Through the forest, quiet and still
What hope remains is bleak and chill.
The forest trees of Arkana rose in massive grey columns, as thick around as houses, the lowest branches stretching out across the mist as though supporting a great hall fit for grim and mighty Gods. Enormous roots curved like arches in the fog; or perhaps they were the petrified tentacles of some gargantuan sleeping monster. They blocked the path in mossy walls, creating a twisting labyrinth of dead ends, confounding turns and slippery abysses.
Huge fungi paraded over the roots, fan-like and eerily resplendent, striped with colours that glowed in the dreary light. At the bottom of this tangled kingdom, the undergrowth was dense, crowded with ferns and shrubbery competing for space, a jungle all by itself, and practically impassable.
In the depths of this green, chaotic jumble of life, silver flashed: a bright streak moving from side to side rhythmically. Some of the plants scuttled away as it approached. A tiny light, like moonlit ice encased in frosty mist bobbed alongside the silver streak, along with a few curse words.
Ferrian hacked his way forward irritably. His Sword was sharp enough to cut through anything, including the massive tree roots, but it was still slow going; his legs constantly became snared in vines, and twigs snagged his cloak. Freezing the vegetation and then shattering it was more effective, but came at a cost of draining his energy, and he preferred to conserve his magic in case he needed to deal with demon-wraiths or who-knew-what. The icelight took little to maintain, and in any case he needed it in the murky half-light: at the very least he hoped someone would see it. Finding survivors was a priority.
Now and then he stopped and called out, but so far had received no response. Occasionally, he used his Mind Vision, but saw only the small bright auras of animals and birds, nothing resembling a person.
He had no idea how far he was from Fleetfleer. He’d been walking for hours, he was sure, but it felt like he’d only travelled a few hundred metres.
He hoped fervently that it was more than that.
As he continued slashing his way through the bushes, a strong sense of deja vu followed him, like a ghost. Once or twice he’d turned involuntarily to say something to Mekka or Hawk, before remembering they weren’t there. Four years ago, he had hacked a path through this very jungle, with the same Sword – although then it had been the Sword of Frost, and he himself had been dead, and not prone to fatigue…
Cutting away a wall of leaves, he found his way all of a sudden obscured by a massive root. It rose above him in a curving wall about twenty feet high, covered in ivy and hanging moss. The wood of these trees was so hard it was like rock. In fact, Ferrian had wondered more than once if the trees here were actually a kind of living stone. He wished he’d thought to ask Mekka on the previous journey. That trip seemed now almost cheerful compared to the catastrophe they now faced.
Sighing, he slumped against the root, taking a moment to catch his breath and rest. Staring out into the fog, he tried to quell the cold, dark knot of fear in his stomach. He wanted desperately to believe that Mekka was still alive, but the more his thoughts dwelt on the possibility, the more unlikely it seemed – turning morbidly instead on what he was going to say to Everine and Ben when he returned to the castle. The fact was, either Mekka had been admitted to the Tower already, or he hadn’t. If he had, then Ferrian had arrived too late to save him. If he hadn’t, he’d likely been locked up somewhere, probably in the Gaolhouse, which was at this moment buried under a mountain of rubble, along with half of Fleetfleer.
Either way, the chances that his dark-winged friend had somehow made a miraculous escape were slim – even for him.
Pushing himself away from the root, attempting to leave his dark thoughts behind, he continued onwards. Following the curve of the root to the right, he chopped at the undergrowth with renewed determination. A greenweaver lurked on the log beside him, its spindly legs outstretched like a ferny spider. Ferrian swiped at it moodily. Those things gave him the creeps. He hadn’t forgiven them for trying to snack on him, back when his body had been a walking corpse. Sure, he’d been decomposing at the time, but his mind had still been working, and the indignity of being eaten alive by plants wasn’t something that he could easily forget…
He came to a halt.
There was a strange sound.
He realised he’d been hearing it for a few minutes now, and dismissed it as the soft call of a bird… but…
No. It wasn’t a bird.
