The Legion flies to judgement’s Spire
And faith is tested beside the fire.
The moon hung as a sickle blade in the sky, surrounded by the glittering seeds of stars scattered across an infinitely huge, dark field, like destinies freshly sown. Its radiant light fell upon a dense stretch of pine trees, solemn and tall, boughs interlocked in an impenetrable mass. Beyond them, a line of sharp-edged peaks, black in the night, gaped against the clear horizon: the edge of the Barlakk Mountains.
Deep within the close-knit pines, another light flickered, indiscernible from the outside through the thick green needles. But the pensive atmosphere of the Outlands was kept at bay by its fierce, victorious blaze.
Eight Angels were gathered around the campfire; six of them laughing, joking and drinking wine. One, his wings black as pitch, lay unmoving on the ground beside the flames, within the circle made by the others. He was unconscious: hands bound behind his back, bruises and scratches standing out livid against the pale skin of his face and exposed torso. Someone had produced a pungent concoction of herbs shortly after they had arrived and shoved it into their captive’s face, pitching him into a deep slumber, and ensuring they could all relax for the night.
One Angel sat quietly on a log, his cup of wine untouched in his hand, staring at the prisoner. The voices of his companions rang out merrily into the trees. They were in a celebratory mood.
Tander did not share their elation.
The way their captive had been treated made him uncomfortable. After initial resistance at the Inn, Mekka had come willingly, with – so far – no attempt to escape. It could be a ruse, of course; it was possible the black-winged Angel was biding his time, waiting for a chance. Planning their deaths in that silent dark head of his. But Tander didn’t think that was the case.
It was something about his demeanour. An air of quiet resignation, of regret. He had made his choice, and accepted it.
They had forced him to fly across the Arlen Plains with his hands tied. As the sun set behind the mountains, they proceeded on foot into the pine forest to find a place to camp… and that was when the abuse had started.
Accidental ‘trippings’ and shoves in the back, followed by so-called ‘punishment.’ Now and then a vicious jab to the gut or head with the butts of their spears. Eventually, Reeves had noticed what was going on and put a stop to it. But his admonishment was lazy.
They all hated Mekk’Ayan. Tander, too, felt a deep, burning anger at the monstrous crimes he had committed. Though all in the Legion had distanced themselves from their homeland some time ago, they could not abide such an affront to their race and their society. And destroying a Seraph! There was no precedent for that!
Justice would be done. The Tower would seal his fate forever. Anything else was crude.
They were Angels, holy children of the Goddess, not barbarians. And frankly, Mekka had shown more restraint and dignity than any of them, so far…
Someone shoved him in the shoulder, causing Tander to slop his full cup of wine across his knees.
“What do you think?” his companion whispered in a slurred voice. “Do you s… suppose his feathers really are made out of trigon?”
Tander looked at him in irritation. Nix’s face was flushed, his eyes bright. Intoxicated.
“Mmm,” he murmured non-committally, examining his stained greaves in dismay. He had heard the rumours, but didn’t particularly care either way.
Nix looked at Mekka, then around at the group. Everyone else was involved in their own conversations. He suddenly grabbed Tander’s upper arm, grinning. “What do you say we find out?”
Tander frowned. “What do you–?”
Before he could finish, the other Angel stood. Taking a couple of unsteady steps forward, he leaned down and plucked out one of the black feathers.
The black-winged Angel did not stir.
Nix stared down at the unconscious man for a moment, waiting. When nothing happened, he grinned again, raised the feather and twirled it between his fingers.
“I’ll wager,” he drawled aloud, “one gr… gruble that this black-winged scum is a demon!”
The circle fell silent: all eyes turned towards Nix.
The others exchanged awkward glances. Commander Re’Vier raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely leaned back against a tree and folded his arms, smiling slightly.
Tander watched uneasily.
Finally, the Angel opposite him reached for his pouch and produced a coin, flicking it into the air. It landed in his hand with a glint of gold. He nodded to Nix.
Nix held the black feather out over the flames, pausing for dramatic effect, savouring the attention.
Despite himself, Tander found his eyes, along with everyone else’s, transfixed on it and the licking fire beneath, crackling with hunger. What was going to happen? What if Nix was right?
A breathless silence fell.
Finally, Nix released the feather.
The flames caught it at once, devouring it in a bright, illuminating flare. There was a brief smell like burnt hair that wafted on a thin line of smoke.
Sighs and disappointed exclamations passed around the group. The Angel who had agreed to the wager cursed.
Nix’s face flushed deeper, his expression darkening. His slender hands balled into fists.
“Trickery!” he spat. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he snatched a glowing branch out of the fire and swung it over the prone form of Mekka in a shower of sparks.
“He is NOT one of us!” he shouted. “I’ll prove it–”
“ENOUGH!”
Reeves’ voice rang sharply through the clearing, like a drawn sword. He was on his feet, his blue-green eyes filled with cold anger. “Do not be an idiot, Nix! Do you wish to end up in the Pit alongside him?”
