Bricks and rocks crumbled from the ceiling. Some fell behind Pirin, some in front. An especially large chunk plummeted towards him and Gray. He leapt to the side, dragging Gray with him.
Gray still shivered. She chirped softly. One second, her eyes were beady, black and bird-like, and the next, they had the dragon’s clear eyes with cat-like vertical slits. She blinked, and her eyes turned black again.
Pirin leaned closer. Her new core was shuddering and shaking, and beams of Essence already shot around her body.
His eyes widened. She hadn’t had any Ichor. Without it, her core would never be stable, and it would tear her apart. They had to find the Ichor spring—not only so Pirin could properly bind the lifeblood of the world to himself, but to save his gnatsnapper.
The Ichor spring had to be deeper along the hallway. “Please, Gray, just a little further!”
He ran while looking over his shoulder, ensuring that he could see Gray the whole time. She staggered and stumbled after him, maintaining a good pace. The daylight pouring from the skylights grew dimmer and more distant. One shattered as the ceiling around it collapsed. Another pillar buckled under the stress, and cracks formed all across the walls.
A shimmer of golden light broke through the darkness ahead. It was completely unnatural, as if a golden ingot had turned into the sun itself. He turned around. The light was shimmering against the wall. The light made a thin golden clothesline in the dusty air, and he traced it back to its source.
The light spewed from a hole in the ground. The hole, ten paces in diameter, was full of glowing gold liquid with the consistency of quicksilver. Everything about it looked unintentional—the bricks weren’t carved uniformly, and the liquid seeped through the stone in veins, eating away at the rock. Golden sparks and dust appeared in the empty air, an invisible force drawing them out, then fell onto the pool.
Pirin stumbled to a halt next to the pond. He held out his hand and dipped a finger in the liquid. It was icy cold. It was Ichor.
“Gray!” he called. He dipped a hand in the liquid and scooped some up, then held it to his mouth and mimed shovelling it into his mouth. “Drink! It will help!”
With the Ichor, her core—the borrowed wraith core—would finish condensing. She would gain her own sapience, which could battle the remains of the dragon.
She let out a string of weak tweets, then hopped to the edge of the pond. Pirin kept pretending to drink, until he remembered that he needed to get Ichor into his body as well. He lowered his head and slurped out of his cupped hand.
It was sweet, and just sweet. It stuck to his tongue like heavy cream, and tasted like a scoop of pure honey. When he swallowed, he half-expected his mouth to erupt with flaming fire or for his veins to fill with immense power. He had everything he needed.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The cold liquid slithered down his throat. Ichor alone wouldn’t do anything if Pirin was cursed with an Embercore. But he could deal with himself later—he had to help Gray. He dodged a falling stone, then turned back towards Gray.
She dipped her beak into the spring and filled it with Ichor, then tilted her head back. “Good…” Pirin whispered. He limped over and placed a hand on her neck. “Keep drinking. Keep going!”
He mimed another few sips of the Ichor, then took one more for himself. But Gray didn’t need another glug. After a second, her eyes flared bright gold, and beams of yellow light burst out of her eye sockets.
Gray tilted her head back again and squawked. Her legs buckled, and she flapped her wings for a moment before falling on her side.
The moment the light faded, Pirin ran over. He set both of his hands against her neck. She still breathed, and a strong pulse beat beneath her skin. No more beams of unstable Essence coursed through her body, and that was a good sign.
He held out his hand and looked into her mind (second try, this time). It was changing. He could still feel the dragon’s will among her thoughts, somewhere, but it was deep down—she had done incredibly well suppressing what remained of the wraith.
For a second, Pirin contemplated trying to wipe the wraith’s mind out completely. But it had integrated too seamlessly with Gray’s. There was no telling what belonged to the dragon or what belonged to Gray anymore—only she could control that.
Regardless of the outcome, he’d accomplished half of what he needed. Now came the Reyad bond.
He dragged Gray over to the edge of the hallway, beneath the base of a sturdy pillar. There, they would be in less danger. He set down his haversack and retrieved the small box with the umberstone mask. It was now or never—he had to fuel the runes and integrate the Ichor into his Essence channels.
He sat cross-legged at the base of the pillar and slipped the mask onto his face. The eye-slit fit perfectly over his eyes and allowed him a decent field of vision, but he shut his eyes and felt the cold stone touching his face. As an extension of his cycling pattern, he pushed Essence out of his channels and into the mask.
The runes warmed up pleasantly. They pulsed with each inhale, and faded with each exhale. A faint blue glow shone through the backs of his eyelids.
Along with the Essence, he sensed a new substance inside him. It fled out from his stomach and circulated through his channels. But it didn’t integrate; it circulated in wisps, glomming together like oil in water.
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First, he tried the breathing technique for integrating foreign Essence into his own, but there was no change. The Ichor remained clumped together, refusing to integrate into his Embercore body.
He tried every breathing technique the sparrow Path Manual had described, and still, nothing. He settled on a fast, rapid pace.
For now, he had to rely on the runes of the mask. Trust his handiwork, and trust the knowledge he’d earned from Tallas-Brannul. He held his Essence still for a second, then synchronized its cycling with the automatic circulation of his blood. His Essence was powering the runes, not his blood. If he didn’t synchronize the two fluids, he doubted the runes would do their job.
