The hush that falls as Judgement nears
The past has passed beyond all tears.
The cell was lavish; luxurious even, by Human standards. Far from a damp, dingy basement hole, the Gaol of Fleetfleer was spotlessly clean, bright and airy, resembling nothing so much as a modest palace. The bars of the cells lining a large, central, circular room were gilded with gold, with lovely murals painted on the walls. A marble fountain tinkled beneath a huge, green-glassed dome. Small round windows in every cell let in the sunlight, and they were furnished with carpets, comfortable beds and water closets. Ample food, water and scented flowers were provided. The beautiful surroundings were designed to inspire redemptive thoughts in their occupants and provide peace to those awaiting immortal Judgement in the Tower.
Each cell was also equipped with a little writing desk and stool, stocked with parchment and charcoal so that prisoners may write their confessions.
It was an antiquated tradition; most Angels these days were not literate. Writing a confession was a grave matter, as the words would be sealed forever in Grath Ardan; even if the original paper were destroyed, one could not take them back.
Mekka had already written his: the scroll was neatly tied with twine and rested on the table. He knew that the words echoed far beneath his feet in the silent heart of the underground library, committed to history.
As he himself soon would be.
He sat on the floor of his cell with his back to the wall, his arms resting on his knees. A beam of sunlight fell over him, shining on the bright shackles around his wrists. They were connected to the wall by a silvertine chain, long enough to allow him free movement about his enclosure. The lock on it – and the door – could have been easily picked, with one of his own feathers if he chose to. But he didn’t bother, for the same reason he had allowed the Sky Legion to bring him here.
He closed his eyes. Because there was no point running away from his past any longer. He would have returned to Arkana to face his fate years ago if not for the need to protect Carmine and Hawk.
Their lives were no longer in his hands. He had done what little he could for his trigon-stricken friends, and now only Ferrian could help them.
He listened to the silence, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. He expected no forgiveness from the people of Fleetfleer, or any Gods or Goddesses that may exist, or the remaining Seraphim. Caer Sync alone would decide whether he was cast upwards, to Excelsior, or downwards, to the Eternal Pit. To some extent, emotions could influence the direction – those who were tasked with collecting raw, liquid silvertine from the heights of the Tower were trained to focus on melancholic thoughts in order to lessen the upwards pull and enable them to return safely.
Many of them didn’t, however.
And no one collected trigon. There was no possible use for the evil substance, it simply corrupted and destroyed anything it came into contact with.
Angels had no real concept of death, Mekka thought. To them, the end of life was simply a transition to another kind of existence. The majority of them committed themselves to the Tower while they were still young, healthy and happy, so as to ensure passage to Excelsior. Likewise, if one were incurably ill or stricken with sadness, the Tower offered a painless and acceptable escape. There were no chronically sick, disabled or elderly Angels for this reason, unless they were exiled. It was a celebratory occasion.
Mekka wondered how many of them knew that their bodies simply melted into a gleaming morass formed from countless thousands of Angels that had gone before them. He supposed there was some honour in having one’s essence crafted into indestructible weapons or armour that could be used to save someone’s life, but trigon…
Mekka was one of the wretched ones, doomed to add his misery to the sickening, swirling dark pool of ancient hate and anguish. Perhaps the tragedy of his life would some day infect someone else, causing more suffering, and so the curse of trigon would continue.
It was a horrifying and gruesome destiny, but he could see no way of avoiding it.
The sound of approaching footsteps in the quiet Gaol brought him out of his black, brooding thoughts. He lifted his head to see one of the Legionnaires standing outside his cell.
It was not Commander Re’Vier, but one of the others: a brown and white-winged Angel by the name of Tander.
“I wanted to apologise for the way you have been treated,” the man said. “That is not how I expected the Legion to behave.”
Mekka just stared up at him wordlessly.
The other Angel shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor. “You have shown dignity, honour and loyalty to your friends, which is more than I can say of my companions.” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “May the Goddess favour you in the Tower.” He gave Mekka a nod, then turned away.
“Did you do it properly?”
Tander stopped and turned back, frowning. “Excuse me?”
Mekka stared at him intently. “Your Commander left you behind at the inn, to finish Hawk. Did you make sure he was dead?”
