Valinos’ training had been progressing well. Though mere days had passed under Darius’ tutelage, already he felt more attuned to his weapons. They were becoming more than tools, something like extensions of himself. He wondered how this feeling would be amplified in someone who had handled weapons for far longer. He intended to walk this path until he found out. And all it had taken to get him going was a silly card game.
Gulren and Anfrìr, now sheathed and at rest, hung along the balustrade of a viewing platform on the upper levels of Taeladran overlooking night-shaded plains clotted with tufts from the forest. Other balconies jutted out of the scalloped slopes of Taeladran’s stony bulwark like rocky fruit on a mountain-tree. Valinos himself sat under a jet sky, fingers knotted together and thumbs absentmindedly rubbing at the soreness in his palms.
Yes, he was learning how to handle his weapons, but would it be enough? Here was Asphales, being taught how to shape starlight and guide the flow of the world—whatever that meant. Their enemies, too, were figures of legend who seemed unbounded by the limitations fettering everyone else.
Limitations. That’s what Valinos had run into all his life. Restrictions to how much he knew, how much he could do. He envied the birds of the sky. Foolishly so, for when reality settled in, Valinos knew he could not shirk the responsibilities which befell him.
Still, it seemed as if Asphales was walking on ahead, launching into something with unreal and unlimited potential. Would their paths diverge? He supposed they must, eventually. But it was unpleasant to become aware of this widening gap between them.
So for now, Valinos had his training and his vow. Something Darius had said came to mind, that first day when Asphales had screamed an unfamiliar name and lessons were cut short. There was a rage-induced flurry of blows from Valinos. One of his blades sank into Darius’ shoulder as Blackfrost nicked him also. Both combatants walked away with minor injuries.
If you keep fighting like this, Darius said, you will die. More importantly, they will die. The ones next to you, who trust you.
Valinos could not avoid feeling bitter over this reproof. From the stories, Darius himself was hardly the exemplar for cool-headedness. Still, he had to be thankful that one so skilled would take to showing him a few things. And Sirius be damned, for all his cryptic sulkiness, Darius was still the closest to someone who truly understood.
Valinos sighed. He found himself wishing that Fen’asel was here. She was a burst of summer on his wintry countenance. Somehow, he could not be bitter when she was around. And her culinary delights were always a boon.
In fact, the smell of baked goods seemed tangible suddenly. Then Valinos heard a shuffle from a corridor behind him and he rose to attention. His hand snapped to his side, forgetting that weapons were unlatched and idle, a few paces away.
‘My apologies, master. Just doing the rounds on my patrol.’
It was Nathariel. The guard captain leaned in with a quizzical look, his indigo eyes peering across the balcony at Valinos.
Valinos eased and greeted him.
‘Care for a treat?’ Nathariel asked, his hands appearing holding out a tray of morsels. ‘Made them myself.’
Valinos raised an eyebrow but didn’t voice his suspicion.
‘Don’t tell Kasil,’ said Nathariel.
Valinos strode over and took a piece—a jam-filled pastry—from the proffered variety. It was fresh and warm.
‘There you go,’ Nathariel said. ‘They say you can’t eat your way out of sullenness, but it’s worth trying, I say.’
‘Thank you,’ Valinos said.
Nathariel turned to go, presumably to return to duty, but then he spun on his heel, his midnight-blue cape trailing the sudden motion. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you strike me as different to the rest.’
Valinos finished his bite and then bitter words came out even before the sweetness faded. ‘Maybe because I am not a hardened war veteran or some starlight-flinging hero.’
‘Ho ho, no, that may be true, but it’s the regular things you have to watch. The unassuming. They’re the ones to surprise you. They may end up not being quite as insignificant as once thought. Even stone glimmers when polished.’
Valinos did not reply, merely narrowed his eyes, unsure what Nathariel was prattling about.
Nathariel held up a hand. ‘Just my measured opinion—which you may duly trust. How about you, now? Are you on a quest to track down something important, to find your place in the world?’
‘I—’ Valinos began.
‘I jest, of course. I do not presume to know the workings of a mind which carries itself with such solemnity. And I really should return to my watch now. Look to the sky, Valinos. Good night.’
With that, Nathariel was off. Valinos was not sure what to make of the captain’s antics. He finished the pastry, then shouldered the scabbard-belt housing his two blades, preparing to retire for the night.
Before heading in, he looked up into the black, star-studded sky. And as one often does, Valinos noticed some new and indistinct pinprick of light or other. And he noticed the space where there was a lack, where stars should be. But Valinos did not yet see whatever it was that he was meant to see up there in the midnight ceiling.
* * *
Asphales’ sword clashed with Adélia’s spear while Eltanin watched on. Nadorìl chipped away at Oneledim, but the Amarant’s spear was uncompromising. It was a chill Meadsbell afternoon in Nìthis, but the heat of the practice duel kept warm these warriors. The plateau rang out with the grunts of effort and the groan of steel on stone.
Asphales felt jovial, playful even, as he fell in step with a practiced rhythm. As he had come to expect of the Elder’s peculiar fashion, Eltanin had encouraged light-heartedness, despite the grim nature of their task, and Asphales had found himself imbibing this outlook.
The Elder’s penchant for infuriating word games continued too, however. When Asphales questioned why Eltanin had not yet showed him some of the techniques he promised, the Elder replied simply: ‘I have been showing you. But whether you’ve been learning is a different matter.’
