A silver Sword regains its spark
Angelic city leaves its mark.
When the white light faded, Araynia found herself in a familiar place.
The silver floor stretched out around her; light played a silent, complex dance across the blue expanse of an infinite ceiling, the whole space bathed in a serene aqueous glow bordered by gentle mist. But she did not feel relaxed, nor floating blissfully in a sea of carelessness.
She was still kneeling on the ground, clutching the Sword, which was stuck downwards through the mirrored floor. To her horror, her hands remained clamped tightly around the handle – she could not force them open no matter how hard she tried.
Giving up, she looked around in despair.
Emptiness. Silence.
There was no sign of Arzath. Nothing moved in the mist; no ghostly figure appeared.
She looked down at the magnificent Sword in her hands, hoping the answer might lie there. The sapphires flickered with glimmering light: the magic was alive.
What am I supposed to do? she thought, slumping hopelessly, feeling as though something was expected of her, but she had no idea what it was. Why had the stone brought her all the way up a mountainside, only to trap her in this strange place with a sword?
And that was when she heard the footsteps.
They approached slowly, one by one, from somewhere behind her. They echoed, as though in a vast cavern.
She went still, her heart pounding, not daring to look over her shoulder, afraid of what she might see. Am I going to die after all? she thought fearfully. I have been lured here by some trick of sorcery!
The footsteps came closer… and stopped.
Araynia held her breath.
There was movement to one side, and she looked up, her eyes going wide.
He was not a ghost, but looked as real as a living man. With careful strides he circled around her, his boots beautifully decorated, a sky blue cloak sweeping out behind him. He wore long loose robes over exquisite clothing, and his hair, white as starlight, fell down his back and around his noble face.
He came to a halt facing her. Then he bowed deeply, as though she were an honoured guest.
My Lady Araynia, he greeted. You have come.
For a long moment, she could do nothing but stare in mingled awe, terror and bewilderment. He was astonishingly handsome, so much so that her heart fluttered.
His blue eyes regarded her, almost in amusement. Do not be afraid. I did not bring you here to hurt you.
She swallowed, managing to find her voice, though her throat was dry. I… I was told that you were dead, my Lord, she whispered.
Requar took a step forward and lowered himself to one knee, his face becoming serious. I am quite dead, he told her.
The words wrenched at her, caused the pit of her stomach to fall out. She had hoped, had believed that it wasn’t so, even after everything she had been told.
Do not be sad, he said softly. Please.
She shook her head in denial, fighting back tears. Then how can it be that I am talking to you, my Lord? she insisted, before realisation overwhelmed her. Oh, she sighed unhappily. This is a dream.
This is a dream, he agreed. He gestured at the Sword. But the Sword you hold is real. It is the Sword of Healing: it belonged to me.
Lifting his pale, elegant hands, he placed them over hers. Now, it belongs to you.
Staring into his blue eyes, she shook her head in horror. No! N-no, I cannot… I do not want it! I do not wish to be sorcerer!
He smiled. But you wish to be a healer.
The words pained her, for she could not deny them. W– why me? she replied in a small voice, feeling like a child being asked to do something she did not understand.
Araynia. Reaching out, he lifted her chin gently, causing tears to spill from her eyes. The pendant you carry was created by me. You have worn it since you were a little girl, keeping it close to you at all times. The magic contained within it found its way into you, becoming a part of your body and mind, little by little, over many years. You would not have noticed it happening.
This is how one becomes a sorcerer; by acquiring small amounts of magic that build gradually, over time, into great power.
He held her gaze. My Sword recognises you because your magic originates from me. No one else may be bonded with it. Only you.
She stared back at him, feeling overwhelmed.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. This Sword is capable of great things, he said softly. It can save lives. It is… needed.
But it is also a burden. Being responsible for the Sword of Healing means accepting the decisions that go along with it. You will be faced with choices. Difficult ones. Some lives cannot – and perhaps should not – be saved. Some wounds do not heal, or only temporarily. You will learn these things, in time.
When he looked up at her again, his expression was weary. You are far more worthy of wielding it than I ever was. He rose slowly to his feet. Ultimately, it is your choice. If you wish to walk away from the Sword, nothing will prevent you from doing so.
He fell silent. Araynia looked down at the hilt, and to her relief found that she could move her fingers again. They came away from the Sword without effort.
Farewell, my Lady. He nodded to her. I have intruded upon your thoughts long enough, and I shall not distress you with further dreams. Your life is your own.
He turned to walk away.
Wait! Araynia got quickly to her feet. Lord Requar!
He paused with his back to her.
She hesitated a moment, taking a deep breath before saying: You are not just a dream, are you?