Nix did not reply, but in his drunkenness dared to glare back at his Commander.
Reeves stalked into the middle of the clearing. “The First Law is sacred!” he went on. “Any man who breaks it may no longer call himself an Angel, let alone a part of this Legion!”
Ironic, Tander thought darkly. You wanted ME to take the life of something not yet dead…
“We will deliver the criminal to Caer Sync for judgement, as per our orders from the Governor. Henceforth, no one is to touch him unless I permit you to, or unless he tries to escape. Is that clear?”
They all gave their assent at once. All, that is, except Nix.
The Angel remained where he was, flaming branch outstretched, only inches from Mekka’s dark feathers. Some burning pieces of wood dropped down, scorching them.
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Tander tensed, ready to spring if Nix tried anything foolish. Don’t do it, he prayed.
The air between Reeves and Nix was so icy it seemed to extinguish all heat from the campfire. Finally, however, Nix tossed the branch back onto the flames.
The Commander swept his piercing gaze around the group. “Get to sleep, all of you,” he ordered. “Nix, Tander, take the first watch.” He spun away with a sigh of disgust. “And in future do try not to act like a pack of common Humans!”
He leaped upwards into the nearest pine, climbing nimbly through the web of branches to find a perch. The others did likewise.
Nix turned away as well. Stepping over the log beside Tander, he picked up his spear and stalked to the edge of the clearing, where he stood staring out into the shadowed trees. His wings were turned towards Tander: half-white with iridescent blue-green and purple tips. He had heard others call Nix a peacock behind his back. Sometimes, he surely acted like one.
The feathers quivered now, though; out of anger, embarrassment or fear, it was hard to tell.
Tander looked away, glancing down at Mekka again. Their prisoner remained oblivious still, lying on the needle-strewn ground.
Staring back at his almost-empty wine cup, Tander drank the rest of it in a single gulp.
* * *
The room was chill when Lady Araynia opened her eyes. For a moment she was confused, not recognising where she was. The walls were of white stone, grey shadows hanging in the corners like old drapes. A golden candelabra stood on a dresser to one side, unlit, oddly gaudy in the otherwise austere room. To her right was a small, round window and a fireplace, the hearth cold. The ceiling was high, much higher than the rooms in her own house…
The memories crashed into her all at once, with a force that made her start. She and Luca had made it to the castle, after a long and arduous journey. They had met the masters of Whiteshadow: Lord Ferrian, who had been kind, and Lord Arzath, who had injured her and stolen her pendant.
But she had not found what she had come here to find.
She was sure that Ferrian was sincere in his offer to help, but…
She closed her eyes as sadness wrapped its cold, heavy arms around her. By the time they got back to Crystaltina, it would be far too late to save her family or anyone else. Their fates had been decided on the night she fled.
She didn’t know why she had thought she could save them. It had been a foolish journey: a childish hope.
Araynia had never been close to her mother or two older sisters; there had always existed an insurmountable gulf between them. Her grandmother she had loved dearly; mercifully the old woman had passed away years ago, long before the Aegis had fallen and a company of rogue black-armoured soldiers had transformed into the plague of demon-wraiths that had eventually infested her city. Her father had died when she was too young to remember him.
But no matter her feelings about her family, they were still her family. And the thought that they were dead now, along with all the house servants, and all her friends, turned into ghastly wraiths, was horrific.
Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, despite her best efforts to stop them. Pulling the blankets over her head in a futile effort to ward off the deep cold that had lodged inside her, she silently wept.
Sleep must have overtaken her again, for she awoke some time later at a knock on her door, and Luca’s anxious voice. She hid herself under the covers once more, not wanting to talk to him, not wanting to see anyone. She wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear into the warm material of the bed. The horrors of the world were too close; the blankets would ward them away, bury her in blissful, oblivious sleep.
But she had slept too long already, and wakefulness imposed itself on her with all its painful truth, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes closed.
Eventually, Luca left; she heard his hoofsteps retreat down the hall. The Centaur was too polite to intrude on a Lady’s chamber.
A few minutes later, her stomach voiced an opinion, followed closely by her bladder. She tried to ignore them too, but they were insistent.
Sighing, she threw off the blankets.
After making use of the garderobe, thus solving least one of her problems, she went over to the dresser and stared at herself in the mirror.
She was a mess.
Fresh tears welled up at the sight of herself. So pitiful. So useless. Such a failure…
There was a basin of water provided. She washed her face, then spent a few minutes sobbing into the towel until she had regained control of herself.
Drying her face carefully, she untied her braid and raked her fingers through her long dark hair, painstakingly removing all the tangles. When that was done, she re-braided it neatly. Still in her nightgown and bare feet, she moved over to the door and peered reluctantly out.
The white-walled hallway beyond was deserted, save for a tray of food on the floor.
Picking it up, she returned to her room.
She hadn’t realised how famished she was until she started eating. The food was cold now, but she didn’t care, finishing it all. Afterwards, she felt better; a little stronger, her thoughts a little clearer, though her heart still weighed heavy in her chest.
