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Toren Daen
I’d always known that my Phoenix Will affected my mind. Instincts, insight, and knowledge not innately my own pressed against the confines of my skull. They waited to be unleashed, to be harnessed and used. Like a roaring, raging forest fire that couldn’t be stopped, but also a comfortable warmth like a grandmother’s inviting hearth.
But as I settled into Soulplume for the first time since I’d ascended to the white core, I could sense–just barely on the periphery of my very essence–a deeper truth about my Will.
It wasn’t just my mind that was influenced. No, it was my soul. Like a balloon that was suddenly being infused with more air, I could sense as my very essence expanded. Except that wasn’t a perfect analogy either. It was more like… two different shades of paint mixing together, but one was so bright and luminescent that it threatened to completely subsume the other.
I could sense Aurora’s soul, too, like guiding rays of sunlight that lit the path in front of me, showing me the path well-trodden. Even as I became more like the Will and the Will became more like me, my bond’s steady hand guided me through the currents of energy. I could almost taste the bleedover between our souls.
I gently wiped the blood away from the back of my skull, watching the motes of aetheric heartfire simmer away in the crimson. So interesting an avenue, I thought, sparks of white flames dancing along my fingertips as it burned away the blood. To reach the soul.
Cylrit hovered motionlessly in the air further away, and from his widened eyes and the minutiae of his intent, I knew that shock pervaded his system. I kept my aura leashed, tightened and controlled. But I knew he sensed a modicum of the power in my veins.
“So this is your true power, Spellsong?” he said, settling back into stance even as he radiated uncertainty. “It took you long enough. It’s time you stopped holding back.”
I let out a sigh that carried untold weight. My breath steamed as I finally turned my burning eyes toward Cylrit. “We are under the sky, Retainer of Sehz-Clar,” I said shortly. “This is no longer a battle.”
Cylrit’s brow furrowed as he regarded me. “You should not disregard me so casually, Spellsong.”
“I am not,” I said, tilting my head as my hair blew in the breeze. I straightened my hand so my fingers formed like knives, calling on my mana as I prepared to strike. “I would not engage this power if I did not respect your own Will, Cylrit of Victorious.”
He opened his mouth to reply, just barely peering over the edge of his tower shield.
But I was already in front of him. My hand, vibrating with innumerable particles of sound mana and enshrouded with crystalline energy, pierced his tower shield like a hot knife through butter. My hand erupted out the other side, and with a twist of my arm, the metal spun away into the ocean below. My fingers grasped Cylrit’s throat before he could even blink.
To the warrior’s credit, he reacted nearly immediately. His spatha and greatsword surged in from the side, attempting to cleave me in two, but the barest application of my regalia froze them in their tracks.
I could feel Cylrit’s mana struggling against the impossible effects of my own, twisting and clawing as each weapon attempted to wrench itself free. But his weapons would not budge, even as the man’s hands gripped my forearm with deadly strength.
I stared into Cylrit’s blood-red eyes as I raised my opposing hand. Orange fire coalesced on the tips of my middle and index finger, before brightening to a frightening azure, then settling into a brilliant white ember. And with a brush of sound mana, it began to hum with the contained force of plasma.
I levered the fingers against Cylrit’s burnished black breastplate, just over his heart. The metal began to sizzle and pop as my primed spell burned through the bare metal it touched, the white-hot liquid seeping down like tears.
“I rose to your challenge, Retainer of Sehz-Clar,” I said evenly into the eerily still air. “Do you yield?”
Cylrit’s gaze didn’t waver from mine, even as the glare of my eyes brightened. Admirable.
“You swear your heart to her cause. You will never hurt her,” Cylrit said. He was in no place to make demands, yet still, his tone told me this was the highest of commands, even with my rune-burned fingers around his throat. “You will never let her come to harm.”
My gaze softened, and though Cylrit’s weapons still strained and fought to break free of my telekinetic hold, I allowed my hold over Soulplume to slacken. The feathered runes burning along my skin slowly faded into motes of energy as the touch on my soul retreated. That rush of insight and soul-melding knowledge simmered away like blood on a hot stove as I withdrew my hand from Cylrit’s throat.