Slowly, he looked over his shoulder, a sad, enigmatic half-smile on his handsome face. Then he turned away again, walked forward and abruptly vanished.
Arzath pushed himself up. The rain had stopped, but a cold wind still gusted through the peaks, making the old pine tree rattle and creak.
Beside him, the girl lay unconscious.
Getting to his feet, he leaned against the tree. “Why,” he said through gritted teeth, “does no one ever listen to me?!”
The Sword gleamed coolly in the grey gloom of approaching dawn. Its magic was extinguished, the sapphires gone dark.
He looked down at the girl, hatefully.
That she possessed magic was something he already knew, of course. He had suspected when he first realised what the pendant was, and confirmed it when he had Mind Swept her in the corridor. He had chosen not to tell her, finding her pathetically meek and ignorant. Either she was intelligent enough to discover the truth herself, or she was not – in either case, Arzath did not care to train her.
But he had not expected… this.
Some measure of fury returned to him, warming up his chilled insides beneath his wet clothes, realigning his shattered thoughts. He was incensed that the girl had dared lay a hand on his brother’s Sword, and he cursed himself for underestimating her, for being so preoccupied with his own self-annihilation that he had neglected to keep an eye on her.
His hands balled into fists. As his withering glare bore down on her, he considered simply burning her where she lay and throwing her corpse off the edge of the cliff.
The wind swept over them both, scattering droplets and pine needles with it.
She had walked out in front of him, ridiculously, with no way of defending herself. He could have killed her then, but… he hadn’t. He had hesitated, stunned by her unexpected self-assurance, as though she somehow knew that he would not harm her. Or that her desire to reach the Sword was so great she was willing to die for it…
Arzath was troubled. He understood why the Sword had reacted to her touch – she had obviously inherited Requar’s magic through the pendant, and the blade recognised that. It was extremely rare for a Sword to be re-bonded after the death of its master, but this was an exceptional circumstance. And more than that… Arzath recognised something within Araynia that he was loath to admit. Beneath the piteous naivety and woefully fragile emotion was a hidden strength, a secret core of courage that the girl herself was not aware of.
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She lacked belief in herself and yet, at the same time possessed a wretched determination to carry out her goal, through pain and fear, no matter the cost or consequences…
Feeling irritated, Arzath stayed his hand. Instead, he stepped over her prone form and yanked the Sword of Healing out of the ground. It came free easily; rocks, soil and grass sliding off it, leaving the long blade pure and clean and brilliant in the dim light.
For a few moments he stood staring at it, turning it around carefully in his hand, watching reflections glide along its length. Potential or not, he thought coldly, that little scrap of a girl will NEVER replace my brother!
He didn’t care if the Sword of Healing had been re-bonded. It was Requar’s Sword, and he was damned if he was going to allow anyone else to use it!
Whirling with a sweep of his cloak, he strode across the knoll towards the head of the trail, taking the Sword with him.
The girl lay abandoned in the wet grass behind him.
Dawn gilded the snowy tips of the mountains bright gold, the rainclouds having broken up into ragged shreds of grey moving to the west. The valley below remained wrapped in sleepy shadow save for a flock of small birds chirping in the bushes.
The castle’s kitchen had come awake along with them. Luca bustled around, humming softly to himself. A loaf of bread sat steaming on the counter, freshly removed from the oven.
Luca enjoyed early mornings; it was peaceful, a time for himself while everyone else was still in bed. He liked listening to the cheerful chorus of birdsong while preparing breakfast and watching the sun rise.
Not many people appreciated a good sunrise, he reflected. For some, it was simply an indication of the end of sleep and the beginning of a hard day’s work. Others slept too late to witness it at all. But Luca had always thought there was something magical about the first rays of a new day; it was a secret time, before the day had quite begun – like a gift yet to be opened. It was when he was at his most creative, and felt most alive.
This morning, he had decided to make omelets with some thrush eggs he had discovered while foraging around the valley. He had found a good amount of wild herbs and plants as well. The castle’s pantry was depressingly sparse; the sorcerers ate very little and very simply, it seemed. He was forced to improvise quite a lot with their meals without access to the exotic spices and other ingredients he was used to, but so far no one had complained.
Ben had helped him to gather food. The boy was good at fishing and had brought some wonderful trout up from the river. He seemed reasonably knowledgeable about wild things – more so than Luca – and had set up some rabbit snares as well. Apparently, the Angel Mekka had taught him how to hunt and track, and he was eager to put his skills to use.
Luca gazed down at the sizzling omelet, wondering about Mekka, and what sort of person he was. He seemed the type to be constantly finding himself in terrible peril, the way Ben talked about him.
