Alone again, no friends in sight
By shattered gate, a lovely fight.
The gloom deepened as Ferrian struggled onwards through the forest. Whether due to approaching night, the onset of his Winter or some unfathomable pyramid-shaped horror swallowing the world, he did not know, and at this point hardly cared. The endless tangle of broken foliage and hush of falling snow had wrapped him in timeless exhaustion.
His movements were becoming sluggish; his arms ached from hacking through the thick vegetation, his limbs stiffening with the cold.
And there was still no sign of Li.
At some point he just staggered to a halt in the middle of a bush, breath coming in heavy white puffs, shoulders slumping in defeat.
Perhaps it was time to go back to the Dragon.
It was a sensible idea, actually. From the air, he would have more chance of spotting survivors and get a clearer picture of what was going on. There wasn’t much he could do getting tangled up in vines.
Instead, he lifted his Sword and continued chopping through the bush.
Some part of his mind, a part that he had stubbornly ignored for awhile, intrusively pointed out that the only reason he was down here physically exerting himself, becoming lost in the depths of the forest searching for an Angel girl who didn’t want to be found, was because he couldn’t face the alternatives.
Sooner or later, he would be forced to fight that black pyramid.
And even if he somehow managed to destroy it, even if he and the Dragon survived, even if he saved what was left of Arkana… he still had to return to Castle Whiteshadow without Mekka and face Everine and Ben with a broken promise. And after that, yet more demon-wraiths in Crystaltina to look forward to, not to mention the unsolved problem of Hawk’s condition, and Carmine, and Arzath’s precarious mental state…
Why SHOULD I turn back? he snapped at himself angrily. Why fight that black pyramid? What was the point of saving the goddamned world if he couldn’t help his friends?!
And why couldn’t he help his friends? Why was he always somewhere else when they were in trouble?
Slashing his way through to a clearing, he stared down at his Sword in frustration. He could change things, of course. He could change anything. In an instant, he could be in any place, at any time. He alone held the power to transform his own world into whatever he wanted it to be.
But that way lay madness. He could spend the rest of his life falling through infinite mirrors trying to find a perfect version of reality that didn’t exist. He was perceptive enough to understand that, at least. And be haunted forever by the possibilities.
Ferrian wasn’t entirely sure what the Sword of Mirrors’ true purpose was, or how it was supposed to be used, only that it was good at killing demon-wraiths.
He knew that, just like the Dragon-wraith, no one else could destroy that pyramid.
Looking up, he watched the icelight glimmer on the falling flakes of snow.
Why, then, am I wasting time down here in the forest, hiding in the snow?
He knew why.
He was afraid.
Sighing deeply, he knew that he had to go back. Avoiding his problems, ignoring them, was the same as running from them. And he had made a vow a long time ago that he would never run away from anything again.
He didn’t want to leave Li here.
But he had to.
He shook his head. I vowed to protect Li. I can’t bear it if she dies. But maybe this isn’t the right way to do it. Maybe the way to save my friends is to kill the big things, to face the monsters they can’t. Maybe that’s the only thing I CAN do.
Ferrian closed his eyes. He just wished that there was someone – anyone – else who was capable of wielding a Sword of the Gods, someone to stand beside him and fight, so that he did not have to bear all of the world’s problems alone.
Reluctantly, he decided to give up the search for Li. She was like Mekka: if she didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be. He could search this forest till he dropped dead and never find her. She was small and agile and could fly. She could escape the wraiths.
She had to.
He opened his eyes.
And found himself staring at his own reflection.
With a startled gasp, he took a step backwards.
A large sphere floated right in front of his face, flawlessly silver.
Stunned, Ferrian looked around, but there was little to see. The mist had closed around him in murky twilight, reducing visibility to only a few feet. Even the great trees had disappeared. The steadily falling snow obscured everything but the bushes nearest to him.
He looked back at the sphere. It had drifted off to his right. Snowflakes stuck to it.
Baffled but wary, Ferrian circled the reflective ball.
It did nothing but drift silently through the air, at the height of his head.
Lifting his Sword, he poked at it.
The blade went straight through, with only slight resistance. Pulling it free, however, the silver substance clung to it.
Ferrian shook his Sword, and the substance broke up into dozens of smaller globules, wobbling in the air like soap bubbles, rising languorously.
Silvertine, he thought, amazed. This was silvertine in its unrefined form. Of course. The Tower had been full of the stuff. Trigon had flooded into the sea; silvertine must now be spilled all through the forest.