But here in the moment of the duel, as he sensed his starlight roused further—along with what he could only describe as a sense of life itself—little frustrations did not matter.
‘Come at me, my lady,’ Asphales said. ‘I will be Lanurel the Unassailable.’
Adélia smirked, then avoided his oncoming rush with a pirouette. She brought up her weapon mid-spin and knocked Asphales over with the butt of her spear.
She looked down at Asphales as he scrambled to collect himself and regain his stance. ‘I did not know the world’s greatest hero was so easily assailable,’ she said.
Eltanin roared with laughter. ‘Lad, even with starlight on your side, she has you beat.’
It was true. Asphales wondered how powerful she would be if she had access to her light. But it was not a time for dark thoughts. He laughed along and accepted the Amarant’s offered hand. She took off her helmet, breathing heavily, and smiled at him in wordless gratitude.
Asphales took her in differently as she stood, armour-clad, there in the silver-light of the sun reflected on stone. Her beauty, her strength, her fierce energy. The scarlet waves cascading down her back, the emeralds set in her beaming face. All these things, and the things he had noticed stretching back to that encounter in the forest, Asphales treasured. With the song behind her story told, he—now more than ever—appreciated this privilege of being beside her as companion-in-light.
He would have wanted that night to go on unending, had not their purpose pressed itself on them. And here on this very plateau they were taking strides toward realising that purpose and pushing back the shadow.
At Adélia’s request, Asphales had begun imbuing starlight into his strikes and she would run through parry drills. The Amarant’s intent was to practice against other opponents who possessed such powers. Asphales admired her ability to push away the bitterness she no doubt felt in favour of being prepared for the task ahead. In turn, Asphales would be training with someone who had fought in the grit of the battlefield and relied on pure battle instinct to forge ahead.
‘So, shall we go another round?’ Asphales asked, now that he was firmly back on two feet.
Before Adélia could answer, it was the captain of the guard who spoke up. ‘An unfed stomach has unpleasant consequences, masters.’ Nathariel strode in unannounced, holding a tray of cakes and pastries. He offered them around to Eltanin and Adélia, but they declined.
Asphales realised how hungry he was and he sunk his teeth into the cakes. He grabbed handfuls of savouries, ham-filled pastries, as well as a few jam-dripping rolls.
‘My apologies, captain,’ Eltanin said. ‘I do not mean to affront your efforts – a journey from the town below is not the lightest undertaking.’
‘No offense taken, my lord. I have a knack for being where I need to be, judging by the one happy customer.’
Asphales wiped his chin and mouthed his thanks.
‘No need to stuff yourself prior to our celebration,’ Nathariel said. ‘There’ll be plenty more later.’
‘There’s a celebration today?’ Asphales said, with some difficulty.
‘Yes, Taeladran holds its own feast,’ Eltanin explained. ‘It may not match the grandeur of Fara’ethar’s pompousness, but I suppose in your impecunious circumstances, any such luxuries were not readily attainable, so I do hope you find it to your liking.’
Asphales took the jest in good stride. ‘The only pompous thing around here seems to be you, judging by what you’re wearing.’
‘What, this?’ Eltanin said in mock humility, twisting around to show the finesse of his brightly-coloured silken robes.
Nathariel eyed the group queerly. ‘I do hope you are preparing for something other than a fashion fair up here,’ he said. ‘One would begin to wonder where this city’s leader is always off to.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ Eltanin said. ‘There is great weight to what we do here. Now, I am sorry to be rude a second time, but we require some privacy. You may return to duty. One would begin to wonder where this city’s guard captain is always off to.’
Eltanin grinned and bowed. ‘Of course, my lord.’ He took the tray in hand and turned to leave.
As Eltanin watched the captain’s figure disappear below the rocky outcrops, he said. ‘Asphales, I must teach you one more thing.’ His ruby eyes were set hard, the Elder’s brows creased. A gust of wind blew about him and revealed the blade sheathed beneath the Elder’s robes. Eltanin looked the part of the warrior who had set back the dark so many eons ago.
Asphales, now having finished his morsel and appearing more dignified, threw a glance towards Adélia, who seemed as confused as he was by this change of mood.
‘You are being uncharacteristically maudlin,’ Asphales said.
‘Yes, well, some melodies may end more abruptly than others,’ he said simply. Then he looked at Asphales and Adélia. ‘And new ones begin.’
In the spirit of this more sombre atmosphere, Asphales threw in a question: ‘What is my mother like now? I have memories of her, half-buried by the dimness of time. What is she like?’
Eltanin sighed. ‘Words can’t approach the true measure of a person, Asphales. Even if were to describe her, what would that do but increase the fevered aching of your heart? She is alive and as well as she could be, that is all I may say. All the rest may only be rightly answered by her and her alone, when fortune brings your paths together.
‘Now,’—the Elder stepped forward and drew his sword—‘We have already made good progress. Your starlight was already bubbling, Asphales. I just needed to coax it, stir it like a simmering broth. This final touch will set it fully into motion. The Eldersong will do the rest henceforth.
‘My lady, I am sorry that this will not be readily applicable to your condition. In good faith, I teach this so that one day it may prove useful when days are darker and our hope brighter.’