And then there was Everine.
Luca sighed. The woman wouldn’t leave him alone! He was beginning to tire of hearing about her amazing seafaring adventures, of which she seemed to have an endless supply, and the way she paid undue attention to him when he was cooking. He had tried to offer advice about the preparation of food, but she didn’t listen.
She made him feel rather awkward and self-conscious.
He was thinking about how best to avoid her that day, in the politest way possible, when he heard the door to the dining room open.
Cautiously, he walked over to the kitchen doorway and peered out.
It was Lady Araynia. She looked as though she had been drowned.
With a gasp, Luca sprang out of the kitchen and around the long table. “My Lady! What has happened? What were you doing outside?!”
She did not reply. Quickly, Luca removed her sodden cloak, hanging it on the nearest chair. He helped her over to the fire. Grabbing blankets off the armchairs, he bundled her in them and sat her down in front of the hearth. Then he lowered himself to the floor, looking at her worriedly. “Lady?”
She stared into the fire for a long moment. Finally, she whispered: “I have magic, Luca.”
He regarded her quizzically. “Yes, my Lady. Your pendant.”
She looked up at him, her face haunted, and shook her head. “No. Not the pendant.” Opening her hand, she gazed down at the blue gemstone lying in her palm, its fine silver chain spilling over her fingers.
“I… do not understand,” Luca replied, confused.
She sighed, closing her eyes. A violent shiver shook her body. She was silent for a long moment more before answering strangely: “Arzath took the Sword. I… I have to get it back. It is… important…”
Luca was baffled. “What Sword, Lady? What do you mean?” He frowned anxiously. What had that sorcerer done to her?
When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed with tears. She shook her head. “Please, do not hate me!”
Luca took her small, cold hand in his own. Peculiar sensations rippled across his skin, making his hairs prickle, but he steadfastly ignored them. “I would never hate you, my Lady!” he assured her. “If you need anything from me, you only have to ask.”
Her face was lovely in the firelight, sad though it was, with dark hair plastered over her forehead. He swallowed. It pained him to see her distressed, especially when he did not understand the reason for it. But he supposed she would explain when she was ready to.
She rubbed at her nose and sniffed, looking up. “Something is burning.”
Luca looked up as well. With a sudden gasp of realisation, he leapt to his feet, dashing towards the kitchen in a vain hope of saving their breakfast.
* * *
Far to the north and west, the same rising light reached out to the elegant white towers and spires of a sky-bound city. Beneath the cluster of floating, majestic buildings rose a great forest, mysterious and dark, the top of the canopy painted gold. Beyond both forest and city, slightly hazy in the morning mist, an immense tower bore upwards as far as the eye could see, straight as a spear, disappearing into the retreating night of the sky. Patches of green and gold geometric design wound up the length of the spire, catching the light.
The Sky Legion alighted on the wide, circular plaza that formed the centre of the Angel city of Fleetfleer. Around them rose various government buildings, an entertainment hall, inns and the Gaol. The middle of the plaza displayed an ornate fountain depicting gilded Angel children.
Commander Re’Vier paused for a moment, regarding it all. In actual fact, this was only the second time he had visited Fleetfleer: he had been born outside Arkana, in the Goldenwood below the Snowranges of Siriaza. Hence, he had not been here four years ago, when a Dragon had attacked the city, destroying many of the buildings. It had all been rebuilt, with no evidence of the winged beast’s wrath scarring the perfect, delicate architecture. Gazing up at the lofty spires, the slender arches and ivy and rose-strewn walls, he had to admit; it was a beautiful place.
He allowed himself a small smile. One day, it would be grander still. One day, when it became the true capital of all Arvanor…
Turning sharply, he waved to his men to move forward with the prisoner.
They marched across the plaza, through patches of shadow and light, the air cool and clear. There was almost no one else around, the open space quiet and empty, save for a flock of white doves.
They will know soon enough, Reeves thought in satisfaction. They will ALL know!
It was going to be the grandest, most gratifying Judgement in history. The black-winged Angel, finally put to the Tower; the prophecy definitively ended.
And the honour of escorting the infamous murderer there would be his…
They started up the broad stone steps to the Council House. Reaching the top, Reeves glanced over his shoulder. He stopped in annoyance. All of his men were standing at the base of the stairs, their spears pointed at Mekka.
The dark Angel stood resolutely in place, refusing to ascend.
Reeves leaned on his spear. “It has been a long journey,” he called down. “I’d quite like a bath! And a glass of wine!” He waved a hand. “Could we hurry things along a bit?”
Mekka did not move.
Reeves stared at him, then shrugged. “Oh, very well.” He nodded to his men. “Bring him up the hard way.”