Tander was silent for a very long moment. “No,” he replied finally, not looking at Mekka. “No, I did not.” He turned abruptly and left the Gaol.
Mekka watched him go. He kept staring long after the Angel had disappeared.
The wine was a deep, clear golden colour, like the glow of late afternoon sun captured in a glass. Reeves held it up to the light streaming through his open balcony doors, watching it shimmer and sparkle. It reminded him of faraway lost days of his childhood: of flickering amber leaves in secluded Sirinese forest groves. But with it came a haunted memory of one particular summer evening when he was very young, far on a distant ridge, when the sky was exactly this hue and peaks rose in endless jagged rows behind him, like massive teeth waiting to swallow him whole.
It had been his idea to play in the mountains with Taria, a small girl from Perl Maraya: a large village in one of the deep, misty river valleys beyond the Goldenwood. Back then, he had little notion of racial prejudice, other than the fact that his parents did not like it when he played with Humans. Reeves did not fully understand why; he had no siblings and the only other children he had met, accompanying travellers and merchants, were Human. He had an inherent sense that he was better than them – reinforced by his parents – because he could fly and they could not, and so unthinkingly acted as though he was superior. But for some reason, Taria liked him anyway.
She came to see him sometimes when her peddling father was visiting hamlets in the area. One day, they had snuck off when no one was looking to play on the cliffs. Reeves hadn’t considered it in any way dangerous, only annoying that it took his stupid wingless friend so long to climb up. He made fun of her for it. But Taria just ignored his mean comments, and they played some games, and threw stones off the cliff, and talked about things. And then she started naming all the different plants and insects, and even the types of rocks. Reeves was secretly impressed and jealous of her incredible understanding of nature, wondering how she had come to know such things.
He had only turned around for a moment – just a moment, to pick up an unusual red-coloured pebble, convinced that she didn’t know what this one was…
But she was gone.
He looked all over the clifftops for her, calling out her name; first irritated, thinking she was tricking him, hiding behind the boulders. She wasn’t. He became worried.
He searched for hours.
Finally, just as the sun was setting, he found her body, sprawled like a little doll in the rocks and bushes at the base of the cliff. Flying down to her side, he had tried to get her to wake up, but she wouldn’t, and her eyes were open, and there was blood on her head.
It was the first time he truly understood what death was.
The adults had lied to him. They told him that death was honourable and planned, and even if you could not make your way to the Holy Tower, all your family would gather around you in celebration. It was meant to be beautiful and wonderful and you went to meet the Goddess in a world full of light.
It was not supposed to happen on a lonely mountainside in the chill of dusk, with no one else around and the distant voices of your parents calling you for supper in the forest below…
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He had flown away then, mortally afraid. It had never occurred to him that it was not safe for Humans to be in high places, that they could not save themselves from a fall. He had forgotten that Taria was fundamentally different from him.
He had never seen his family or hers again.
For weeks, he had lost himself in the Snowranges, and would have starved to death if not rescued by a Sky Legion patrol. Reeves had refused to say where he had come from, so they had taken him in, to a ruined castle high up in the peaks. He had hidden himself in their ranks, vanishing if anyone started asking questions, committing himself to hard discipline and training with them, and so through the years worked his way up to Wing Commander.
All that time, he developed a loathing for Humans that ran deeper than the casual arrogance of the rest of his kind.
Staring at his wine, Reeves drained the rest of his glass in a gulp. The world had changed for him, irrevocably, that day as a child.
He would see to it that it changed for everyone else, as well.
There had been stories, in the taverns of Trystania and amongst the Legion. Most of them were tall tales, but one, in particular, had set his imagination on fire and steadied into a quietly burning obsession. He believed that there was an element of truth to it, and had dedicated his life to finding out.
The Sky Legion was in service to the Twin Emperors, and he had openly declared his agenda to them. They had approved wholeheartedly, because it fit their belief system and did not involve war or bloodshed. Indeed, if such a fabulous legend were true, it was a means to world peace. They had supplied him with all the resources he required, access to the best scholars, but it had not been enough – their histories and research were limited.
Reeves had needed Grath Ardan. He had been left with little choice but to approach the Governor of Arkana.