Adélia gave him an acknowledging nod.
‘Approach me now,’ he said to both of them. ‘Strike, and do not falter.’
With another glance towards Adélia, Asphales did so. He rushed forward, Adélia following a moment later. The distance between them closed in a heartbeat. Asphales struck out with Nadorìl, and the Amarant brought the length of the spear up in a wide motion.
Eltanin barely moved.
When Asphales drew back, he noticed a cut on the Elder’s face. Eltanin winced and brought his hand up to his ribs, where Adélia’s spear had struck.
‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Now, pay attention. If imbuement is about imagining the outward flow of starlight and your connection to it, for healing you must position yourself so that it flows inward.’
Eltanin steadied his grip on his sword and spoke in a low, strong voice. ‘Astera iatemai.’
There was a soft glow, almost imperceptible. But Asphales paid close attention to the wound on the Elder’s face. In a blink, Eltanin wiped his cheek, and it was gone. He also eased his posture and relieved the hold on his side, as if it no longer pained him.
‘In healing,’ he said, ‘you plead with Carinae to reverse a moment of this world’s turning. You cannot mend everything, for many wounds and illnesses are too entrenched in the world’s flow to be undone. But where grace may be given, you will find respite for minor injuries and ailments.’
‘This is how you mended Darius’ wound when we met you in the wilderness,’ Adélia said.
‘Yes. Mending may be transferred to others, though that step takes more practice still, to cross the divide between one and another’s flow.’
Eltanin put his sword away. ‘I think it would be imprudent to practice this now, as I do not wish to willingly wound my students.’
Asphales laughed and nodded.
‘But still,’ the Elder continued, ‘may this lesson find you well in time of need.’
‘Thank you,’ Asphales said.
‘I leave you with a word of warning, however,’ Eltanin said, suddenly serious. ‘This power you access is to be used carefully. My dear lady, you’ve experienced firsthand what happens when you try to channel what is not there. And you, Asphales, you may feel unbounded freedom in your current state, but there are limits. You cannot give more than you have. To do so is to invite disaster. I do not desire to see your stars burn out ere they have a chance to truly glisten.’
Asphales swallowed hard. ‘Duly noted,’ he said.
Eltanin closed his eyes. ‘We are nearly done here. And you two will need to take the next step. I fear what will be required of you, but I sense you will be up for it. Hadar and Menkalinan were among the most noble souls I have ever known, and I see their qualities in you.’
He opened his eyes and his warm gaze took in both children of starlight, as if for the first time. He smiled. Asphales and Adélia could not help but do the same.
‘Off you go, now,’ he said gently, and produced a small wineskin from somewhere. ‘Leave an old man to reflect a little before the joviality tonight.’
Asphales returned to his lodgings for a bath and bed-rest as the afternoon light waned. As he soaked in the water’s warmth and steam, he thought contentedly that even this most comforting of pleasures did not match the soothing sensation of flowing starlight. There truly was something freeing and sustaining about being connected, in a more practical and real sense than he could have imagined. Asphales noticed, too, that his dreams had been kinder the nights since his awakening. As if his new light had broken through the stifling, choking grey of his dreams. For this, and for all that had been granted him, he uttered a silent prayer of thanks, before disturbing the calmness of his bath and preparing himself.
Out in the town’s thoroughfare, Asphales could see the city readying itself for celebration. Garlands of moonglint and other shiny trinkets were laid out on nearly every house. Asphales avoided his earlier mistake and kept his eyes ahead rather than being distracted by the decorations stretching up to the higher levels of the city.
A procession of merry, coat-clad figures was making its way up the stony paths toward Taeladran’s main hall. Groups of veiled women and jubilant children threaded through the streets, purchasing souvenirs and morsels from temporary stalls. Asphales joined the throng, unable to find others he recognised in the festive traffic.
‘A trinket for you, young sir?’ a voice called out as a hand thrust out a marvel of paperwork shaped like a dragon. Another merchant, seizing this chance, threw in a deal of his own. Asphales declined them both with an awkward gesture and what he hoped was a gentle smile.
The barrage continued with offers from other envoys of craftwork: glass decorations, moonglint jewellery, and even ornamental weapons. Seeing the gaudy and impractical gem-dotted blades made Asphales glad for his relatively unembellished sword.
Still, Nadorìl caught the attention of at least one. A small boy, walking alongside his mother, was staring.
‘Is it you, then?’ he asked, singling Asphales out of all those in the crowd.
‘I’m sorry?’ Asphales said, blinking.
‘Is it you who will fight the dark one? With that sword? People are starting to talk.’
Before Asphales could answer, the child’s mother turned her attention to the conversation. ‘Oh, pardon, sir!’ she said. ‘Boy, mind your own!’ she snapped at her son and pulled him closer.
‘No, it’s quite alright,’ Asphales said. He looked down at the child once more. Asphales saw himself in the boy’s earthy brown hair and keen eyes—a boy taken in with stories, eager for hope and dreams. What answer could possibly satisfy the curiosity of one so young?
Asphales smiled, and drew the blade ever-so-slightly out of its sheath. He intoned a chant recalled from his time with Amaleron. ‘Astera plēie,’ he whispered. To both Asphales’ and the boy’s delight, the sword shone, ever brief but ever bright, an instant of a gleam more luminous than the lights, fires, and glowing gemstones around them. The boy grinned and Asphales nodded.