The Retainer hobbled in the air, sinking slightly as he rubbed at his pale skin, a bruise already starting to form beneath the flesh. He winced slightly as he caressed his neck, but his gaze never wavered from my face.
“I can’t promise that she will never be hurt, Cylrit,” I said solemnly. “With the nature of her vision, that would be impossible. But I will swear an Oath, that no matter her trials, I will do everything in my power to keep her safe and see those goals fulfilled.” I swallowed, feeling a lump in my throat. The chains that ensorcelled my left arm–marks of my pact with Aurora, forged so long ago–flashed as another promise was engraved into my soul.
Cylrit stared at me for a long, long time, before he nodded slowly. His weapons slowly returned to his side under some sort of psychokinetic control, before vanishing into black shadow. “Good,” he intoned sharply, finally averting his gaze. ”I expect nothing less from a man of your quality, Toren Daen. Do not disappoint me.”
A tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying slowly loosened from my shoulders as I turned away, my thoughts coming more clearly as I stared back at the docks. Part of the pier had been destroyed just from the side effects of our battle, and there was a massive crater in the cliff face from where I’d redirected Cylrit’s sword with an accel path. I watched a large boulder break away from the rocks, before tumbling down into the sea with a splash.
I’ll have to get some earth mages to fix that, I thought with a wince.
“Men and their squabbles over women,” Aurora huffed absently across my mind, still distant. “It matters not if one is human or asura. It’s all the same.”
I pointedly ignored that comment from my bond.
My eyes traced along the pier as Cylrit hovered awkwardly beside me, neither of us really knowing what to say even after our… mutual understanding. It felt like more needed to be said, but I didn’t really know how to broach the topic. And from the constipated look on the Retainer’s annoyingly handsome face, he was feeling much the same.
My eyes finally spotted a certain establishment along the edges of the pier, a ways away from the site of our battle.
And an idea popped into my head.
“Cylrit,” I said, my eyes lingering on the very specific building, “have you ever gone out drinking?”
If there was nothing else I gained today, I knew the absolutely incredulous look on Cylrit’s face would stay with me till the end of my days.
—
I pushed open the door to the bar, my eyes immediately adjusting to the lower light. Scented cigar smoke drifted through the air, but it was stale. From how most of the patrons of the bar were either huddled under tables, braced against walls, or otherwise rippling with anxiety, I knew that the smoke wasn’t from anything recent.
Or maybe someone smoked because they were stressed, I thought as I loped into the dimly lit tavern, noting the stares of the hunkered people. I thought of Hofal, then, a note of melancholic nostalgia surfacing at the thought of the old, grandfatherly man.
I restrained a sigh as the fear-struck gazes of the patrons lingered on me–and even more on the person who entered behind me.
Cylrit had to duck to enter the tavern. We were both taller than average people, but combined with his horns jutting above his head, the width of his plate armor, and the fact that most things were dwarf-sized, the poor Retainer looked like a giant among men as he strode awkwardly behind me.
Ignoring the looks of the other patrons, I finally reached the bar counter, making eye contact with a very nervous bartender.
“What’s the strongest draft you have?” I asked tiredly, slumping onto the barstool and laying my elbows on the counter.
The barman’s eyes flicked to the dark figure behind me. Cylrit loomed there like a sentinel of death. To everyone else, he must have appeared like an intimidating golem of black metal. To me, he looked like he’d eaten something spicy and was currently struggling to pass it through his colon.
The bartender coughed nervously. “Pardon me, milord,” he wheezed out, “But there’s been disturbances all across the docks. Earthquakes, mana flares. A fight between monstrous mages. People are taking shelter here in case it escalates, so we can’t… well…”
I pointedly avoided looking at Cylrit. He didn’t look at me, either.
“That won’t be a problem,” I said, dismissively. “It’s done now. And you can certainly open for business again.”
