Lost and gone, beyond all doubt?
What visions yet may come about?
Arzath raced from the bedchamber, through the ante-room and threw himself down the stairwell. Several times, he stumbled and almost broke his neck, several times he had to stop and recover his breath or wait for waves of nausea to subside. The white walls of the castle passed around him, cold and bleak, as though the entire castle were a ghost.
A mixture of fear, anticipation and confusion pounded through him, along with his labouring heart. The Murons hadn't taken him, he thought frantically, and the only other person in the castle was Flint. He didn't think that man would have been likely to touch Requar after the last assassination attempt.
That meant…
His heart jumped around in his chest, like a trapped thing. He did not know what to expect, or what to feel. Had Requar got up by himself? Had he left the castle? If he was conscious enough to do so, why had he not given any indication? Could he not speak? Was he a walking corpse, like Ferrian? Was he…
His questions were answered.
He came out onto the mezzanine floor, with a view over the entrance foyer, and his steps faltered. Stumbling over to the balustrade, he clutched it, breath momentarily stopped.
Requar stood in the middle of the hall, fully dressed and holding his Sword, bathed in the wide, bright shaft of sunlight spilling through the open main doors. Blue and yellow light speared across the hall from the huge, circular stained glass window high above the doors: a rising sun blazing above his head.
His shadow stretched out across the floor behind him.
Tentatively, Arzath started down the stairs.
Requar did not react or appear to notice him, just stared straight ahead, out the doors.
Arzath reached the bottom of the stairs and slowly crossed the marble floor to his brother, and stood in front of him.
Requar's white hair was unbound and fell to his waist, stirring in the warm draught. His face was completely healed: there was no sign of the burn damage that Arzath had inflicted, or the trigon. His eyes were once again blue as the sky, but they stared straight through him, unseeing and unblinking.
“Requar?” Arzath whispered.
His brother did not respond.
“Can you see me?” He searched Requar's eyes. “Can you hear me?”
No response.
He continued staring at his brother, the two of them statues in the silent, empty hall. Beside him, the Sword of Healing was a silver blaze in the sunlight.
Arzath reached out and grabbed Requar's shoulders, and shook him. “Come BACK, damn you!!”
His shout echoed through the foyer, but nothing but his own desperate words came back to him.
Arzath's head lowered, his fingers curling into Requar's clothing. He squeezed his eyes closed. I have failed, he thought hopelessly. I have failed.
The Sword had healed Requar's wounds and restored some simple behaviour, but it had not revived his personality, his intelligence, or his self-awareness. Were those things truly lost forever?
The door across the room opened and he heard a gasp. “What's goin' on?!”
Arzath opened his eyes and lifted his head. Flint was standing there, looking shocked but depressingly hopeful. “He is… recovering...” Arzath lied. “It will take some time.”
He took Requar's arm and turned him around, leading him towards the dining room. His brother came without resistance.
He led Requar over to the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat him in it. Then he pulled out another chair and slumped down himself.
Flint hovered nearby, looking anxious, but to the man's credit, refrained from asking any stupid questions.
Arzath sat there, trembling, staring at his brother… or rather, the shell of a body that his brother had once inhabited. He looked away, but his gaze fell unfortunately upon the family portrait on the opposite wall. He squeezed his eyes shut again.
Are you really gone, Requar? Or is there something else holding you back?
No amount of magic on Arvanor would bring his brother back if he did not want to return, if he did not want to be healed. Requar had tried to kill himself for a reason; the choices he had made in life had turned into an agony that he could not bear to live with, a blackness deeper and more terrible than trigon.
Nothing in the past could be changed. Arzath wished it could.
Opening his eyes, he turned back to Requar. His own strength and magic was almost gone. He was dying. There was little more that he could do.
But there was one thing. It may not be of any use to Requar, now… but it would change something for him.
“One more time,” he whispered wearily. One more memory.
This time, it would not be a lie.
Hunched over like an old man, he raised a shaking arm and placed his fingers upon Requar's forehead.
Shadows draped the hallway. No lanterns were lit in the entire house, save for one room.
And yet, that room was the darkest.
A yellow oblong of light spilled out onto the landing as the door opened, followed a few moments later by a shadow, and then a figure.
A figure who was drowning in that light, as it reflected the tears upon his cheeks.
Arzath asked what had happened, from where he stood leaning with his back against the wall beside the door.
Requar looked up at him, and did not reply, but his expression said everything.