The flow of people obscured the boy from view, but Asphales knew then, even if he would never see that particular child again, that he had glimpsed the worth of seeing those whose hope is kindled.
He walked on, following the general movement of the crowd. The citizens of Taeladran seemed to have been congregating up near the large, cathedral-like structure with stained glass windows. It loomed ahead, the same colour as the rocky outcrops but clearly not shaped by natural forces. As he approached the final bend of stairs leading up to it, Asphales spotted familiar faces to the side.
‘There he is,’ El’enur shouted, signalling to the others. Darius and Valinos had been leaning against the wall and now stood up to greet him. With so much time this last tide spent on combat, Asphales had forgotten the others could look so, well, noble. All three sported dark-coloured doublets and wore gilded surcoats to guard against the evening chill. Adélia hailed him also, garbed in a long forest-green dress and silver coat. With her hair tied back and dressed gracefully, it took Asphales a moment to recognise the warrior who had resoundingly trounced him in their duel earlier.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
‘You know you won’t be needing that, right?’ Valinos said, eyeing the sheath at Asphales’ side.
‘Maybe he’s expecting Lady Catena’s sudden attack,’ El’enur said with a knowing grin. The others chuckled.
‘You do not need to worry, Asphales,’ said Adélia, ‘for I am not hiding any weapons within the folds of this dress.’
Asphales shook his head. ‘A good thing, too. But I don’t intend to make a habit of losing.’
‘Then you should get some hits in of your own sometime,’ El’enur jeered. Even Darius cracked a smile at that.
‘I don’t think this is the right place for that,’ Asphales retorted.
‘Which brings us back to the reason you’re carrying your sword,’ Valinos chimed in.
‘I just feel… comfortable with it,’ Asphales said, shrugging.
‘We won’t hold that against you, lad,’ Darius said, stepping over. ‘Now, our guide will be here any moment to take us in.’ He looked to each member of the party. ‘We’ve done well so far, and earned this break.’
‘Unless my ears deceive me, commander,’ El’enur began, ‘it would sound like you’re actually commending rest and recreation. Did that rannak dislodge more than your rib?’
As the jests continued, a stranger stepped near like a stormcloud over pastures. The sound of his clearing throat came like rumbling thunder. Captain Kasil, the bald and sturdy official the group had encountered on their first day, stood nearby. He was clearly on duty, dressed in livery of a style and colour far more subdued than the lavish garb adorning the boisterous crowd.
‘All ready?’ he asked simply. From the man’s posture, tone, and even appearance, Asphales could not help but be reminded of Captain Ledner. He pushed away a pinprick of sadness, which he knew would grow to engulf him if he let it, even amid this festive scene.
Captain Kasil led them up the stairs toward the main hall. Moments later, a group of similarly stern and stone-faced guards flanked them.
‘It’s been a while since I was treated like a guest of honour,’ El’enur said, appraising the formation around them.
‘My Talon Guard,’ Kasil called back. ‘Finest you’ll find anywhere.’ The soldiers did not react to their captain’s proud remark.
‘It’d help if you had some honour in you,’ Darius said, turning to El’enur.
‘Oh, commander, is this payback for earlier?’
Darius and El’enur kept up their verbal jabs as the group ascended toward the entrance. ‘It’s a wonder they ever get any real fighting done,’ Valinos said toward Adélia.
The Amarant faced him with a faint smile. ‘Perhaps you can do some fighting for the both of them,’ she said.
‘I don’t…’ Valinos began.
Asphales jumped in. ‘Yeah, you’ve got two swords to use now. So, what, double the damage?’
‘I guess. Maybe it’ll make up for the lack of lightning or whatever it is that you two can produce from your weapon.’
‘That’s not quite how it works,’ Asphales said with a chuckle. Adélia seemed to retreat a touch, her scarlet hair threatening to become a veil. Valinos must have caught it also, for he quickly apologised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘Asphales was right. This isn’t the place for talking of such things.’
Asphales figured that Valinos, too, had realised something was not quite right about the Amarant’s powers, since he was a witness on that day she collapsed.
‘All is forgiven, Valinos,’ said Adélia. ‘Our bond is unbroken and this night unspoiled.’
And what a night it turned out to be, Asphales thought. Once they were let in via the main doors and signed in (like true guests of honour, El’enur giddily noted again), the group was seated together at a head table.
Inside, Taeladran did not fail to impress. Fine drapery hung around the length of the hall gave the impression one was in a palace. The floor was of polished white oak, giving the distinct air not of a cramped tavern or mess chamber, but a bright and spacious dining hall. This effect was magnified by the clever arrangement of furniture to best use the available space, and each table featured rich, silver cloths and exquisite filigree serving plates and ornaments. Even the light filtering through the stained-glass motifs of Regulus and Carinae sparkled like crystal.
The meals were no less lavish. Asphales and the others enjoyed course after course of braised chicken, garlic-infused lamb, and spicy garnished pork, to say nothing of the wild array of fruity drinks which pricked every tastebud with vigorous sensation. Asphales was at a loss for whatever Eltanin had meant by this feast not matching up to those put on by Fara’ethar.
As the night went on, other, more alien dishes were brought out also. Asphales passed on these, under the pretext that he was full from the other food provided (a half-truth). He was wholly glad when their hosts did not insist on him trying the bizarre-smelling creations.