There was something mesmerising about the sphere. Unable to take his eyes off it, he followed it until it became trapped beneath the frond of a giant fern.
Something caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see another globe of silvertine a short distance away, like a gleaming ghost in the mist.
Forgetting his plan to return to the Dragon, Ferrian pushed his way through the edge of the clearing until he came out into another open space.
Silvertine was scattered all through the air here, dozens of globes of many sizes floating amongst the snow. They emitted a kind of radiance; not light, exactly, but a shimmering brilliance seen with his soul rather than his eyes.
He stared at the scene, entranced. Fears and worries seemed to melt away, becoming all of a sudden unimportant. A peculiar sense of familiarity stole over him, a sort of longing ache, as though he had returned to a place he knew well…
The silvertine reminded him of his eyes, and the eyes of the Dragon.
Am I made of silvertine? he wondered strangely.
The edges of the spheres blurred with rainbow colours. The snow was like feathers on his skin. His heart felt light.
As though beckoned, Ferrian walked forward. Reaching out, he touched one of the globes.
Silvertine coated his fingers like oil, spreading over his hand…
Some warning instinct broke through his daze, and he wiped his hand hurriedly on his cloak. Stepping back, he shook his head, trying to clear it. His thoughts were fuzzy and warm, as though he were intoxicated.
Stumbling away, he clutched at his head. When he looked up again, he noticed the glow. At first he thought that it was his icelight, but his icelight had gone out…
Trying to focus, he made his way towards it, carefully avoiding the floating silvertine.
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He had only gone a few feet when he stopped, breathless at the sight before him.
A dozen or so yards away, rising through the darkness and mist, was a massive piece of wreckage. It was curved on one edge, shattered on the other, rising straight upwards from the ground like a gnomon on a sundial. Its face was covered with intricate, ornate gilded runes and designs in interconnected circles, as well as what Ferrian recognised as giant numerals in Angelican – he had seen such symbols in ancient books during the time he had spent in Grath Ardan and his subsequent research into the nature of trigon and silvertine.
It was unmistakably part of a famously immense, millennia-old timepiece, and gateway to what was once the Angels’ idea of Heaven.
It was Excelsior’s Clock.
A few feet beside Ferrian knelt an Angel soldier in the finest armour Ferrian had ever seen. He was motionless, staring upwards, long spear lying on the ground beside him, wings folded at his back.
Perhaps he had been lamenting the loss of the Tower. But now his attention was fixed on something else.
As was Ferrian’s.
A figure stood between them and the clock, illuminating the area around it with a glorious bright white light. The figure was like nothing Ferrian had ever laid eyes on before.
It was a female Angel, her skin glowing like warm marble, wrapped in flowing, liquid silver robes that spread out across the ground like a gown. Her silver hair was tied around her head in braids and wreathed with a mass of ghostly flowers and trailing tendrils made of mist. Her eyes were a shade of blue that Ferrian had never imagined, like the brightest, sunlit water; her face was ageless, with a motherly and compassionate expression, beaming such kindness that Ferrian felt emotion surge inside him. Huge rainbow wings spread from her back, scintillating with every colour imaginable, with two smaller, pure white wings below them.
Her arms, at her sides, were slightly spread, as though inviting an embrace.
At Ferrian’s approach, her beautiful eyes turned to him, and he felt like dropping to his knees with the soldier. Every thought fled from his head save a sense of resounding happiness and an urge to weep from sheer wonder.
An image entered his head unbidden; that of a small, sleepy, sunlit village amid golden wheat fields, the plains surrounding it unbroken save for a single mountain peak watching over the town from the south. Fluffy clouds floated through a golden-tinged blue sky. Smoke trailed lazily from chimneys. White cows chewed daisy-speckled grass.
It was the very essence of peace. A place he had dreamed of, but never visited. A place he had once been loved, but never seen, by a family that never knew him.
A place that existed no longer.
Ness. The place where he was born.
His face was wet with tears. The Angel looked at him with impossible empathy, but her soft smile offered hope, and peace, and love, and warmth – everything that he had never had. He need not suffer any longer, nor be afraid. Everything he wished for could be true. Everything would be made right again…
Without realising it, Ferrian stepped forward. His Sword arm dropped until the blade dragged in the snow after him.
The Angel gazed at him, saying nothing, offering the world with her eyes alone…
She lifted her arms to embrace him.
