The Betrayer traveled as light-footed as possible, heading south with all haste, facing the two setting suns: Apor and Praema. The power to teleport long distances like others eluded him, but he managed the ability over short distances. These little hops took hours, if not days, off his traveling. He needed a journeyman and one of his porting stones.
Not too far ahead, just north of the Corridor of Cruelty, was Cape Gythmel. He could acquire a porting stone there and rest up before continuing. Everyone who traveled through Gythmel was grateful for the small town, regardless of the proximity to the Corridor.
The deadline pressed down on him; a proverbial lynch tightening around his throat, the Dark Lord holding the rope. Deadlines were a common occurrence for him, Xilor always made sure he knew where the line lay, but unreasonable? Logic ruled Xilor, regardless how foul. The Betrayer never followed him willingly. The cloying assurance of power almost made the choice worth it, reveling in Xilor’s shadow, and the promise his power would one day be his.
His hope for Xilor’s power came after he betrayed everyone, turning his back on his former life. Now, regret turned his thoughts to that fateful night, Xilor standing before him, a towering wraith, a dark blemish in the night. If he had to make the choice again, he’d make the same, but was contrite about letting himself fall into a position of weakness. Though rather contradictory, his reasons were good. The blood of innocence would be on his hands. He did what he needed, even if unforgivable.
Tutelage at the feet of the dark lord had been both horrifying and eye-opening. The magics he performed traumatized him, things other great wizards never did, not even Judas Lakayre.
Judas.
Bile rose in his throat. He hated Judas almost as much as he hated himself.
No, that’s not true. Not anymore.
He mentally kicked himself, chaffed, even his anger denied him. His hatred for Judas abandoned him long ago, his self-loathing guaranteed that. Once the dark lord’s facade of power dropped, he turned his hate towards him. Xilor transformed him from a man of power to a tired, sniveling lackey under tyrannical feet, searching for scraps, holding his breath. But he never prayed for death. What kind of life did he give up for this one?
One that allows you to look at your reflection every morning, he reminded himself.
Service to Xilor wasn’t an equal trade; both sides didn’t give and receive. it was all one-sided, Xilor’s side. Immeasurable remorse for his decision weighed him down. Death by his own hand would be a reprieve if his master went back on his word. With death so close to him that fateful night, he was emboldened, and the dark lord granted him one boon: he wouldn’t kill for Xilor. With the innocent out of the equation, Xilor held no power over him, he would’ve never joined him.
Death would be his choice.
He knew why he sided with Xilor, and it pained him. His loathing for Judas Lakayre nor his discontent with the Kothlere Order was to blame. The real reason—the reason he hated himself and couldn’t live with his shame—was cowardice.
But the children still lived, and he had a duty to fulfill.
He trudged on, til late into the night, where he fell with weariness. Only then could he escape the consequences of his actions until the suns rose again.
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Chapter 10: Julie
The elderly man exited her room, leaving her alone.
“Where am I?” The question tumbled in her head.
“You are in my home: the Lakayre Manor near the city of Ralloc,” came the gentle answer.
Lakayre Manor? He must be Lord Lakayre.
The proper etiquette came to mind, remembering she shouldn’t call him by his birth name unless he gave permission.
What title do I use? Arysto? Lord? I don’t remember learning this.
The knowledge was present, but not the memories.
She stared at the door for a handful of heartbeats. Still sitting on the bed, she took a moment to survey her surroundings. The room she slept in, though spacious, was humble in adornments. Stained mahogany wood covered the floor, a complementing cream-colored rug spread beneath the bed, and the windowsill matched in hue. A peaceful room, comfortable, and the situation could have been much, much worse.
It’s not the first time I woke up and couldn’t remember how I got there. Or is it? An odd sentiment to identify with, yet somehow it rang with truth. I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep with him.
The bed in which she slept was adorned with a red comforter. Her attention drew to the room’s illumination. The lamp beside her bed, wick-less. After searching for the wick, she touched the lamp and light surged in a ball of magic. The higher she touched the stand, the brighter the illumination. The converse also true. Once she climbed out of the bed, she crept through the room, opening drawers and cabinets and spying the sprawling countryside through the window.
A potted plant—an ivy or something similar—sat on a handcrafted wood table, which looked as though it dated back several hundreds of years. The beautiful plant caught her eye again, lush and vibrant, verdant. The bark near the base of the plant mirrored the floor in her room.
She padded around the room, slow and deliberate, pausing to admire the peculiar art hanging on the wall when a shudder ran down her spine. The painting was dark and swirling, sinister, with a diminished source of back-lighting. It didn’t matter to Julie what the artist intended to portray, it reminded her of what happened before—before she came here, wherever here was.
Her first memory. She remembered a creeping chill and shuddered again.