As his blood and Essence circled up into his head, the runes imparted their will on his Essence. The Ichor began to dissolve, and—
Golden light poured over his vision, even with his eyes shut. He tried to keep them clenched tight, but his body had other ideas. His eyelids burst open, and a bright glow blasted out. Lightning surged through his veins, and a thousand needles stabbed into his flesh. His legs buckled and his muscles all weakened at once. His heart pounded. It took all of his concentration just to keep his Essence cycling at the same rate as his blood.
Almost…almost…
Then came darkness, and it was pure darkness. Had his eyelids fallen shut again?
No, this was darker. It was…an inability to see at all.
A special kind of panic gripped him, a fear that he’d ruined his body forever. He didn’t want to be blind!
But, as soon as the thought passed through his mind, another sight bloomed at the edge of his vision. White clouds seethed across the darkness. He tried to open his eyes and pass his hand through the mist, but nothing disrupted it.
Slowly, the mist faded, and he found himself standing in an ethereal hall. It was about as large as the cavern they had just been standing in, but, aside from pillared walls and a peaked roof, it was entirely open. Beyond the hall’s edge, the night sky and stars shone on, and nothing more. Everything felt weightless, and the architecture was impossible. It left no other explanation: this was a vision.
Pirin spun in a slow circle. Standing behind him was a tall elf with long auburn hair and regal features—chiselled cheekbones, strong eyes, and a muscular build. He wore white robes and an amber crown.
He glowed, like a ray of sunlight was shining down on him.
“I did not expect to see you so soon, Pirin of Kerstel.”
“So…soon?” Pirin took a cautious step towards the elf. This…this was Hir Venias! The immortal elf who he’d bothered with his soul, back in the forests of Sirdia.
The ground felt like it would give way beneath his feet at any moment, and he feared he’d be cast back out into reality. “I’ve—”
“I am Hir Venias, first wizard-king of the Elven Continent,” said the elf. “I admit: I did not think you would make it this far.”
“Is my soul…still bothering you?”
“Not anymore. However, my remnants and presences oversee these shrines,” he said. “They have for many years. When a powerful wizard uses the Ichor, it alerts my heavenly awareness. I am visiting you to relay my surprise.”
“Are you…a messenger of the heavens?” Pirin asked. “What are you?”
“I am an impression of an immortal, sent in the stead of his true body and form.”
“If you were the first king, why don’t you have black hair?”
Hir Venias snorted. “That’s a recent defect of your Bloodline.”
Pirin didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to. He had to get out of here. He had to finish integrating the Ichor into his blood, and he had to get out of here!
“Oh, you’re quite finished integrating the Ichor,” said Hir Venias’ impression. “At least, until you take off the mask. The moment you take it off, the Ichor will…fall out of solution. Go too long without wearing the mask, and the Ichor will leave your feeble body entirely.”
“Thanks…” Pirin muttered. As if he needed anything more to worry about. “Do you…need something from me?”
“You invaded one of my shrines and bound one of my chosen guardians to your gnatsnapper.” Hir Venias shook his head. “I was intrigued by you. I did not think you would make it this far, and…it is possible that I underestimated you.”
Pirin opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say.
“I know that isn’t very reassuring.” Hir Venias shook his head. “You can only reach out to my presence in shrines like these, in these place of great spiritual power, so mark my words well.” He paused, cleared his throat, then continued: “Your Bloodline’s strength does not come from our ability to twist minds. That power is not all it’s made out to be—useful, yes, but easily thwarted by an enemy’s hood or mask, or just a strong will. No, Pirin, our power comes from memories, and from the Memory Chain. You do not need to reach inside an enemy’s mind if you have the knowledge of a thousand kings and queens before you. You will know which way an enemy will strike, or what he will say, or if he will resist you at all.”
“What good are memories if I can’t even recall my own?”
“You may never restore your memories, Pirin.” Venias walked closer, and he set a warm hand on Pirin’s shoulder. “But you have seen glimpses. You have used the power of the Memory Chain to view your own past—memories that have slipped out of your reach—as well as the past of all the other kings and queens of Khirdia before you.”
“I…I can’t fix my memories?” A wedge of despair crawled down Pirin’s throat. “But—”
“Master your power, Pirin. Master the power of the elven kings, and you will have yourself another crutch. Without a teacher, you will not improve—you will fail.” After a short pause, he said, “In the city of Greanewash, you will find an old friend of yours. She will help you.”
Hir Venias held out his hand. In his palm, a perfect orb of cloud swirled. Slowly, colours bled into it. Sections compressed and others expanded, and it formed into a statuette in his hand. No, a vignette. It moved.
Pirin stepped closer and squinted. It…it was the sprite from his visions—a young woman with blonde hair and reindeer antlers. She twirled a spear in front of her, knocking aside an Aerdian soldier. Her cloak, a sheet of bluish gray wool, fluttered, obscuring her for a moment.
“This is Myraden of House Leursyn,” said Hir Venias. “Find her. Live. Finish your quest. Fail…and you may seal the doom of an entire continent.”
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The Red Hand couldn’t see what had happened, not properly. That pest of a boy had done something to the dragon, that much was certain, and either he’d defeated it or otherwise incapacitated it.
But the ceiling was crumbling and the walls were falling. Their prey might escape.
He had to get closer.
“Come,” he ordered his apprentices, then sprinted out from the shelter of the doorway.