The bartender’s eyes widened as his gaze darted from Cylrit’s horns, then to the red chain inked on my palm, no doubt putting two and two together.
Before the poor man could piss himself, I withdrew a heavy sack of gold coins from my dimension ring. When I set it down on the counter, the wood audibly creaked. “A barrel of the strongest stuff you have,” I announced, “And use the leftovers to pay for a dozen rounds for everyone still here,” I said loudly.
The man’s eyes bulged out of their sockets as the gold glinted in the low light. Where before the heartfires around me thumped quickly and with fear, now it shifted to excitement as murmuring and the addled drunkenness of the patrons resurfaced.
Free booze was free booze, no matter the world.
The bartender struggled to carry the sack of coins away, the heft nearly too much for his thinner arms. I watched him go as the tavern slowly began to increase in rowdiness as the anticipation in men about–mostly dwarves–grew exponentially.
Poor Cylrit watched this with a strained face. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised by how quickly these people bounced back from their fear or was disgruntled by it.
“I did not take you for one to go to such... establishments,” Cylrit said as the barman disappeared behind the counter. With a helpful cover of sound mana, I made sure none of our talks would be heard by others.
I kept my mind attuned to the flow of the people around us. None got too close, even as they pressed up against the bar in growing desire for whatever the barman would bring out.
“I’m not,” I said gravely, “but there are some conversations that need alcohol.”
As if on cue, the portly bartender stumbled out of the back with two barrels balanced on his shoulders. Cheers went up through the entire room as he set one down with a heavy thump, and miners and dockworkers just off their shifts swarmed the tap like bees buzzing to honey.
There was a lot less fanfare as the barman set the barrel down in front of us, his eyes flicking nervously between me and the Retainer. “If there’s anything else, milords, just ask,” he sputtered out, hastily dropping a couple of tankards in front of us before scurrying back toward his other patrons.
One entire half of the bar was completely devoid of presence aside from the Retainer and I. I grabbed the hefty mug–carved of wood and trimmed with metal–and shoved it under the tap. Then I flipped the tap, watching a frothy liquid I suspected was ale slowly fill up the tankard.
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When I was done, I handed it to Cylrit. The man took it awkwardly, seeming uncertain of how to hold it. I followed suit with my own tankard, staring at the bubbles once I was finished.
Cylrit finally managed to work up enough courage to sit himself down awkwardly on the barstool next to me. The unfortunate stool creaked as the mage in full metal plate armor settled onto it.
“This does not make sense,” Cylrit finally said into the void of silence between us. “For such concoctions to affect mages of our strength, only the entire barrel would suffice.”
I took a sip of the ale. It tasted like piss, but ale always did.
I set the tankard down as I chortled with amusement. “It’s not really about getting drunk.”
Cylrit stiffly took a sip of his own tankard, and I watched with humor as his face wrinkled in distaste. He had enough manners to set the cup back down on the bar with perfect precision, but his face looked exactly like someone who had never tasted bottom-shelf ale in their lives.
“If I did not know any better, Toren Daen, I would suspect you of attempting to poison me,” he said with sharp disgust. “That was the worst thing I have ever tasted.”
I raised a brow. “Is drinking that piss water worse than telling me what we’re here for?”
Cylrit’s face fell. This time, he grasped the handle of the mug and took a more hearty sip, not displaying an ounce of the discomfort he must be feeling as he swallowed. “I think I understand a modicum of your thought process now, Toren Daen,” he said sharply as he stared at the mug.
“Sometimes it’s easier to do something difficult when you’re already doing something hard,” I said wryly, taking a pull of my ale.
Cylrit stared at the table, unnaturally rigid as the world seemed to spin everywhere but at our end of the bar. More and more dwarves swarmed the counter for a refill from the barrel, but they avoided us like a cloud of bees buzzing around smoke.
“My mother was a pleasure slave,” he eventually said, his eyes clouded. “The gladiatorial pits in Victorious are a brutal, horrible place to live. But it is even worse for the weak–and if you are a woman and lose your fights–there is only one fate for you.”