Her glowing fingers were inches away when a sudden pain burned through Ferrian’s palm, cold and searing, like dark ice…
Reflexively, he let go of his Sword, clutching at his hand.
The trance broken, he looked down at his Sword. Black vapours curled from the trigonic dagger, distorting as they came near the silvery-white mist emanating from the blade and the Angel.
The Angel had moved back slightly, though her expression hadn’t changed. There was no trace of fear on her face.
In that instant, Ferrian was struck by the truth. This wasn’t a goddess, or a Seraph, or even an ordinary Angel. It was a wraith! Not a demon-wraith, but an Angel-wraith, an Angel that had died in silvertine…
His blood went cold. Shocked at how close he had come to making a fatal mistake, Ferrian snatched up his Sword. Without stopping to think about it, he plunged his Sword into her.
The snow fell around them.
Nothing happened.
The Angel laughed softly, lovingly, like a mother would at a child being cute. Closing her eyes, she placed her hands reverently on either side of the blade.
Ferrian tried to pull the Sword free, but it would not come. He tried again with both hands, yanking hard, but it was lodged firmly in the Angel’s body.
The first stirrings of panic pounded through him. Oh crap, he thought, eyes going wide. Silvertine doesn’t work on a silvertine wraith!
To his further horror, the Angel’s hands began to melt, turning silver, fusing to the blade.
Terrified that his Sword was about to be absorbed by the wraith, Ferrian did the only thing he could think to do.
He summoned his magic.
Snow swirled around him in a sudden whirlwind. He called his power forth quickly, pouring it into his hands, into the Sword in an icy rush.
As he did so he concentrated hard, his awareness splitting in two until he was at once confronted by the hall of mirrors, and at the same time he was standing in front of the Angel wraith. He didn’t waste time. As the Angel continued melting onto his Sword, part of his consciousness searched the endless mirrors until he found a suitable one: a reality in which the wraith did not exist.
He threw his consciousness into that reality.
The Sword trembled his hands. Wind rushed about him in a gale. Finally, there was a blinding flash of light and an eerie whining noise increasing rapidly in pitch until it culminated in a sharp cracking sound, like thunder.
As the light and wind faded and Ferrian snapped back to himself, he saw that the Angel was gone. In the place where she had stood there was nothing but a patch of dissipating mist, the tip of his Sword resting on the snowy ground.
And there was a strange blind spot in the air that he could not look at.
Staggering backwards, blinking at the coloured patches that swarmed across his vision after the flash of light, Ferrian fell to his knees. He felt drained of energy, and he was shaking. A cold sweat had broken out on his skin.
He took deep breaths of the chilly air.
He had nearly been claimed by a wraith.
An Angel-wraith, of all things!
For a few moments he knelt where he was, recovering, before realising that it was very dark. Snapping his fingers to ignite an icelight, he looked around.
The soldier still knelt in the snow a few feet to his right. He was statuesque, an arm lifted to cover his face, and covered in ice.
“Oh Gods!” Ferrian leaped to his feet at once. Dropping beside the winged man, he put a tentative hand to his shoulder and shook him.
Thankfully, it was just a thin layer of frost, which slid easily off his polished armour. Slowly, the man lowered his arm and looked up stiffly, his face very pale.
“Magic,” he whispered.
Ferrian swallowed and nodded. “Yeah,” he replied.
“I… did not believe that true sorcerers still existed.”
Ferrian smiled ruefully. “I’m the last.” He sighed. “Probably.” Getting to his feet, he offered a hand to help the Angel to his feet.
The soldier took it, pulling himself up, ice showering off his armour and wings. Taking off his elegant winged helmet, he put a hand to his chest and bowed. “I owe you my life. Thank you.”
Ferrian waved a hand awkwardly, feeling embarrassed. “I guess that thing took a liking to me instead.”
The soldier stared at the place where the glowing figure had been. His brow creasing, he rubbed at his head. “What… happened?”
“It was an Angel-wraith,” Ferrian explained. “A wraith killed by silvertine.”
The man nodded. “I see. I have never encountered such a thing. But it stands to reason.” He looked troubled.
Ferrian looked at him. The craftsmanship of his armour was incredible; glimmering in the icelight, it was close-fitting and sleek, etched with intricate details of vines and feathers. Over his breastplate he wore a short, open-fronted white coat embroidered with silver wings that spread over the shoulders. His own wings were light brown fading to white at the tips, his floppy brown hair tied in a short ponytail at his neck, though most of it had escaped. His eyes were intelligent and pensive.