Merrill had reacted with scepticism and disapproval. Of course she had. She was perfectly comfortable in her new position of power and Reeves could be a significant threat if he achieved his extraordinary goal. She had tried to dissuade him and told him it was a childish request. Reeves was pleased. She would not have spoken in such a way if she believed the legend to be mere fantasy.
He had no doubt that the Governor was, at this very moment plotting ways to thwart him.
But they had made an agreement: he would capture the black-winged Angel and deliver him to her in exchange for some particular research from Grath Ardan.
Merely information. Reeves considered it a fair deal.
Pushing himself up off the pastel, silken cushions he was lounging on, he staggered over to a nearby side-table where the carafe of golden wine sat. The table tilted disconcertingly. Reeves shook his head. It was strong wine: very strong. He had only had one glass.
He reached for the carafe to pour himself another, but found that his arm was peculiarly weak – he could barely lift it. His vision blurred and began to close in around the edges, and a stab of nausea clenched his stomach. He clutched the table as a cold sweat broke out on his skin.
What… is this? he thought in confusion. Something is… wrong…
Suddenly, his legs could no longer support him and he collapsed, the room spinning into blackness.
Reeves awoke slowly, to the cool shadow of late afternoon. A fresh breeze blew over him, stirring the gauzy curtains into twisting, flowing forms, as though pale ghosts had arrived on the balcony. Light glowed on the buildings beyond; the sun had moved to the other side of the inn.
Pushing himself gingerly off the floor, he winced as pain thundered through his head. Waiting for another wave of dizziness to pass, he got unsteadily to his feet.
He clutched his head. Someone spiked my damned drink! he thought furiously. He peered around groggily, surprised that he wasn’t naked and tied to a tree in the forest. Nothing appeared to be out of place: his weapons and armour still rested against the wall where he had left them.
Then he looked down at the small table beside him. The carafe of golden wine, and the glasses, were gone.
In their place sat a book.
It was a small, old book, with a dusty grey leather cover and ugly yellowed pages. It was a vile piece of dead animal and wood, filled with indecipherable scrawlings.
Reeves didn’t even bother to open it. This could be any book for all he knew, plucked at random from out of the library. But he was fairly sure that Merrill had kept her word – she had delivered what he had asked for.
But both he and the Governor were perfectly aware that he could not read it.
He placed a hand either side of the book and leaned on the table, seething. So, Governor, he thought. You like to play games.
Suddenly, he smashed his fist down onto the book, as though trying to crush it into the table like an annoying insect. So be it.
His blue-green eyes narrowed. But the next move is mine.
The sun hid itself furtively behind the curiously-shaped peaks of the Tentaryl Ranges, casting long, weird shadows over the barren mountain rock. High above, against a golden-tinged blue sky, a glittering white form was a twin to the dark serpentine shape that rippled over the ridges and valleys below. Huge, feather-tipped wings flapped once, and the White Dragon began a gradual, graceful descent.
The Dragon landed a few minutes later on a steeply sloping grassy meadow hidden within the grey walls of the cliffs. A stand of dark, sombre pines clustered at one end, their trunks and branches oddly twisted and deformed. Ferrian slid off his perch on the Dragon’s neck, stretching, stiff with the long flight. He looked around.
They were right on the border of Arkana. In the distance, he could just make out the pale line of Caer Sync, dividing the sky in two. In front of him, the ridgeline lowered so that he could see beyond what looked like a vast, dark sea: it was in fact the mighty forest that covered the whole of the Angel nation.
Ferrian remembered his last journey through that forest; a harrowing expedition to the ancient library of Grath Ardan, where he was captured by Murons and almost eaten by scavenging plants.
Suppressing a shiver, he sat down in the soft grass, which was speckled with tiny white and purple flowers. Beside him, the Dragon turned and leapt with a great beat of her wings up onto the cliffs, where she circled around like a giant white cat before finally settling down with her huge horned head on her paws.
Angel guards patrolled the sky over these mountains, and Ferrian doubted that he and the Dragon had managed to arrive here unseen. It would be impossible not to spot something as massive as the White Dragon from miles away. Unfortunately, he was nowhere near as skilled as Requar had been at camouflage; such spells required a certain type of elemental light magic that he was not attuned to. Nevertheless, he had tried to improvise, creating a kind of mist around them in the hope that they would appear as a fast moving cloud, or at the very least, diffuse the sunlight reflecting off the Dragon’s brilliant scales.