I focused intently on Cylrit as I maintained the sound barrier, watching as he took another careful sip of his ale. He was remarkably calm and even as he spoke, though I had no doubt that each word was like wrenching a dagger from a wound.
“I manifested early, but did not know my father. And once my mother died, I inherited her debts. Something about disrespecting a powerful Named Blood had landed her there.” Cylrit shrugged. “I don’t remember her.”
I opened my mouth, then frowned. “Wait, you never met her? But you were…”
“We were separated when I was born,” the man explained as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I don’t know what her name was, either. The masters of the pits never informed me.”
This time, I took a harder pull of my ale, feeling its burn as it trailed down my throat. Silence trailed in the wake of Cylrit’s revelation as I tried to process it.
I was lucky enough to have Aurora to guide me when I first came to this world, I thought, frowning at the drink in my tankard. But Cylrit didn’t have anyone?
“How did you learn, then? How did you grow?” I asked, feeling sympathy for the man I was tentatively willing to call a friend. “I can’t imagine it, Cylrit.”
“It is not something for which I should be pitied, Spellsong,” he grunted. “I am the man I am today because of the experiences of those pits. The organizers and those who ran the bloodsport knew something more of my father’s lineage than I did, so they had me trained from the moment I could hold a blade.”
Cylrit sipped at his ale, his gaze contemplative. His intent was lacking entirely in sorrow or any sort of sadness as he spoke, recounting his memories as if they were barely of note.
“I killed my first mana beast when I reached the age of six. I ended my first life when I was eight. Up and up I went. I got better at killing. I got better at making it bloody, too. That’s what made the crowds roar.”
I worked my jaw, feeling a bit uncomfortable at how simply the Retainer said such things. “For what it’s worth, Cylrit,” I said slowly, “I am sorry that you had to experience such hardship.”
He actually chuckled a little bit at that. “A soft south indeed. I worried for a long time that you would have the spine to do what is necessary in war with how quickly you are to offer your sympathies when they are unneeded.”
My discomfort grew more as images of Skarn and Hornfels Earthborn flickered behind my eyes. I looked back at the bar table as the sounds of dwarves growing intoxicated faded away into the background. “I can sense the emotions of everyone around me, Cylrit,” I said in quiet response. “Even in subtle ways, the world always reacts to the emotions of mages. And always, those senses flow back into me. I know what other people are feeling.”
My eyes unfocused slightly as memories of that first battle in Burim flowed back through me like grains of sand in an hourglass. “Especially when they die. That’s when people’s emotions really… burst, before there’s nothing at all. It’s as if the person knows that they’ll never experience anything ever again, so they try so desperately to experience it all at once. But I’ve found that it’s mostly regret and despair in the end, never peace.”
That might have simply been because I’d been an invoker of despair whenever I slew those in my path. A harbinger of Alacrya coming to wash away all the defenders knew. My fingers tensed over the handle of my mug, and I felt the sudden longing to down it all in one, monstrous gulp.
I refused that urge. That was dangerous.
“It’s part of why I value sympathizing with people, Cylrit. Because I hope that I can be a little spot of warmth somewhere in the places where there might be regrets.”
Silence reigned between us for a short time. The Retainer swirled the swill in his tankard, looking at it. “I apologize for the harshness of my words, Spellsong,” he said simply. “I did not understand. That is likely why we are here in the first place.”
I shifted uncomfortably. This time, I didn’t have anything to say.
“I was good at my sport, Toren Daen. Exceptional, even. For years, I was the best the pits could offer. In fact, my acts were grand enough to draw the attention of a Scythe,” Cylrit said sternly.
“Seris took you from there,” I said slowly, connecting the dots.
Cylrit nodded curtly. “She did. In the aftermath of the Redfeud War, my master visited the pits and freed me personally–but no others. And for years, I wondered why I alone was freed from my chains. It was true that I had proven my worth in combat; that I showed exceptional ability and talent. But there were others that would have been apt additions to Master Seris’ retinue.”