Turning on the spot, he tilted his head, trying to catch it again.
There it was! The sound of… humming? Like someone humming a quiet tune to themselves.
Frowning, Ferrian pushed onwards, carefully, in the direction of the song.
He came out into a cleared space littered with broken plants, mud and wreckage. Great towering, looming piles of wreckage. Giant slabs of white stone protruded everywhere like broken bones amid shattered pieces of timber; parts of buildings and tree branches alike. Golden roofing tiles were scattered over the ground like bright confetti. There were household goods too; smashed pottery and furniture, house plants, paintings, drapery…
Ferrian regarded it all dismally. Fleetfleer had only just been rebuilt a few years ago after a Dragon attack. Now here it lay again, in devastation.
Mercifully, the thick fog and trees obscured most of it.
He couldn’t see any bodies…
He almost missed seeing the child. The humming started again, drawing his eyes upwards.
A small figure was perched, half-hidden, on the raised end of a huge, tilted flat slab of stone, the protruding edge curved and bevelled – perhaps one of the platforms from the central plaza, as it was floating weirdly amongst the wreckage. The kid was staring down at something in its hands, though Ferrian couldn’t see what it was.
Then the kid leaned forward and Ferrian caught sight of the wings.
His breath froze in his throat.
The feathers were white, patterned with copper, orange tips standing out like flames amongst the dreary wreckage. He knew of only one Angel family with such unique colouring…
“Li?!” he cried.
The small figure stood up. For a long moment she stared down at him, then suddenly ran forward and leapt down off the ruins. She bowled into him so hard that he staggered backwards.
The little Angel had grown much bigger since the last time he’d seen her.
“Ferrian!” she gasped. Pulling back from him, she jumped up and down on the spot, eyes wide, rusty-coloured hair a mess around her round, smudged face. She beamed as though the sun had suddenly opened up on the forest. “You came back! I knew you would!” She hugged him again. “I knew you would! Did you come to rescue me?”
Ferrian smiled uncertainly, patting her head. “Uh, it’s good to see you, too, Li,” he said, “but… are you all alone down here? Are your parents alright?”
She stepped back from him again, this time sharply, as though slapped. The smile vanished from her young face, as though a rain cloud had rolled over it. She stared down at the object in her hands: a floppy doll made out of cloth. Suddenly, she flung the doll away from her, into the mud. “I don’t know.” Shrugging carelessly, she turned and walked away.
Frowning, Ferrian bent down and picked up the limp figure that Li had discarded. It was an Angel doll. One of its wings was missing, ripped off cruelly, its sawdust innards leaking out over his fingers. Turning it over, he saw that there was a feather tied around its neck.
A single, pure black feather.
Mekka’s feather.
He stared down at it anxiously.
Watching her picking her way through the ruins, he tried a different approach. “Have you seen anyone else?”
Li nodded, pointing upwards. “Up there. In the treetops.”
Ferrian looked up into the mist. Makes sense, he thought.
He wandered around with her as she picked up bits and pieces of things from the ground, examined them intently, then discarded them. Staring down at the mutilated doll in his hand, he tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t upset her. “What were you doing before… uh, before this happened?” He waved an arm at the ruins.
She was silent for awhile, and he didn’t think she was going to answer, but finally she spoke. “My parents went to the Judgement Ceremony,” she said. “Pretty much everybody did. The whole city was talking about it. But I wasn’t allowed to go.” She shrugged. “I wanted to see Mekka though; I hoped maybe I could say goodbye, so I went anyway. I hid at the edge of the platform.” She stared at a fragment of painted vase in her hand. “It was hard to see over everyone, so I had to fly up a bit.”
Ferrian swallowed. “What did you see?”
Li huffed a sigh. “Oh, it was pretty boring. Just a lot of blah, blah, and everyone standing around. My wings got tired. Then the Syncwarden blindfolded Mekka and took him into the Tower along with a fancy soldier.”