That expression destroyed Arzath's world.
He took two steps forward and smashed his fist into his brother's face, as hard as he could, trying to return the enormous pain that Requar had inflicted with that look. You're pathetic, Requar! You're a failure!
Then he spun and stalked away, leaving Requar lying on the floor, blood running from his nose.
Requar did not get up again, just lay there with tears streaming down his face.
A few moments later, Arzath stepped back out of the shadows.
He walked forward, no less stricken with grief, but he was far older now, and this had happened a long time ago.
Slowly, he knelt beside his weeping brother, and spoke just a few words; words that he should have said then, but hadn't.
I am sorry, Requar.
I am sorry.
Flint was sitting dejectedly beside the fire when Arzath collapsed. He looked up to see the sorcerer lying in a heap on the floor.
Slowly, Flint got to his feet. It wasn't the first time that Arzath had fainted after using magic, but this time… he had a sinking feeling that it was the last.
He forced himself to walk over and check for a heartbeat. It was there, but frankly, that wasn't saying much…
He looked up at Requar, sadly. The man looked almost normal, except that his face was expressionless, his eyes gazing at nothing.
Flint shook his head. He didn't know what Arzath had been trying to do, but clearly, it wasn't working. It was remarkable that Requar had managed to regain some sort of consciousness, to get up and dress himself and walk around… but if this was all that could be recovered of him, then it hadn't been worth the effort.
He got up, listening to the snap of burning wood in the hearth: the only sound to break the heavy silence. Then he looked down at Arzath again: a pitiful pile of black and gold clothing at his feet.
He looked at the Sword of Healing, still held in Requar's grasp. Two snakes twined up from the hilt: one black, one white.
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Then he bent and picked Arzath up, slinging him across his shoulders, and carried him from the room. He bore Arzath up the main staircase and several further flights of stairs until he found a spare room, where he laid the body upon the unmade bed. Then he trudged back down to the dining room.
Requar was still sitting where he had been left. Flint went over and gently guided him to his feet, then took his arm and led him back up the stairs to the room where Arzath lay.
Flint sat him down in a chair beside the bed, took his arm and positioned the Sword of Healing so that it lay across Arzath's body.
Then he stepped back, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Lifting a hand, he patted Requar's shoulder, then turned away and went to the door.
There he paused for a moment and looked back. Raising a hand in silent, sad farewell, he left the room, closing the door gently behind him. He walked back down the stairs one final time, fetched his Justifier and a sack of food, and left the castle.
* * *
Rain flooded over Sirannor as he knelt on the rocks. He felt as though the Dragon had gutted him, had scattered his entrails across the width of the valley. In just an instant, the beast had done what General Dreikan had failed to do, that the Old Quarter had failed to do, that Aari's death had very nearly done. He had thought himself put back together, harder than steel, unbreakable. He had thought there would be no further pain that he could not endure.
He had been wrong.
Life leaked out of him, trickling down his skin with the rain, a steady stream of darkness and pain that was unstoppable. There was no weapon to hand, or he would have ended it then and there…
An image of the dead soldiers came to mind, black swords lying in the gully behind him…
As though at his bidding, one of those blades landed point downward in the ground beside him. It was accompanied by a deep, cold voice:
“Get up.”
Sirannor did not obey, did not even glance up as a pair of black and gold boots crunched over the rocks to stand in front of him, orange cape dripping at their heels.
“Get. Up.” the voice repeated.
Sirannor remained staring at those boots for many aching heartbeats before finally lifting his head.
General Dreikan was clad in black armour, though it was painted with a striking gold, orange and red geometric design. His gauntlets were gilded on their upper sides, his right hand gripping a long, black sword.
This sword was unlike those carried by the soldiers: it had been carefully crafted into a thing of terror. The blade was sculpted into a series of sharp curves, serrations and cut-out holes, something like the stylised, torn wing of a Dragon. It was ugly and sinister and impressive. Sirannor almost thought the shape of it subtly moved as he stared at it – or it could have been merely a trick of the rain or strange reflections on the metal.
“You wish to fight me?” Sirannor said finally. “Now?”
Dreikan lifted his sword and pointed it at him, smiling, his eyes icy, pale chips beneath his helmet. “You are broken,” he replied. “At last.”
Sirannor said nothing, just stared back at him.
Dreikan continued pointing his sword at Sirannor, matching his gaze through the rain. “I knew she would come,” he said softly. “I knew she would try to rescue you.”
He inclined his head. “I allowed her to.”