Cylrit finally turned to look at me, his eyes hard. “It was not hard for me to realize who my father was, Toren Daen. The resemblance is too uncanny; the circumstances too clear. He was a champion of violence and a savage among savages, just as I had become.”
Cylrit’s hand clenched around the handle of his mug imperceptibly, and I feared it might break from how rigidly he clutched it. “Kelagon, former Scythe of Vechor and warmonger,” he said with a sneer.
I took a liberal gulp of my own drink at this revelation, wondering how it all fit together. Seris had slain Kelagon, hadn’t she? Torn his head from his shoulders?
My mind flashed back to the Summit so many months ago, where I’d met all the Scythes and Retainers in Alacrya as a god decided the fate of Dicathen. And just outside that meeting hall, portraits of a hundred battles stood arrayed in a macabre display of victory.
Seris’ sneer as she hefted Kelagon’s horrified skull drifted through my thoughts like a shadow.
“Why would Seris take the bastard son of her slain enemy as Retainer?” I asked, frowning as I tried to parse the reason from what I knew of my lover.
“Because I remind my master of war,” Cylrit’s smooth voice cut through my thoughts like a blade through flesh. “Because when she sees me, she sees Kelagon, and remembers what she could become if she ever strayed too far.”
Cylrit pushed his mug away, and I could see his desires in the set of his shoulders. He wanted to slump, wanted to bend under the weights that burdened him at all times. But he could not, would not. This man was rigid as stone. “But she suffers for it. She never allows herself to live a true life, and never takes caution for her own well-being. But that has begun to change.”
Cylrit shoved a gauntleted finger into my chest. “You bring out emotion in her, Toren Daen. In a way I never could–because I am a quiet reminder. A cautionary tale made manifest.”
I stared at the frothing bubbles of my ale, suddenly feeling far from thirsty. I found myself thinking of all the times I’d coaxed Seris out of her comfort zone, pulling her toward full emotion. She had indeed been so suppressed. As if she wouldn’t even let herself feel out of fear. Fear of becoming like Kelagon.
Her greatest fear is herself, I thought darkly, because she fears becoming Agrona.
We sat there in silence for a long time. No more words needed to be said, not really. Even as the dwarves around us slowly drank themselves into stupor as the hour ticked by, we stayed alone with our thoughts.
“That’s where the shield came from, then?” I eventually asked, referencing the towering construct of metal I’d thrown into the ocean. “And that shortsword. Those were your weapons back during your time in those pits?”
Cylrit didn’t reply for a moment. “One of my regalias allows me to create unique weapons, and over time, imbue them with more and more magic. The more I use and imbue, the stronger they become.”
I blinked in surprise, then felt a wave of guilt wash over me as I recognized what this implied. “The shield that I destroyed,” I started guiltily, “was it… uh…”
Cylrit exhaled slowly through his nose, like a bull prepared for a charge. Yet the Retainer seemed calm despite this. “There were many decades worth of imbuement in that particular construct,” he said sharply. “But my greatsword is where the majority of my focus has been for the past decades. You did not hamper my abilities, Spellsong, and I invited your challenge.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but I stopped as I turned my head. A familiar, dark heartbeat was approaching this bar at an absurd speed, and from the slightly heightened nature of the heartfire in my ear, I could tell they were nervous about something.
I slowly slid off my stool, pursing my lips as I finally realized a few implications of Cylrit and I’s spar that I had ignored before. “Hey, Cylrit?” I asked. “What are we going to say to Seris when she asks about our spar?”
Seris was supposed to be on the Isle of the Earthmother, preparing the Alacryan installations there for the influx of new troops that should be here in four or five days. But as a familiar intent now also threaded across my senses, I knew that wasn’t the case right now.
Cylrit caught onto my implication quickly as he noticed my focus on the door. We shared a single look of understanding as Seris’ mana signature closed in. This stayed between us.