They closed in on Mekka.
To Reeves’ astonishment, the black Angel fought back. A violent scuffle broke out as they sought to restrain him.
“Good grief,” Reeves muttered, rolling his eyes. He had decided to resist now?
He rubbed his forehead as the fight went on below him. Two Legionnaires went sprawling. The others pounced on Mekka’s back, flattening him to the ground. They smacked him around the head a couple of times, then grabbed him and hauled him forcibly up the white stone stairs.
Reeves turned away, resting his spear on his shoulder, sauntering towards the large, pillar-fronted building ahead of him, smiling. He was pleased with his captive’s reaction. The journey had been altogether too boring up until now, although he did wonder what had finally set Mekka off. Was he not looking forward to the Governor’s hospitality?
Pushing through the entrance without bothering to acknowledge the town guards who stood either side, he strode across the polished hall, his white coat swishing, to a second set of large wooden doors, which were closed. Slouching against them, he preened his pure white feathers with his silver-clad fingers as he waited for his men to drag the prisoner inside. They dumped him on the floor, pinning him there with their silvertine boots, spears at his neck.
Reeves rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.
Almost immediately, the right hand side opened and a neatly groomed young woman peered out – the Governor’s aide.
“The Governor is not currently scheduled for any meetings,” she told him. “Would you like to make an appoint–”
The Commander shoved through the doors, swinging into the chamber before she could finish her sentence.
Governor Mon Merrill sat at her desk in the middle of an overly long hall that stretched off to either side, a row of tall windows looming behind her. She looked somewhat small in the high-backed chair, but could hardly be called fragile. She was lean and sharp as a whip, and old for an Angel, with short silver hair carefully styled, and grey wings.
She completely ignored Re’Vier’s intrusion, deeply absorbed in writing something with a quill pen on a piece of parchment. The sound of it scratching was loud in the quiet hush of the office.
Writing, Reeves thought in distaste. He did not trust anyone who could read and write; they tended to be too knowledgeable by far, and kept too many secrets, despite the existence of Grath Ardan recording every word.
He especially did not trust Mon Merrill; she was orders of magnitude more intelligent than the previous Governor, who had gained his position through popularity. Merrill had achieved office by being devastatingly efficient, practical and actually diplomatic. She had overturned quite a few established laws and ruffled more than a few feathers in the process; her decision to allow foreign trade once more had, he had heard, almost caused a riot: until people’s pockets started filling up with money. She had also effectively ransomed the sale of silvertine – the outbreak of demon-wraiths in Daroria had created a huge demand for weapons and armour that could withstand the shadowy menace. Arkana had suddenly found itself in a position of immense power.
Commander Re’Vier did not like Merrill. But he could not deny that her methods were to be admired.
Coming to a halt, he gave a bow, and flourished a hand towards the open doors. “As per your request, Governor,” he announced. “The black-winged fugitive, name of Mekk’Ayan, most wanted murderer and enemy of Arkana.”
Despite his grand declaration, Merrill took time finishing her sentence, then carefully set the quill down and looked up, first at Reeves and then at the group of armoured Angels outside her door. Saying nothing, she removed her half-moon spectacles, folded them neatly and placed them on her desk. Then she got to her feet, smoothed out the grey, tightly buttoned jacket she wore over austere robes, and walked around the desk and over to the doors.
Hands clasped behind her back, she stared down at the captive.
Mekka moved his head, staring daggers at her from the floor. He was quivering slightly, his face beneath his dark hair deathly pale.
After a long moment of silence, Merrill said: “I will arrange your reward.”
Then she turned and walked back to her desk. Seating herself, she replaced her glasses, picked up her pen and began writing again where she had left off.
Reeves gritted his teeth. Not so much as a thanks??
He strode over to stand right in front of her. As she reached for a new piece of paper and set it before her, he slammed his hand down on it.
“Do you have what you promised me?” he hissed.
The Governor looked up at him, unfazed. Her face could have been carved from fine stone, every wrinkle deliberately placed, her slate-coloured eyes calculating as they regarded him. “I have the information you requested, Commander Re’Vier,” she stated flatly. “My assistant will present it to you later. Where are you staying?”
“The inn across the plaza,” he replied.
“Good.” She gestured at the paper. “If you don’t mind?”
Reeves removed his hand from the desk and stepped back. He watched the Governor for a moment more, but, unable to discern if he was being played for a fool or not, turned and stalked from the room, eyeing the young assistant as he went.
“Scrape this piece of scum off the floor,” he snapped at his men as he passed, “and take him to the Gaol.” He headed for the entrance doors. “I need a goddamned drink.”