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Ferrian’s heart turned to ice in his chest. They took him into the Tower.
Then the young Angel’s expression changed, her voice becoming more subdued. “Then… things got… weird. Everyone started shouting at once, and making a lot of noise. They sounded like animals. The crowd rushed forward like they were trying to get into the Tower, like they all went crazy. The guards were trying to fight them off, throwing people off the platform, but they kept coming back.” She looked disturbed. “I got a creepy feeling, so I flew down here to the forest. Then there was a sound like… like thunder cracked open the whole world, and stones and buildings and things came crashing down.
“I hid in a hollow of a tree until it all stopped. When I came out, it was so quiet. But then I heard screaming.”
Her voice dwindled into a whisper. Ferrian crouched slowly beside her, placing a hand on her small shoulder. Her white feathers quivered slightly.
“It… it’s over now,” he said with an effort. But even as he tried to comfort Li, he felt a huge, hollow space open up inside him. They took him into the damned Tower!
They were both silent for a long moment, the mist curling eerily around them. “What are we going to do now?” Li asked finally.
Pulling together enough of his tattered soul to stand up, Ferrian pushed himself upright with his Sword.
“You… you need to go somewhere safe,” he told her. “You should fly up into the canopy with the other Angels. If your parents are still alive, they’ll be looking for you–”
“NO!” Her sudden shout caught him off guard. He turned to see her glaring at him, her hands balled into fists. “I don’t want to go back to them! You can’t make me!”
“Li!” His expression hardened. “It’s dangerous down here! There’s–” he paused, unable to bring himself to tell her about the black pyramid. “There are demon-wraiths,” he went on. “And parts of the city might still be crumbling apart. You shouldn’t be wandering around down here by yourself!”
“I don’t care!” she retorted furiously. “My home is destroyed anyway and my parents are gone! I know they are! I just want to live down here in the forest! You can’t make me go up there!”
Before Ferrian could stop her, she turned and ran a few steps, then took off, flapping away into the mist.
“Li!” Ferrian called, starting after her. “Li, wait…!”
He realised that going after her was futile. She was an Angel, and could hide a hundred feet up a tree and he wouldn’t be able to get to her.
I’ll bet that’s exactly what she’s doing, he thought angrily. She was so stubborn and strong-willed!
So much like her brother, Aari.
It was going to get her into trouble.
Sighing, he turned away, slashing at a bush in frustration. Then he dropped down onto a chunk of stone. Letting both the Angel doll and his Sword fall to the ground, he put his face in his hands.
This whole rescue mission had turned into a complete disaster. He had arrived too late to save Mekka. His Dragon was injured. Caer Sync and Fleetfleer lay in ruins. Trigon was flooding into the ocean. Li was probably an orphan.
And he hadn’t been able to do anything about any of it.
Some sorcerer I am!
He’d spent the last four years devoting himself to study and gruelling magical practice, trying to regain his Winter. Not only to restore a fundamental part of himself, but in the vain hope that he would be able to save his friends. He was tired of seeing them fall, one by one, victims of circumstances that he was powerless to affect. For all he had learned, on his long journey to become a sorcerer, for all he had suffered and lost… it had come to nothing. He had no answers. He was as naïve and pathetic as the small boy who had wandered the wilderness, wreaking havoc with blizzards and running from himself in fear…
Dismally he realised that deep down, despite everything, he was still the same person. Still the same scared, confused, silver-eyed kid stumbling his way through life.
The same boy who had once stared into a pond on a warm summer evening, wanting only to drown in his own freakish reflection…
A short while later, the first snowflake fell.
Ferrian felt it brush his fingertips, soft and light. A moment later, there was another.
Slowly, he removed his hands from his face. They were stiff and cold, and covered in frost. Looking down, he saw that the rest of him was, too, as well as the stone on which he sat, and the ground around him in a neat white circle. Snow fell, serenely.
For a full minute he stared blankly at the snow, before understanding its significance. With a start, he got up.
The Winter!