The black shadow morphed in and out of the fog, seeming to suck the life out of her and feed on her terror. Its gurgling voice and the sinister, hypnotic laugh filled her head even as it died. She recalled the swirling dark clouds with vivid clarity. The statues came to life with swooping creatures and razor claws.
As she remembered these images, a panic came over her, and her breath quickened and came in short, ragged gasps. Her forehead prickled with sweat. With hurried steps, she reached the chair near the window, closing her eyes and clenching her fists, fighting to regain control. Her breathing slowed, and the suffocating feeling abated. Spying the clothes the elderly man left for her, she decided it was best not to remain alone, least she be haunted by her nightmares. With haste she dressed, struggling with the many robes laid out for her, then hurrying downstairs.
“Come in,” the man beckoned as she peered down the stairs into the sitting room. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
“Good morning, sire,” she greeted in the customary fashion. She perceived a smile of pride flicker across his face. Descending the last few stairs, she stopped at the base. Uncertainty clouded her eyes. “Forgive me, sire, but I don’t know who you are, not really.”
“I know, my dear. As I stated earlier, I’m Judas Lakayre, and this is my manor. But we’ll get to that in a moment. What else can you tell me?” He seemed excited but tried to hide it.
The thought of the dark clouds and hooded menace flashed through her mind, but she didn’t want to remember. “I can’t recall,” she stated, pushing the memory aside. “I can’t remember anything certain, vague images and strange feelings, flashes of memories that don’t make any sense. Can you explain it to me, sire?”
“All in good time, my dear.” His kind smile put her at ease. “First, I want you to know I’ll answer anything you ask to the best of my abilities. Second, as I said before, timing is a bit of an issue. A precarious situation has arisen though no one else seems to think so. Nothing’s worse than trying to save people who don’t wish to be saved. But it does warrant most—if not all—of my attention. Please, don’t feel you’re of no value to me. You’re invaluable and precious. I’ll spend as much time as I can with you. Now,” he caught his breath, “your guest awaits.”
“Staell, you may come in,” the man prompted.
Julie peered over his shoulder, training her eyes on the front doors. As they opened, a white stallion—if it could even be called a stallion because of its enormous size—walked in. Its head near-parallel to the floor, ducking to clear the low entrance. A single horn shot out of his forehead, a crystalline spire worthy of celestial beings. Julie stood transfixed.
It’s mammoth!
Julie deemed herself small and insignificant in its presence. She noted his emerald eyes.
With reverence, she neared him, her amber eyes scrutinizing, drinking in every detail. The horn, she noted, didn’t come from within the skull but rather like an exterior bone on the unicorn’s face. The extra bone structure and the horn itself was made of a crystalline composition, a formation of diamond.
She circled the creature, hand extended, her touch light and soft. The unicorn’s translucent skin responded, radiating light in plumes like gentle, crackling energy absent of sound. Several times, she lowered her gaze to give her eyes a reprieve from the harshness of his luminance. Bizarre, yet fascinating. She could peer through the unicorn’s epidermis, his skin like a jellyfish, but not all the way through. He was full of light, his core white, and opaque. She circled back to his face.
The unicorn bowed his head. Greetings, Madam Julie. I’m Staell, he said in her mind. I trust I meet your satisfaction?
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“Oh … my … Shades of the Underworld, he talks!” exclaimed Julie. “Well, sort of…” She glanced back at Judas with earnestness, wondering if it was some trick.
“He speaks, like all intelligent races of this realm,” the warlock instructed. “Staell’s here to give you a gift.”
“A gift?”
Yes, Madam Julie, Staell said. A gift. I’ll give you a tress of my hair for your wand. I foresee you to have an affinity to heal. Should I ever need, I hope you bring your skill to my aid.
He nodded, and Judas proceeded.
He lifted a handful of his tail, cut a section with his knife, and held it up for Staell’s inspection. Julie marveled when the hair grew back, near-instantaneous.
Staell dipped his head. I must be going now, pressing matters with the Heir of the Krey. Madam Julie, it was a pleasant opportunity to meet you. May the Spirit of Fortune smile upon you. Good day.
On his way to the door, he turned back to face her again. Do you by chance know what your name means in Ucoric?
She shook her head. “No.”
Perhaps someday I’ll share it when you are ready. As he left, Judas closed the doors with a wave of his wand.
“You are a Rumigul user, aren’t you? A sorcerer.”
“Warlock,” he corrected.
“Makes sense. Warlock Lakayre. Now, what do we do with his hair?”
“Now, my dear, we’ll weave your wand.” Judas’s gaze lingered on the door where Staell departed. Julie sensed something Staell said bothered him, but he kept the matter to himself. Was it before he entered the house or during the greeting?