Others of the group were more adventurous, and El’enur tasted some of the unnaturally-coloured delicacies Taeladran had on offer. Laughter ensued from the masters of the hall as the young archer’s face twisted unpleasantly, but he was awarded a moonglint necklace for his bravery.
But even so, the most astounding thing was not to be found in the furniture or the food. It was in the company, the human spirit which thrived when tasting hope. It seemed Meadsbell revelry was the same here. Wherever joy takes the heart, the same smiles and songs are shared, no matter how foreign the custom or circumstance.
These differences in manner, speech, cuisine, and clothing undoubtedly reflected the stories they told themselves. Stories which all captured the vastness of human aspiration and desire in its rich variety. It pressed on Asphales how many more such stories were out there, and how much all these voices were under threat of being silenced by the rise of darkness.
Glancing around, Asphales reminded himself to be thankful for moments of afforded peace. Still, there was an uneasy feeling he could not shake. He wondered whether it was simply the burden to be carried for having such great yet undefined task ahead.
At the conclusion of the meals, Eltanin dismissed the seated crowd. People were now free to roam the hall. The majority moved about, partaking in simple chatter, while others took up music and dancing. Some streamed up the stairs toward the upper levels, watching the performances. Darius mingled with some of the guards, while El’enur seemed to have gravitated toward the serving women. Adélia sat some distance away on a stool, watching the luthiers strum away a jolly tune. She caught his attention like a lonesome flower in a field of grass. Asphales wondered whether she would dance with him. A foolish thought, interrupted by Eltanin’s arrival.
‘We know how to celebrate, don’t we?’ he asked, striding over in his colourful silks.
‘I concede that you do,’ Asphales said. ‘We will certainly send back a favourable report to Fara’ethar.’
‘Hah!’ he roared. ‘And tell that old buffoon that he can take his reports and—’ The Elder did not finish whatever he was going to say. His eyes landed fiercely on Valinos, who stepped over with a near-finished glass of some drink.
‘Ah, that reminds me I am parched,’ Eltanin said.
‘I believe this is the last one,’ Valinos said as he drained the cup with a dramatic flair.
Asphales laughed. ‘I see your palate has expanded since you’ve seen the world.’
Valinos set down the cup with a nod.
Then, a familiar figure, conspicuously absent from prior festivities appeared from a mass of moving people. Nathariel sauntered toward them. Hope for Eltanin, in the form of a tray containing a wine bottle, was held in the guard’s hands.
‘Oh, bless the Winged Guard,’ the Elder said.
‘Like I mentioned,’ said Nathariel, ‘I know where I need to be.’
‘Not carrying baked goods now, Nathariel?’ asked Valinos.
Nathariel cleared his throat. ‘No, master. I believe your hosts did a finer job than I this time.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Asphales said. ‘Your morsels are delicious and comfortable. Some of the things I saw this evening were… wriggling.’
Nathariel simply smiled as he presented the tray to Eltanin. ‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘may I interest you in my personal favourite? I have procured this exquisite vintage.’
‘A fine choice, but I must ask, on the job, Nathariel?’
‘Not tonight, my Lord. Tonight, I am preoccupied with something far more interesting. With all due respect, master Valinos, this particular wine is unsuited to amateurs.’ The guard whisked away the tray before Valinos could reach for a glass.
Eltanin accepted the offered beverage and brought it to his lips, but stopped short of drinking. ‘Will you not share one with me, Captain Nathariel?’
The guard raised no objections. He poured some wine for himself. ‘To the health of the city,’ he toasted. They downed a glass together.
‘Fine indeed,’ Eltanin said and swigged another round.
The captain then promptly turned and left, disappearing into the crowd. Eltanin also excused himself and departed to check on the other guests.
‘Strange fellows,’ Valinos said.
‘No stranger than some of our own,’ Asphales replied. He watched as Darius had settled into a contest of strength with some of the guards posted on the perimeter. Not far away, El’enur was being shooed away by the same ladies, no doubt for some inconsiderate remark he had made. Adélia still sat by the musicians’ area, tapping her foot along.
And still the uneasiness tugged at him.
‘That’s true,’ Valinos said. ‘Who would have imagined a fisherman accompanied by an armourer, doing the bidding of some ancient beings, and sent into a war of proportions we can hardly fathom?’
‘I suppose so,’ Asphales said.
In truth, his attention was wandering, and he found himself pacing the hall. Asphales was not sure what he was looking for. He weaved through dancing people, whose silken shawls and vibrant robes shimmered in time with music. Whoops and peals of laughter rose around him, but still his mind strained to look for something he had missed.
Though the day was winding down and the last rays peeked over the western treetops and in through the windows, the scene was as lively as ever. Steps were being taken to ensure the festivities continued unabated. Asphales passed a group of servants who were hurriedly cleaning up rubbish and gathering refuse into large, wheeled containers. Inadvertently, he noticed something in one of these trolleys. It took a moment before focus fell into place.
It was Captain Nathariel’s wine bottle, discarded and still more than half-full.
Asphales broke into a run.
* * *
Nathariel felt remarkably calm for someone who had just killed a god. Well, almost. The deed was done. The star’s light was vanishing. There yet remained the inevitable outworking of his actions.