He looked around, eyes going wide. The Winter! It had returned!
A mixture of emotions surged through him; relief and elation swirling peculiarly around his broken heart.
Sadness, he thought in wrenching revelation. My despair brought it back…
All these years, since going to the valley with Arzath, he’d felt self-assured and safe, full of purpose. Only now, as his confidence crumbled, as he wavered on the brink of utter hopelessness, had the Winter returned once more.
It had returned to protect him.
The Dragon had understood. She had assured him it would come back. She knew.
He stood in the snow, letting it settle over him. Li, on the other hand, had not.
Looking around, he wondered whether he should stay here and wait for her a bit longer. But if she was anything as obstinate as her older brother had been, her pride would take a long while to wear off.
He had to find her.
Turning, he retrieved his Sword, ice sliding smoothly off it. Hesitating for a moment, he crouched before the little doll and untied the black feather from around its neck.
Fighting a fresh wave of grief, he closed his eyes. I will protect her, Mekka, he promised his lost friend. I swear to you.
Tying the feather to his belt, he stood and started walking through the gloomy forest once more.
The sound of cursing startled Mekka out of a doze. Blinking, he rubbed his face; he hadn’t realised he’d fallen asleep again. For a confused moment, he thought he was still dreaming; but the sharp ache in his side reminded him that he was regrettably awake: and still alive.
Sighing, he looked around, feeling weary, trying to ignore the burning pain of his wound. He was still floating in the middle of the strange, otherworldly golden void, huge chunks of white stone circling the perimeter, endlessly, as though caught in an eerie, slow current.
The two giant Seraphim remained looming inscrutably on either side of him, though now they were upside down.
With a careful beat of his wings, wincing at a fresh stab of pain, Mekka righted himself.
The cursing came again. Using his wings to turn himself further, he caught sight of an unfortunately lively, white-feathered figure off to one side, near the ring of stones.
Oh, he thought dryly. He’s not dead. What a shame.
It would have been marvellous if the Wing Commander’s brains had been knocked out and were floating majestically around him along with his splendid armour. He supposed that was too much to ask for.
Reeves was floundering like an idiot, snatching at the pools of floating silvertine in disbelief, as though hoping he could put them back together. He seemed desperate, frantic, waving his arms about…
Mekka snorted.
Suddenly Reeves paused, then lunged at something nearby; a small solid object, something that had not dissolved into a gleaming pool of silvertine. He clutched it in his hands, visibly sagging with relief.
Mekka raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was not a weapon. It was…
A book?
Why the hell was Reeves carrying a book around, of all things?
It was then that the other Angel noticed him. “Oh, curse the Goddess!” Reeves exclaimed. “You are still alive?!”
Mekka gave him a smile. “It’s a knack.”
Reeves made a sound of disgust, putting a hand to his forehead. A trail of blood ran down the side of his face, from a matted wound on his temple. The Tower had paid him back nicely, it seemed.
Scrunching his face into a snarl, Reeves slashed a hand viciously through the air. “This is your doing!”
Mekka stared back at him coolly. “Of course it is. Why not.”
Reeves’ eyes flashed. “You knew that something was about to happen! You stood there gloating that we were all about to die!”
Mekka sighed. “You felt it too, Reeves,” he pointed out. “As did the Syncwarden. As did the crowd outside.” He shook his head ruefully. “Unlike most people, I happen to listen to my instincts.”
Reeves shook his head. “Then what the hell happened?”
Mekka was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But...” he swallowed. “I sensed something… monstrous outside the Tower. Something like a wraith, but worse.” He closed his eyes. “I was once… touched by a trigonic dagger. It twisted my thoughts, turned me into a grotesque parody of myself. It did this insidiously, so that I did not know what was happening until it was too late.
“Of course, I hated the Governor; I wanted him to die in misery for what he had done to me! I have always despised the people of Arkana and everything they stand for.” He shook his head sadly. “But I was not a complete person. The trigon showed me only the truth I wanted to see.”