“Weave? Isn’t wood used for wands?” Julie voice, breaking into his thoughts. “How can you weave a wand if it’s made out of wood? I thought tapestries and cloth were weaved.”
“Wands are made of wood, most of them, at least. Xilor fashioned his out of metal. Some wizards transformed their old ones into New Era wands. Let’s begin, shall we?” He pulled a box from inside his robes and removed what appeared to her to be a tiny, silk wing with fine lines of diamond running throughout. Holding it up to the light as if to inspect it, he connected the hairs of Staell’s tress to its tip.
“What is that?” Julie queried. She shifted closer for a better view; her interest piqued.
“This,” he held the wing up to show her a better view, “is the wing of a fairy. While you slept, I had a visit from her, and she died late in the night. Rumors of your arrival reached her ears, and she asked me about you. She died believing you’ll fulfill their prophecy.”
“Prophecy?”
“The fairies believe a powerful mage is coming from beyond the realm of magic and will be a perfect balance of light and dark.” He continued working, twining the fine hairs on the fragile wing with the aid of wizardry. “The foretelling is an ancient one, set in place long before I created the gateway.”
“What does that have to do with me?” she asked, brow arched.
“Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. The second part is that an elder fairy will give a wing to the mage. If the mage is the one, this will forever link the two races together and will open the mage to a greater power than any who came before.”
“Greater power? Can you elaborate?”
“They never say what this greater power is. ‘Great power’ is a broad term used in their language, much like ‘love’ is in ours. It’s subjective. There are many types of love: intimate, unconditional, brotherly. It is the same with power: absolute, specialized, Imperial, the list is endless. Who can say what it is? Another curious thing about their myth is the word ‘mage’, either male or female.”
“How does this relate to me?” Julie asked again. She searched his face, watching his expressions while she tuned her ears to his words.
“The elder fairy believe you to be this mage. You’re not the first Wcic to come back from the other realm; you are the thirteenth. Every time one comes back, a fairy chooses to give up a wing for their wand. The one who died last night, her last wish was that one of her wings be given to you. You’re fortunate, my dear.” He paused, a shrouded visage crossed his face, hesitating.
“What? Say it,” Julie pressed.
He sighed. “By giving you this wing, the fairy is forcing the prophecy into fruition. An unfortunate circumstance. By giving you this, the fairies might be condemning you to certain death.”
“How do you know?” she gasped, horrified. “What makes you think I’ll die?”
“I don’t, to be honest. But I can tell you, based on fact, your chances of survival…” He sighed again. “Who am I to make such a call?”
“Why would you say such a thing?” A storm rumbled in her stomach, making her nauseated; she fought the urge to throw up.
How can he be so calm while standing there and sentencing me to death? He’s cold and lacks a soul! Where’s his remorse?
As if he read her thoughts or sensed the emotions boiling within her, he spoke. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, my dear. Only two other would-be wizards lived long enough to form bonds with the fairies, but they did not last long. One went mad with sudden abilities, all raw and unrefined. All twelve wizards … passed.”
“Passed? What do you mean passed?”
“Passed on; they’re with us no more.”
She searched for the right words. A cascade of fear and panic washed over her. “What if I don’t accept the wing? I wouldn’t die, right?”
Judas shook his head, a slow, sad movement. “No, you’d still die. This wing is bonded to you through the fairy’s intent; a magical link can’t be broken. Should you choose not to take what someone sacrificed their life to give you, it’d kill you.”
He paused, turning his full attention to her. “There are two types of powerful bonds we don’t fully understand. The first, a selfless relinquishment causes a link. If it’s broken, it becomes a curse so powerful it kills the one who broke it. If someone sacrifices their life for you,and you find yourself in mortal danger, the backlash unleashed by the sacrifice would destroy whoever put you in mortal peril. In other words, if I died saving you from certain death at the hands of a sheol, and that sheol turned to kill you after my death, the conjury from my selfless relinquishment would protect you.
“The second bond would be if someone sacrifices their life for you, and you refuse their gift or their bond. It would destroy you. Wizardry always costs something, and most of the time it comes from within. In the case of life being the price—and there is no greater price than that—the penalty is as severe for wasting it.
“You must understand,” he added, hesitant. He leaned towards her. “This is something even I don’t understand. I don’t know what causes it, just that it is. This is an ancient, powerful magic, more powerful than anything we could muster. If I truly am the most powerful warlock alive today, I’m insignificant next to the wielders of ancient enchantments. Legend says Hagen wielded this great and terrible power.”
He chuckled to himself. “I used to joke about ancient witchcraft cursing the Lakayre bloodline. I guess I shouldn’t joke about something I don’t understand.”
“So, I must accept the wing?”
He nodded, solemn.
“Did you know she would do this?” Julie rubbed an itch away from the tip of her nose.
