every fragment of the Ode for that. The song of sealing itself says that the strength of the Children will be unveiled by it. We must achieve that.’
‘I see. I think I understand. I’m sorry, this is a lot to take in.’
‘Yes. Let us return to the gathering. With you aware of these things now, we can better plan for what is ahead. Of course, it is understandable if you need time to rest and recuperate, time to dwell on these things.’
‘Yeah, there are so many questions I still have.’ Asphales wished to gush every query he had, but he knew it would not be helpful at this point. But one thought would not go away. One thing he could not be rid of. ‘Amaleron, why has my father’s sword only arrived now? He died about twelve years ago, yet only now it shows up. Who kept it? Do you know who it was that brought it?’
‘I am sorry, my boy, but there are some mysteries left, even to me. The sword only arrived two tides ago now, but I did not see who delivered it. Still, I believe what you have to think about will suffice. There is enough to ready yourself for.’
‘You’re right.’ Asphales raised his father’s blade and slung it on his shoulder.
He and Amaleron prepared to leave the main hall. Asphales felt the overwhelming nature of his identity, his task. He had come to the castle with questions, but the answers had already been too large to comprehend. No, he could not drop the sword now. This he knew. Not with such a burden placed on him. And yet, with the memories of his father behind him, pushing him onward, Asphales resolved to go on. He would do this.
As he neared the doorway into the antechamber, a commotion echoed through the walls. Both he and Amaleron hurried on, looking for the source of the noise. They could hear grunting, as if a scuffle was taking place.
Asphales burst through the door first, only to see Amarant Darius poised over Valinos on the ground. Valinos struggled under the Amarant’s threatening grip. His face was close, whispering angry words which Asphales could not make out. The others looked on horrified, but seemed too intimidated to hold Darius back.
No, Valinos, what have you done?
A moment later, Amaleron laid eyes on the two fighting men. ‘Amarant Darius,’ he bellowed, voice like a roaring flame, eyes like lit braziers, ‘what in the name of Regulus are you doing?!’
Darius turned to the steward, his face contorted in rage. He unhanded Valinos, his form thudding to the floor. Valinos scrambled away and stormed out of the Hall of the Elders.