Sow. Water. Reap. It was as simple as that. What he had just carried out here would ripple out and be remembered. One snuffed light here would result in a brighter future for all. If the world needed a radical push to change it, so be it.
Nathariel passed by the faces of Taeladran, giving them the smile of an off-duty guard. The idiots returned it and offered pleasantries, unaware he was on a hunt.
How he hated it all. How he hated the skewed and uneven nature of the world. The joy Nathariel saw around him was false and ignorant. While these gluttonous nobles lounged around and congratulated their own despicable complacency, places like Sanaros rotted in squalor.
But Nathariel would change that, by Sirius he would, even if he was but a cog, a first step, in the mechanism which would one day turn back the settled order.
Nathariel drew a deep breath and pushed past more people blindly enjoying their comforts and entered some spare quarters on the upper levels of the hall. As he slammed the door behind him, he felt his stomach tighten.
He had been rash. Not for nothing was the poison known as Retela’s Bane. Said to bring on the same incurable suffering that had plagued the ancient queen, it was the only way to ensure the downfall of a creature beyond mortal capacity. That he, too, would now be crippled by it was mere collateral to the job. He hoped Sanah would forgive him.
Safely out of eyesight and earshot, Nathariel slipped into the lavatory. As he felt his knees weaken, and the agony in his stomach growing, he fell onto the latrine and made himself regurgitate.
It was not dignified, but it was necessary.
Minutes later, retching and convulsing mostly over, Nathariel equipped his baldric and prepared to finish his assignment. He felt for his sword, his moonglint blade. It helped to avert his gaze from the lush décor of this place. Even the carpet and drapery were assaults on his sensitivities, reminders of how much others hoarded while many lacked. But if there was true beauty in the world, it was to be found in this weapon. It was made as if of glass in blue and purple hues. Its hilt extended out as twin spikes of jagged diamond.
What was formerly a simple trinket, a relic, was in his hands a tool for change.
He had been like that once, too. Privileged and impotent. But no longer. Leaving his father’s estate—for all the qualities the man possessed—had been the best choice of Nathariel’s life.
Perhaps that was not quite true. In all the time he had committed to seeing the world upended and in all the devotion he had shown to his masters, he never put the one who had captured his heart out of mind. He hoped to see her again, to once more sit above the earth with her. What a welcome thing that would be after the years spent in this dreadful, dainty fortress.
But first, there were things to do.
Nathariel pulled a cloak over his weaponry and stepped back out into the hall.
‘Are you alright, sir?’ a sentry asked. ‘We heard retching but weren’t sure whether to interrupt.’
‘Yes, just fine,’ he said, wiping his mouth and still tasting bile.
‘A bit heavy on the drink, eh?’ another guard said with a stupid smile.
‘Something like that,’ Nathariel said, trying not to spill venom. It would not do to give everything away so close to the end. He pressed on, leaving the chuckling guards to their ignorant business.
By now, the poison would have begun to work in Eltanin as well. Nathariel would simply need to administer the killing blow. The spark that would light a fire.
Following his instincts, Nathariel made for the highest level, up the sleek, marble staircase and into an open hallway that spread to a large balcony overseeing the entire city. It was deserted, for the cool evening wind had pushed onlookers back to warmth. The last light of day made for an appropriately deathly scene, a single blood-red line engulfing the horizon, crushed by heavy blackness.
As he had expected, Nathariel found him here.
The Elder was leaning hard on the balustrade, heaving. He looked out over his city, firelights playing about below where civic activities were still occurring. Faint sounds drifted up.
‘Come to get some fresh air, my lord?’ Nathariel asked.
Eltanin took a moment to answer. He turned slowly. His skin had gone pale and his eyes dimmed. The Elder was probably creaking and cracking like the too-old creature he was.
‘You may drop the pretence,’ he said with an effortful huff.
And so he did.
‘Look at you, ancient cur,’ Nathariel began, ‘Bibulous and pathetic.’
It felt good to say what he had felt for so long. Nathariel stepped forward. The chill breeze cleared his head and the lightness in his stomach faded somewhat.
Eltanin strained a smile. ‘I admit to my vices, captain. And I commend your hardiness and commitment.’
‘Did you work it out before or after the poison started eating at you?’
‘Fortunately, the toxin was already at work. But I have had my suspicions. Your niceties would give you away. I may be an optimist, but no soul is so kind.’
Nathariel took a step forward. The Elder’s glib demeanour infuriated him. ‘What do you mean? What fortune is there in the pitiful end you will meet here? I outwitted you, old man. And now, I will outmatch you.’
Eltanin nodded breathlessly. ‘That you did, and that you will. But you see, I go as is written. But you… who knows what awaits you in the blind and endless dark?’
Nathariel drew his blade. ‘Your philosophy does not scare me. The ending of all your hopes should frighten you.’
From somewhere beneath the Elder’s pained face, shock finally surfaced.
‘Good,’ Nathariel said. ‘You’re starting to realise your position.’
‘Not that, you stupid boy,’ Eltanin said. ‘I have seen that blade before,’ he said stoutly, but stammering. ‘How did you come upon it? Foolish children should not be treated to such treasures.’
Nathariel roared and leapt to strike. With a groan, Eltanin drew his own sword and blocked. The motions were well-practiced and would have been fearsome if not for the sluggish reflexes induced by the poison.