The darkness inside Sirannor ignited like a flame on oil, fuelled by his pain. He fought to hold it back. He couldn't tell whether or not Dreikan was lying, but it did not matter.
He stood up, pulling the black sword from the ground beside him. Then he turned his back on General Dreikan.
In the distance, at the opposite end of the gully, the edge of the lava flow crept inexorably towards them, illuminating the rocks with a bright orange glow.
Garth Dreikan, and his uncle before him, General Myer, had hounded Sirannor for most of his life, snarling and snapping at the heels of his existence, like dogs determined to bring him down. Dreikan would never let him rest, would not even allow him to choose the manner of his own death. The man wished to deny Sirannor everything. He wished to win.
He had won already, but still, the arrogant son-of-a-bitch sought glory in the victory.
Sirannor could have taken that from him, could have refused the battle. But his soul had burst into flames.
He thought of the Dragon he had killed, slowly and cruelly, the Dragon that had given up on life.
This Dragon did not mean to lay down and die.
This Dragon meant to fight!
Taking the black sword in both hands, Sirannor spun.
* * *
Warm candlelight glowed on the pale walls and winked on the threads of rich, golden tapestries as Ambassador Tek'Hari sat at his desk, quietly writing. He lifted his head for a moment in contemplation, light glinting on his spectacles, then smiled to himself and continued.
Tek, like all Angels, was aware that writing was dangerous. Every word that he committed to paper was replicated a thousand feet below him, in the dusty darkness of Grath Ardan. All correspondence had to be crafted with great and delicate care. It was becoming a lost art; hardly anyone bothered any more, preferring direct, face-to-face speech and committing things to memory. But a few, like himself, considered it a game. There was much pleasure to be taken in the art of obfuscation, misdirection and rambling for endless pages without actually answering someone's question. Sometimes, even Tek couldn't make sense of what he had written.
He responded to all enquiries to the council in this manner, even those made in person. The Governor had no talent for it; he was too lazy and too stupid, and the other council members were not much better.
Tek paused in his writing, lifting his quill away from the paper, momentarily thinking of his son.
He wished he could have passed this skill on, but his son had left him many years ago. Tek did not believe the rumours that the boy had been abducted and taken away from Arkana. They were made by those envious of his position as the Syncwarden, the Keeper of the Tower, a coveted role. They sought to shame him and force him to resign by spreading foul lies.
Tek would not. He knew the truth: his son resided now with the Goddess, along with his beloved wife.
He missed them, sometimes, but he was proud of them. Making a request to open the Light Gate and enter Excelsior was something to be honoured and celebrated, not grieved. Especially for his son, who had been one of those unfortunately chosen as a suitable candidate for collecting silvertine. This required that he be trained to live in deliberate fear in order to resist the pull of Excelsior. One could not return from the upper reaches of the Tower unless one was burdened with fearful or depressive thoughts, just as one could not be thrown into the Pit if they were truly happy.
Tek closed his eyes, listening to the candlelit silence. For one's soul to be tainted irrevocably with negative emotions meant that it was impossible to ascend to the eternal heights of the Tower. Tek, as the Syncwarden, had opened the Gate for his son to allow him to carry out his duties, but had not known that he wished to follow his mother into the light. One day, the boy had gone to collect silvertine for the weaponsmiths, but had not returned.
Tek was certain that his son, despite his training, had managed to overcome his fear, and succeeded in reaching Excelsior.
He only wished that he knew how to banish his own worrisome thoughts, the dark tightness in his stomach that had not lessened even though the Seraphim stood now outside, protecting Arkana. The visions could not possibly come to pass.
And yet, something was still wrong…
As though in answer to his thoughts, a cold breeze blew in through the open balcony doors, slicing through the warm night air like a sword, disturbing his golden-brown feathers as it went by. He opened his eyes to see the candles flickering and gauze curtains billow inwards. Setting aside his quill pen, he stood up slowly, goosebumps racing over his skin, and walked around his desk and out onto the semicircular, rail-less balcony.
Fleetfleer lay sleeping peacefully around him and below him; golden lights glowed through the windows of tall white towers, coloured lanterns nestled in flower-filled courtyards, and were strewn along elegant walkways. Far below, where the spires on the undersides of the lowest towers brushed the treetops, the forest was lost in midnight shadow. Above his head, a great, dark bank of clouds approached from the south, sliding over the moon, extinguishing the stars, and bringing with it a deep chill that drove away the sultry summer air.