So far, however, they had not been approached or seen any obvious signs of alarm. But he had no idea what to do once they reached Fleetfleer. Stealth was not exactly an option when accompanied by a Dragon, so he supposed they would have to go for the direct approach, and hope that things didn’t get too ugly. Perhaps the Dragon could create a diversion while he tried to find out where Mekka was being held…
Ferrian didn’t know what procedures the Angels followed or whether there would be a trial. If there was, it would be a short one: Mekka would confess his guilt and the Angels would gleefully allow him to throw himself into the Pit. There was no one to speak up in his defence, and even if Ferrian were to arrive and show them the damned dagger (now wedged relatively safely in his Sword), he doubted it would make a difference. Mekka was part of a centuries-old prophecy that had proved true; to them, he was practically the embodiment of evil.
He sighed dismally. He knew that he was breaking Angel laws and disrespecting their culture and Mekka would probably resist, but he didn’t care. Mekka was his friend and he did not deserve such a fate; he had suffered enough already!
Ferrian had precious few friends left: he couldn’t bear to lose another.
He just hoped that he wasn’t too late.
Setting his Sword and pack on the grass beside him, he rummaged in the latter for some food. He wasn’t particularly hungry, especially with worry gnawing at his stomach, but he had to remind himself to eat occasionally.
Becoming a fully-fledged sorcerer and actively using magic had led to some fundamental changes in his physiology. One of those was a diminished appetite. Arzath had explained that once his body had absorbed a certain amount of magical power, it began to rely on that power to sustain itself. That was why, when Arzath had lost his magic after falling off the cliff, his body had gone into shock and started to fail – he was dependant on magic to live. He would probably have died if Requar hadn’t restored his power with the Sword of Healing.
There were other side effects, too. The ageing process had slowed, almost stopped; his hair and fingernails ceasing to grow. His lifespan would now be measured in centuries rather than decades. But the price of an exceptionally long life was infertility. He would likely never be able to have children.
Ferrian chewed slowly on his piece of bread. He wasn’t sure what he thought about that; it wasn’t something he had ever really considered. But he wondered if later in life, he might have regrets.
Requar had wanted children, apparently. Or perhaps he hadn’t realised he wanted them until Ferrian had dropped unexpectedly into his life.
He tossed the crust of his bread down the slope, watching as a two-headed crow swooped from the pines, poked at the bread, fought with itself, then made off with it. He had always felt as though he was alone, separate from other people, different. Friends came and went, like bright sparks from a fire – there one moment, only to disappear without a trace in an instant.
Despite the fact that he had slain a Dragon-wraith and carried the most powerful weapon in the world around on his back, Ferrian had so far failed dismally to save those he cared about. Aari. Sirannor. Requar. Hawk. Perhaps now Mekka. He had somehow been absent from their deaths, unable to prevent what had happened, and left feeling helpless and anguished afterwards. His Winter had killed innocents, too, unintentionally.
He stared determinedly at the distant Tower. Not this time. This time, he would change the course of events.
He had to.
He glanced up at the White Dragon, curled up in the rocks. She had done much to fill the emptiness inside him. Having been freed at last from his mind and her body restored, he assumed that she would once again seek out her icy lair in the Snowranges. But she had chosen to come with him to the Sorcerer’s Valley instead. He had no idea why, but didn’t feel the need to ask.
The Dragon was just… there. She had always been there, from the moment of his birth, and he guessed she would remain with him until he truly died. She was a strange and enigmatic companion.
But he was grateful.
Rubbing at his eyes, he yawned, tired from the long journey through the bright sky. The sun had vanished below the peaks, leaving the little meadow valley in soft gloom. Ferrian laid back on the grass with his hands behind his head, staring up at the first tentative stars peering into view. His eyelids closed.
I’ll just rest for a few minutes, he thought sleepily. Then we’ll continue on…
He was asleep in moments.
An hour later, when darkness and glittering stars had arrived in all their glory, something black appeared high above the mountains, as though one of the peaks had detached itself and floated free – a ragged triangular shape in the sky.
Shortly after, far to the north above the line of Caer Sync, came a flash of silver light that lingered for several seconds before fading into the night.
Ferrian and the White Dragon slept on, oblivious.