Nathariel had made one miscalculation. It appeared they were not alone. From the corner of the balcony, a few guests screamed and ran inside. How pathetic. They fled when sensing something was wrong, like scuttling bugs exposed by the light. It mattered not, for it would all be over soon.
As his moonglint sword continued to trade blows with the Elder’s glimmering weapon, Nathariel smiled. This night he would be the harbinger of something none could run from.
* * *
Asphales burst in on a clash of light and steel. On a balcony of old stone and marble proudly overlooking the stone city of Taeladran, its master was under attack. Lord Eltanin was fending off Captain Nathariel’s repeated strikes. The Elder’s sword danced and flashed to keep up with his opponent’s weapon, but its light flickered unsteadily.
Asphales panted as he skidded to a stop before the scene of the battle, his thoughts racing to catch up to his position. Yelling and fleeing had first alerted Asphales to the direction of the commotion. He was glad to have reached the scene, but confusion now settled in.
‘What are you doing, captain?’ Asphales cried, voicing the concern that screamed above all others. A deep trembling wracked the pit of his stomach. The uncertain feeling of unease had now fully materialised into dread and panic, a sickening sensation that something was about to go horribly wrong. He drew his sword also, but hesitated, as if he were just holding a dumb tool.
Nathariel did not answer. He brought his sword down in a two-handed swipe. A sharp peal rent the night as Eltanin barely held on. As weapons scraped, the captain switched his grip, freeing one hand to strike at the Elder’s face. The blow connected, sending Eltanin reeling.
The Elder gripped the balustrade for support and spat blood. Asphales could tell his injuries were not the only cause of his current state. Pallid and shaking, Eltanin seemed to dwindle by the minute.
Murmurs and gasps rose from below the terrace. The citizens of Taeladran were now watching the attack. Heavier, more patterned footfalls announced the rush of guards into the building. Asphales breathed. He hoped that in mere moments, there would be a large enough force gathered to overpower the captain.
The sensation worsened. There would not be enough time.
Asphales brandished Nadorìl.
He charged.
He tried to focus on the words, attempted to draw out starlight. But in the rush, it all seemed like a jumble of meaningless babble. Light coalesced, but it was unruly and undirected.
Still he pressed on, blade in hand.
Nathariel took notice of him for the first time. The contorted, angry face staring him down bore little resemblance to the light and easy-going captain he had been mere minutes ago. Had all that been an act?
The captain parried Asphales’ strike with no effort, but it bought the wounded Elder precious seconds to recover. Asphales was sent careening over the marble terrace as Nathariel turned his attention back to his target.
Eltanin struggled to his feet, but the captain was no longer in front of him. As Asphales picked himself up, he saw Nathariel seize the Elder from behind and drag him to the edge of the balcony.
‘See here, filth of Taeladran,’ he spat so all below could hear. ‘See your leader. See your hope.’
His legs burning from effort, Asphales launched himself toward the hapless Elder.
Please.
Nathariel brought his sword out.
Starlight guide my steps.
Desperately, desperately, Asphales rushed onward.
Starlight, please.
‘Anardes anardethameren,’ Nathariel said.
Then the tip of the captain’s handsome, glassy sword was stained red and pointing up to a blackening sky. Nathariel threw aside the Elder’s limp and pierced body.
The captain’s sword was ready to meet Asphales’ mad charge. At some point, Asphales became aware of someone else entering the premises. His quick glance told him it was El’enur.
‘El! Help!’ he screamed. At least, he hoped he did. He was not sure he could still hear or make out sounds. The clash of blades seemed dulled and muffled.
In all this, traitor Nathariel smiled a wicked smile, his face now painted with blood, as he continued to evade Asphales’ attempts. The captain flicked his russet curls in mockery.
A brief flash of light. Eventually, from somewhere deep within, a word of starlight obeyed and Asphales’ hit made the captain stumble. Nathariel expressed his surprise, and this moment of inattention cost him. With a shrill whistle, an arrow lodged itself in the captain’s shoulder. Surprise turned to suffering, and an immobilised Nathariel dropped his weapon.
Asphales lowered his sword, too, and tackled Nathariel to the ground, away from the Elder’s fallen body. Screaming, crying, moaning, he held the captain down. Asphales pounded uselessly at the man to undo what he had done.
‘It’s too late,’ Nathariel wheezed. ‘I have done it.’ And he laughed softly, laughed as if sharing a joke with a friend. The shaft piercing through his torn, navy-blue fabric quivered.
El’enur ran over, and other figures followed. Asphales raised his head from where he had crumpled over and, through teary eyes, noticed Darius and Adélia in tow.
‘I’m sorry,’ El’enur said, ‘I could not do more.’ He held a bow, clearly not his own and likely borrowed from a guard in an inspired moment. ‘Eltanin came over and he was starting to look real pale. I figured something was wrong and I followed you… I’m sorry I did not get here sooner.’ The young archer bowed his head.
Captain Kasil led his force in and secured the perimeter of the balcony. Too late. Far too late. He gave directions to a few men to check around and bring assistance, but it would have done as well to shout at a wind which had already wreaked its damage.
Lord Eltanin the Inventive, star of stars, was dying and nothing could change that.
Asphales buried his head in his hands. He did not want to face them. He had failed, too. He heard movement about him but did not want to see. Eventually, he felt a shadow standing over him.