“Touching,” Reeves sneered. “A tragic story. You might as well have told it to the Syncwarden.”
Mekka looked at him coldly. “It is written in my confession,” he replied. “My thoughts and actions were my own, and I take responsibility for them. I came with you willingly, because I believed that the people of Fleetfleer deserved resolution.”
Reeves’ eyes narrowed. “If you so eagerly came here to die, why take your damned time about it?”
Mekka glared at him. “Because I was listening!”
“Listening?”
“After I fled Arkana four years ago,” he explained, “a sorcerer healed me. Using a Sword of the Gods, he repaired my blind eye and released me from the grip of trigon. But something remained. An… echo of dark thoughts.” He looked away uncomfortably. “To put it simply, I can hear it. Trigon. The sound of wretched voices whispering to me, as though they…” his voice faltered. “A-as though they… recognise me.” He gazed unhappily into the golden mist. “I hesitated on the platform because I was trying to work out what they were saying.”
Reeves folded his arms. “And what were they saying?”
Mekka frowned. “I don’t know. They did not sound Human or Angel, or any race on Arvanor that I recognise. They were… strange. Alien...”
Mekka suppressed a shiver, feeling troubled.
“Charming,” Reeves stated after a long moment of silence. “You can talk to demon-wraiths.” He smiled, as though he had expected as much.
Mekka didn’t dignify that with a reply. He’d said nothing of the sort, but he couldn’t be bothered arguing with this pompous bigot.
How did I end up stuck in here with him? he thought bitterly. Can I not just die in peace?!
They were both quiet for awhile, lost in their own ruminations. Mekka looked over to see the white-winged Legion Commander studying his surroundings, tapping his book against one hand, his eyes travelling thoughtfully over the golden-hued stone circumference of their holy prison.
“If I am not mistaken,” Reeves said finally, his voice very soft but Mekka could hear it clearly in the silence, “we are inside some kind of Aegis.”
Mekka nodded: he had come to the same conclusion. “The Seraphim are protecting themselves,” he murmured.
Reeves turned slowly in the air to look at him, his gaze piercing. “Only themselves?” he wondered, a mocking edge to his words. “Not the entirety of Arkana, despite this terrible monster supposedly looming over us? They allowed the Holy Tower to fall?”
Mekka let himself drift in space until he was no longer facing Reeves. His face hardened to stone, not replying. There was no point. Reeves had already figured it out.
“Ah…” the other Angel said at last, after a long, knowing moment had past. “Of course! We are missing one of our beloved Seraphim! Their power must be greatly diminished!”
Mekka closed his eyes, unable to suppress a wince. Reeves’ words might as well have been knives thrown into his face, for all the pain they caused. He found himself wishing that the Pit was still there, that it would open up and swallow both of them in the next instant.
No, he thought suddenly, a slow, dark anger building within him. I have suffered too much already. I have paid for my crimes with my soul. I will not bear THIS on my conscience as well!
When he opened his eyes again, they were dark and blazing; his words cut through the serenity like flashing steel blades as he spun on Reeves. “For all I have done, I am NOT responsible for the fall of Caer Sync! How dare you–”
His voice simply stopped, the words refusing to leave his throat.
Trying again to speak, he found that he could produce no sound.
Alarmed, Mekka went to lift a hand to his neck, but found that he couldn’t move that, either. It remained curled into a fist at his side, unresponsive to his efforts.
He was completely paralysed, as though turned to stone.
Several yards away from him, Reeves appeared similarly stunned. Only his turquoise eyes betrayed his fear and confusion.
Mekka’s heartbeat quickened in his chest, his breath rushing over numbed lips. What was happening?!
Nothing in the shattered Sanctuary appeared to have changed. Except…
His motionless body drifted slowly around until the two giant Seraphim came into view.
They were huge, their faces high above him, their wings moving with dreamlike grace, their halos twisting and turning in an eternal, shining dance.
Their gazes were no longer focussed on each other.
They were staring down at him.