Instinctively, she reached for her pendant, then remembered with a pang that it was gone. Arzath had taken it.
She sighed. The stone had always provided her with comfort when she was sick or sad. It was soothing, somehow. It was a gift from her grandmother.
Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. She supposed that Arzath had a right to take it, if it had belonged to his brother.
Putting aside the tray, she got up and dressed in the clean clothes that had been left out for her on a chair: nondescript grey robes and a cloak, and soft slippers. Wearing them felt a bit strange, but they were comfortable and warm.
For a moment she closed her eyes, steadying herself. Then she ventured out.
The hallway was long and silent, chilly and white. A couple of other doors lined the wall, all closed. At one end, off to her left, the hallway disappeared into a stairwell. To her right, it turned a corner, and facing the bend was a tall, narrow window, spilling a haze of dim white light into the passage.
Araynia made her way towards it.
Stopping at the corner, she peered around it. The passage continued into shadow, swallowed up by a much darker part of the castle.
Hugging herself, she turned and looked out the window.
The walls of the castle rose on either side in striking alabaster and ebony stone. Ahead of her was a mess of scaffolding – part of Castle Whiteshadow was still under construction. Further beyond, grey cliffs towered over it all, until they were lost in mist.
Her view of the valley was blocked by the walls and scaffolding, so there was not much to be seen save the steady gentle fall of rain and drifting fog.
Then something caught her eye, high up above the black section of the keep.
Something huge and pale, and moving.
She leaned closer to the glass, craning her neck to see. Was it an illusion of the shifting clouds? A trick of the light? No – there was the definite shape of a vast, feathered wing…!
“Fascinating view, I presume?”
Araynia jumped so hard that she gasped and grabbed the windowsill for support. She whirled, her eyes going wide.
Lord Arzath stood right behind her, barely four feet away. He was wrapped in a pitch-black cloak, the hood raised, but the light from the window revealed his face starkly.
She hadn’t gotten a proper look at the sorcerer the previous evening, when he had barged into the dining room and almost broken her wrist. But now she was much closer to him than she cared to be.
Luca and Ferrian were nowhere to be seen.
He just stood there, regarding her.
Araynia couldn’t move, even though she wanted nothing more than to flee for the stairs. Instead, she stared back at him in fear.
His features and stature were those of a youngish person, elegantly handsome and arrogant, but in some way also inexplicably old. His eyes were so intensely green they were almost inhuman. But they were tired as well, shadowed, like a predator that had lost the will to kill.
He lifted an arm suddenly, and she flinched… but it was only the pendant, held forth in his black-gloved fingers.
It glittered between them, cool and clear and blue.
“Do you know what this is?” Arzath demanded.
Araynia thought she did, but was terrified of saying the wrong thing, so shook her head mutely instead.
Arzath’s eyes narrowed, as though he suspected her of lying. “It is an Empathy Stone,” he went on. “Its purpose is to form a bond between two people, so that they may locate each other or communicate wherever they may be, at any time. No doubt my brother created it with the intention of giving it to young Ferrian at some point, when he was old enough to understand what it meant.”
His eyes held her frozen in place. “He never got the chance, obviously. Instead, your grandmother found it, and gave it to you. Is that correct?”
Araynia nodded.
“And you have kept this with you since childhood?”
She nodded again, uncertainly.
Arzath continued to scrutinise her for an indeterminately long moment. Araynia’s heart leaped around in her chest like a panicked creature trying to escape. Then, to her horror, his eyes changed from green to a bright purple colour, flooding with light.
She tried to back away, but the window ledge stopped her.
The glare lasted for only a minute, however, before the sorcerer’s eyes returned to normal, now fixed on the pendant instead. He turned the blue gemstone around in his fingers, watching the light glint off its beautiful, mysterious facets.
Then his fingers curled around it, and without warning, he thrust it out to her, the stone resting on his open palm.
“Take it,” he ordered.
Araynia hesitated.
“TAKE IT!”
She snatched it from him so fast that she almost dropped it, then clutched the pendant to her chest as he took a step forward.
“The stone brought you here,” he murmured in a low, cold voice. “You followed a dim remnant of Requar’s magic, a ghostly trail, expecting to find him. Hoping that he could help you: the only person who could.” His smile was bitter. “He is dead. His obsession with helping people destroyed him, and I could do nothing to stop it!” Arzath’s eyes glittered a little. “Instead, you found Ferrian, who nobly pledged his support to you, swayed by your tears.”
He took yet another step towards her, frighteningly close, and his voice lowered even further, to a snakelike hiss. “Ferrian and I are the only remaining living sorcerers in Arvanor, the sole custodians of millennia of magical heritage. We have the power to save this pathetic world or allow it to fall into ruin, as we see fit.”
Araynia’s throat constricted. His gaze felt as though it was strangling her.
“If Ferrian is killed on a stupid quest to save your miserable family, then let the future of Arvanor be on your head and yours alone!”
With that, he whirled and swept away down the corridor, lost within moments in the black-walled shadows.
Araynia watched him go, face pale.