‘Lad, he wants to see you,’ Captain Kasil said.
Asphales pushed himself and dared to look over to where the Elder had collapsed. Watching on, his stomach felt empty and full at the same time. He was overcome by that sickening feeling which pulls down and pushes up simultaneously.
As he released his hold on Nathariel, Captain Kasil’s men accosted the former captain and dragged him to his feet. Nathariel looked weakened himself. He could barely hold his head up to meet his capturer. But when he did, he still bore the same vainglorious smile.
‘Nathariel, how dare you?’ Kasil growled.
No answer came from Nathariel, just a flashed grin to claim the credit for what he stood accused.
‘Take him away,’ Kasil said.
‘And this blade, sir?’ a guard asked, holding up the bloodied moonglint sword.
‘Confiscate it,’ said the captain. At that, Nathariel looked back as he was escorted off. He seemed to harbour more regret over losing his weapon than the life had taken.
Asphales walked over to Eltanin. The terrace seemed to be spinning. As he lowered himself, the Elder’s wandering gaze found him. He sat propped against the balustrade, blankets and cushions set up for him. A reddening cloth was wrapped around his chest. And he still bled. His blood spilled like ruby ink drained out of his once lively eyes and onto a sparkling canvas.
‘I perish…’ the Elder began. ‘I perish beneath the gaze of Regulus and Carinae.’ He tried to smile, but coughed instead. Asphales felt tears welling.
‘Oh no,’ Eltanin continued. ‘Don’t grieve, boy. I have been waiting for this… waiting for you to become—’
The prideful ruler’s covenant of dread
The dragon’s fang which pierces all
A journey which the living fear to tread
Shall cause the sting of death to fall
From lightless depths where ancients make their bed
Arising death brings pallid squall
And though unnumbered are the righteous dead
Through fear and loss the few stand tall
How the Elder sang before he bowed his head in death! Despite his injuries, Eltanin’s voice rang clear, loud and commanding as it had been formerly. A melody, cool and lively as summer, flowed among those standing on that balcony. Asphales felt words, true and living words, write themselves onto an unseen tablet. A wellspring burst forth within him. He felt the river turn into a torrent, eager for release.
Then the music faded and so did the Elder’s life. The nourishing sensation cooled and he was left with the reality of another ended star.
And try as he might have to feel rage or sorrow or anything at all, Asphales could sense nothing but emptiness as the day ended and the long defeat settled in.
The sun had truly set now, a great eye closing its lid in sleep as scuddling clouds passed by.
It would be a long night, a cold night.
A night that pains the soul.
* * *
Darius stepped deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Torches lined along the descent pushed back the total dark, but it was impossible to tell day and night apart here. There was only the sound of smooth, mossy stone beneath his feet and the weak flickers of flame. Occasionally, a drip sounded from a subterranean stream slowly carving through the rock.
It reminded Darius of another cave he had once been in. A different man, a different time. Those memories were far behind him, under old scars and scattered as ashes in the fire within his heart.
The Amarant descended further, past several manned gates, to where Captain Kasil had indicated the prisoner would be taken. Darius had given him the impression he was here to interrogate the culprit under official business from Fara’ethar.
Of course, Darius intended to do far more than that.
As he passed openings in the cavern gated by rudimentary and rotting metal bars, Darius had a hunch these dungeons were not much used. But he pitied whoever would be consigned to a sentence in this dank and horrid place. Taeladran certainly knew how to keep its prisoners, letting the heavy silence and immutable embrace of stone do most of the work.
The man he was visiting deserved nothing more. At times, Darius wondered if he’d be best kept behind bars, too. Out of his many sins, his past association with the Order, even unwitting, was unforgiveable. No, that fire would not die down until he had heaped coals back onto their heads. Nathariel was not the man, but he would become a link.
Oh, he could ask all about their operations, their structure, their goal. He could interrogate nicely. But all of that would be moot if their members’ reputation for devotion had any credence. The setback experienced by the killing of Eltanin was too great and put the Empire, and Amaleron’s hopeful plan, at risk.
No, the Order was about to learn that wrath rises out of ruin.
Darius passed the final checkpoint into the silent earth. This cell seemed purpose-built to cut-off communication, light, hope, everything.
Captain—no, former Captain Nathariel sat in shadow at the end of a musty, cracked hallway. Chains rattled as the prisoner shifted to meet his visitor.
Darius approached, sending ominous echoes along the prison’s walls. Rats scurried away and knocked a bucket over. The Amarant unclasped Blackfrost and set it in front of him with a thud.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Nathariel said without looking up. He pulled his rodent-chewed blanket closer and turned away with a clink of metal.
‘I tend not to do that,’ Darius said. ‘Call it Kerenan efficiency.’
Nathariel did not say anything, but Darius could feel the prisoner narrow his eyes, try to gauge the game he was playing. Fortunately, the Amarant was not playing.
‘Will you speak?’ Darius asked, fondling Blackfrost’s hilt.
Nathariel dragged himself forward into torchlight and spat. ‘Never,’ he asserted. Utter contempt was written on his face, dirty as it was.
‘That makes what I am about to do very easy.’ Darius stepped forward, gripping Blackfrost tightly. He lifted the blade effortlessly. The kill came quickly. Blood flowed freely.