Tek reached out a hand, watching in astonishment as a white snowflake danced downwards and melted upon his open palm.
It had not snowed in Arkana for a thousand years.
The vision.
The forest of Arkana freezing…
Tek ran forward two steps and leapt from the balcony. Banking around the tower that held his chambers, he soared through the city, the cold air hitting his face in a rush. He swept around buildings and under walkways, the beauty of the Angel city now lost in the face of the dread that advanced with the wintry clouds.
He emerged a few moments later into an open space, the Grand Plaza where the Governor's residence and council offices stood. One of the Seraphim was here, floating a few yards above the white stones of the courtyard. No longer a statue, it was a living giant, thirty feet tall, six enormous white wings outspread and flapping lazily in the air. Two of its eyes were closed in its impossibly beautiful, androgynous face, the third, smaller eye in its forehead kept vigil. A pair of golden rings, eternally circling each other, hovered above its head; these, too, were lined with a hundred blazing blue eyes.
The Seraph's hands were linked to form the shape of wings, pressed against its chest as though in prayer.
Tek circled the plaza, watching the Seraph anxiously, but the giant remained calm, showing no sign that anything was amiss.
But Tek still felt restless.
He circled the plaza one more time, then headed north, in the direction of Caer Sync.
The Ambassador landed on the wide, curved platform that extended from the entrance to the Tower. Two vast, golden doors rose before him, big enough to accommodate the Seraphim, now closed and immovable. Two smaller, ornate gilded gates were recessed into the sides of the Tower, facing each other across the platform. Tek strode to the one on the right, took the key that hung on a chain around his neck, unlocked the gate quickly, and entered.
A short, curving corridor lay beyond. Tek hurried along it, not bothering with a light, then into a small antechamber on the right.
Here, on a pedestal, dim and glinting in the darkness, sat the Aurellian Sync. Normally, the tetrahedral mirror sat balanced between the fingers of the Seraphim, but since the statues had awoken, the Aurellian had been moved here for safekeeping. The mirror could not be used in this chamber: it would only produce its visions in the Sanctuary.
Tek removed his glasses for a moment and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Taking a handkerchief from a pocket, he wiped his face – he was sweating despite the cold – then placed his round spectacles carefully back on his nose, and picked up the mirror.
He took it down the hallway into the heart of the Tower: the Sanctuary.
The space looked huge and empty without the Seraphim occupying it. The ringing, tinkling sound of the Singing Cliffs echoed hauntingly through the dark chamber, along with a chill draught and a few odd snowflakes, and, now and then, the slow, booming tick of Excelsior's Clock.
Tek looked up at the window holes, worrying that the mirror would not work without moonlight. Setting the Aurellian down carefully, he took a few moments to light the torches in their holders around the chamber. This achieved, he took another steadying breath, picked up the mirror and flew to the middle of the room.
He held the Aurellian in his hands, staring at his reflection amid the orange torchlight on its smooth, triangular silver face. The clock boomed several times as he waited: his heartbeat a few hundred times more.
And suddenly, the mirror came to life.
His reflection became a dizzying infinity of reflections, his own face repeated over and over again, the torchlight shattered into thousands of rainbow shards. Then a fire ignited in the heart of the mirror, and projected a beam of light onto the wall.
The visions began.
Tek stared in mesmerised horror.
The visions were the same, but different. They were much more detailed, much more certain. A terrifying sensation came over him, that some of these events were no longer in the future, but had already happened – or were happening now. He wanted to look away as the visions began depicting Arkana, but he could not…
The great forest of Arkana both freezing and burning, Fleetfleer in ruins…
And something else. Something cold and dark and devastating that slipped into Arkana amid the chaos. Something far more monstrous than the Dragons…
Something the Seraphim could not protect against...
Tek dropped the mirror.
He looked down slowly, stunned with terror, as the Aurellian plunged downwards, glittering with rainbow colours, throwing light crazily around the chamber…
And hit the Dark Gate below, and shattered.
Tek fled as the visions ceased abruptly, shards of the Aurellian falling through the ornate scrollwork gate, like silvery rain into the Pit.
He landed on the platform and raced along the short, curving corridor, and threw himself out into the snow-filled night.
Something far more monstrous than the Dragons...
He knew now, what it was.
Shaking, he stared out into the dark sky, eyes wide.
The black-winged Angel had returned.
He was going to destroy Arkana.
And he was going to kill Tek'Hari.