“Yes and no. As of late, the elder fairies vowed not to give into the pressures of the divination, thus nullifying it. I assumed all believed the same, but I misjudged one. Her belief must be deeply rooted. I hope for her sake, as well as yours, she was right.”
He saw the expression of confusion on her face and continued. “There are those among the fairies who don’t believe in the ancient soothsaying. When they give up a wing, most do so because they’re chosen, not because they volunteered. Last night, this particular fairy,” he held the wing up for emphasis, “volunteered because she didn’t want to take the chance the prognostication would go awry. In short, a selfless sacrifice; her life for yours.”
“What will it do?”
“Like I said before, it will go towards your wand and become a part of its core. Your wand will be an interesting one. I have never heard of a wand possessing a dual core of unicorn hair and a wing of a fairy. With both, you’ll have a connection with the unicorns, but the strongest bond will be between you and the fairies. What these bonds will entail, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean a connection?”
“Well, from now on, you’ll be one with them, and they with you. They’ll come when you call for aid, and you will go to them when they beckon. You’re their Head of Creatures, and they’re your guardians.” He returned his attention to the unicorn hairs and the wing, tying them together.
“Their Head of Creatures? Am I to be a queen?”
He chortled at her remark. Shaking his head, he answered. “When a catastrophe happens, you’re responsible for them, to help search for the deceased or missing and help them back to an ordinary way of life.” He smiled. “There we are. Ready to begin?”
Reaching into his robes, he withdrew his wand. With a flick of his wrist, the potted plant in her room popped into existence right before her eyes. He reached out, plucking it out of the air before attaching the wing and hairs.
“It’s customary for the one who wishes to create the wand to do this, but exceptions must be made.”
The plant uprooted with a pointing of his wand and floated in the air; the hairs dangled with a lazy list as it moved. Judas tapped both the left and right sides. He stretched his left hand out, palm up, beneath the ivy. It gave a slight shudder, immobilized. With the tip of his wand, he pointed to the top of the plant. He tapped once, the ivy and hair twisted in opposite directions. Pulling his right hand away, he left his hand beneath, the twisting plant hovering above. Soon, the ivy, wing, and hairs, spun too fast for Julie to perceive other than a blur. A pale white light flickered into existence at the tip and grew brighter, working down the length.
Abruptly, the spinning stopped; a less-than-alluring wand floated before her eyes, spinning, a listless tumble, carrying the same dark color as the potted plant. The faintest undertones of white like Staell adorned the tip. Otherwise, the wand remained unremarkable.
Julie felt crestfallen at the lack of magnificence. She expected something more. Her wary glance prompted a nod from the warlock.
She reached out, cautious; her fingers brushed the newly formed wood. At her touch, the same white glow reappeared but faded when she snatched her hand away. Again she reached out, but this time, she grasped the base with her fingertips. The wand glowed again. Transfixed, it changed at her touch, her essence imprinting, binding them together.
At the base, a crisp midnight blue materialized with pinpricks of startling white and silver, reminding her of a cloudless night sky and twinkling stars. The deep blue faded up the length, changing to cobalt, sky blue, cyan, and the tip crowned in the purest of whites, like fresh snow.
The glow faded, the binding ritual complete. She couldn’t help but smile, pleased beyond measure.
Breathtaking!
“This, my dear, is your wand!” She noted the pride in his voice.
“It’s stunning. Thank you…”
“Congratulations on your wand. Now, we must be off. We’ve lingered too long.”
“Isn’t this your home?”
“Yes, but a tale for another time. I need to procure an item, a book. Pack a bag in the room where you woke. There are extra sets of robes in the closet and the drawers.”
Julie eyed him for a moment, knowing he refrained from telling her everything. She didn’t appreciate his lie, even by omission. Her heart fluttered with mild anxiety. She became acutely aware of her breathing, how it thundered in her ears. What was she missing?
She swallowed, finding her voice. “What book?”
His head tilted slightly to the side. “I’m rather secretive about this one. I’ll tell you later, I promise, but we must hurry.”
She turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time but without haste. His words came back to her as she climbed. “‘I do not mean to be indelicate, Julie. Only two other would-be wizards lived long enough to form bonds with the fairies, but they didn’t last long. One went mad with power, all raw and unrefined.’”
She reached the top of the stairs. The words tumbled through her head, furthering her anticipation of misfortune. Would she, too, pass?
What was the look he gave Staell? she wondered.
Something troubled him, and she desired to find out what it was. Perhaps she could broach the subject when they arrived wherever they were going. She yearned to trust him; he seemed like a nice man, but she was leery. What did she really know about him? He vexed her by holding back.
She held her wand up, and a smile spread across her face. For a moment, happiness returned, drowning out her worries. With alacrity, she complied with his wishes and started to pack.