When Seris pressed open the doors of the tavern, it appeared as if the reaper herself had come to claim her due from all who had been too careless with their drink. Her aura wasn’t as condensed and hidden as Cylrit’s and mine, which was by intention. As the moon-blessed mage strode into the dingy bar, I felt a spark of deep pity for the patrons who were currently struggling to breathe.
“Toren, Cylrit,” Seris said sharply, ignoring all the dwarves and men around her who struggled under the subconscious effects of her aura, “with me. Now,” she said in a tone that brooked no refusal.
I set my mug of ale down–not even half-emptied–as I followed after the swiftly retreating Scythe. She didn’t display it outwardly, but I could sense her agitation and anxiety as I followed her out of the bar. Cylrit was quiet as a grave as he marched like a prisoner on death row beside me.
The late afternoon sun was still high in the sky, but it felt far later to me. I followed silently after Seris as she marched along the pier, my hands shoved in my pockets.
Finally, I couldn’t withstand the silence anymore. “Seris, Cylrit and I were simply having a spar,” I said, hoping to assuage her worries. “Nothing that could cause harm. If it upset you so much, it wasn’t our intent,” I said with only partial honesty. Cylrit had swatted me out of the sky like a fly, and I was sure there was still a red splatter on his greatsword from the impact.
Nothing like nearly-permanent brain damage to make a fight interesting.
Seris halted in her steps, the swish-swish-swish of her dark battledress halting abruptly as she turned slightly, raising a silver brow. Her piercing eyes, as always, seemed to dig into my soul. “That’s not why we’re here, Toren. Something of extreme import has put a damper on my plans,” she said, “but do tell me more about your ‘spar.’ Is there anything you two want to tell me?” she asked, her eyes darting between me and her Retainer.
Oh, shit, I thought, realizing that I had basically just dug my own grave. It seemed that if I had just stayed silent, I would’ve avoided being picked apart like a hawk by Seris’ too-knowing eyes. I coughed nervously, my eyes drifting toward the decimated sections of the dock of their own accord.
Seris, predictably, followed my gaze. Because she could read me like a book.
Her eyebrows rose high enough to scrape her bangs, and when she looked back at us, I had the distinct feeling of being a child again, being scolded by an adult after scuffling with my brother. Cylrit had simply become a statue again, so abnormally still I wasn’t even certain he was breathing. If I couldn’t hear his heartfire, I’d be worried for his health.
“Spellsong wished to test the limits of his abilities in the wake of his ascension to the white core,” Cylrit lied through his teeth, pointedly not looking at his master, and also throwing me under the bus. “I assisted in this endeavor. Nothing more.”
Asshole, I thought, again reevaluating my opinion of the Retainer. You’re the one who instigated it!
I thought I could hear Aurora laughing as Seris clearly didn’t buy Cylrit’s words. The man was an even stiffer liar than I was.
Does Seris just pick people who can’t lie to her? I thought, looking in the opposite direction of the Retainer. That doesn’t seem fair.
Seris practically radiated suspicion now, but she shook her head dismissively. “We can discuss whatever this was later,” she said with a wave of her hand, beginning to rise into the air slightly. “Plans are changing now. My scouts have reported that the fleet of reinforcements will be here within the next hour or so, far ahead of schedule.”
I frowned, not seeing why this warranted such seriousness from the Scythe. “There’s something about this I’m missing. I don’t see why it’s causing you such stress. They’re ahead of schedule. That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked.
Seris shook her head. “Sometimes I forget that you can only read my emotions and not my thoughts,” she said. “But there are many reasons this is important, Toren. First and foremost, several of my sources gave me a specific arrival date–each independently of the other. They all agreed that the earliest our reinforcements should arrive would be within four or five days. But they were all wrong.”
“She suspects foul play,” Aurora cut in. “But this isn’t all. There’s more to this.”
I agreed with my bond. And a moment later, Seris confirmed my suspicions. “My scouts also reported something else that wasn’t relayed to me originally.” Her onyx eyes darkened as they stared into my own. “At the head of this fleet is another Scythe.”