Unlike most Angels, especially soldiers, he didn’t give off an arrogant air. Indeed, he hadn’t yet made a single snide remark.
“You’re not one of the city guards,” Ferrian pondered aloud.
The Angel gave him a lopsided smile. “No,” he replied. He held out a hand. “I am Lieutenant Tan’Daran of the Sky Legion. You many call me Tander.”
“The Sky Legion?” Ferrian said in surprise, taking his hand. “I thought they were...”
“Disbanded? Yes. They were reformed thirty years ago.” He inclined his head towards the dark forest. “Not here in Arkana, but Siriaza. A place at the eastern edge of the Snowranges called Sundown Peak.” He shook his head. “I have not been with them long. Only four years.”
Ferrian stared at him, frowning. “Siriaza? Then what are you doing all the way...” His voice trailed off, heart sinking. “You’re the ones who arrested Mekka.”
Tander studied him for a long moment, looking him up and down. “Ah,” he said finally. “You are one of Mekka’s allies.” His brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Reeves was expecting a rescue attempt.” He put a hand up to rub his chin. “I did not expect him to have such powerful friends...”
Ferrian turned away, looking down at his Sword, watching the snowflakes settle on the blade. Suddenly, he stabbed it into the ground. “I failed.”
A long moment of uncomfortable silence descended. Snow fell out of the darkness, twirling softly to the ground. The trigonic dagger stood out like a black gash in the middle of the beautiful Sword.
“I am sorry,” Tander said finally, sounding sincere.
Ferrian looked up at him. He was gazing sadly at the ruins of Excelsior’s Clock. “My own Commander escorted Mekka into the Tower,” he said quietly. “I can find no trace of either of them. I assume they have both perished, and not in an honourable way.”
His eyes glimmered. He looked as bad as Ferrian felt.
Ferrian swallowed. This day had turned out disastrous for everyone.
He felt impossibly tired. Taking hold of his Sword, he pulled it out of the snow. Glancing back the way he had come, he hoped he would be able to find the trail he had cut through the forest.
He turned back to Tander. “The fall of Caer Sync wasn’t my doing,” he assured the Angel. “Just in case that’s what you were thinking.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t have that kind of power.” He hesitated. “There is some sort of black pyramid thing hovering over the sea. I think it’s made out of trigon. It broke a hole in the Tower, somehow, and it’s spilling trigon into the ocean. I was attacked by damned dead fish and whales.”
Tander turned to look at him, eyes wide. “I saw only a black shadow beyond the cliffs, when I went to investigate the Tower,” he told Ferrian.
Ferrian paused, staring at him. “You went to investigate the Tower?”
Tander nodded. “Yes. There is a glowing golden sphere where the Sanctuary used to be. I assume that the Seraphim have cast a protective shield over themselves.”
Ferrian remembered a bright yellow light emanating from the Tower as it collapsed, while he watched in horror from the back of his Dragon. He hadn’t given it much thought, he’d been so focussed on the damned black pyramid…
A protective shield… where the Sanctuary used to be…
His heart skipped a beat. Was there a chance? A small chance…?
“I attempted to enter it,” the Angel went on, “but I could not get inside. The surface was solid, like glass, and surrounded by a ring of floating slabs of stone.”
Ferrian’s stare was intense. “Could you see anything inside?”
He shook his head. “No. The light was too bright. I gave up, and returned to the forest to search for survivors.”
Ferrian looked up into the darkness, beyond the snow falling onto his face. “I have to get up there,” he declared aloud.
Tander looked uncertain. “I can take you, but...”
Ferrian gave him a smile. “I have my own way,” he said. “But thanks, anyway.”
Hesitating a moment more, he turned back to the Angel. “If you come across a small girl with orange and white wings and a stubborn attitude, will you make sure she is safe? Please?”
Tander blinked, slightly taken aback. “Yes,” he replied. “Of course.”
Ferrian took a deep breath, untying the black feather from his belt. “And give her this.” Handing the feather over, he spun to leave.
“Wait!” Tander called. “You didn’t mention your name!”
Ferrian looked over his shoulder, his eyes bright as silvertine in the darkness. “Ferrian,” he said. Taking a firm grip of his Sword, he ran off into the night-shrouded forest.