Message from the Holy Land
Forecast a dire doom at hand.
The hands of Angels had built Sunsee, or so legend had it. But in Daroria's far north, everyone had contributed to the capital city of Sel Varence, that the locals called 'Selvar.'
Some said she was beautiful, too, in her own unique way. Others (particularly nobles from the Crystal City) argued that she was an eyesore of great magnitude, an exceptional disaster of town planning.
But the best and most charming way, perhaps, to describe Sel Varence was… eclectic.
Wedged deep within a forested river canyon between the curious rock formations of the Tentaryl Ranges to the north, and steep ivy-choked cliffs to the south, it brought to mind an image of a giant roaming across the country and dropping a bag of oddments into a gully. The buildings were a mish-mash of architectural styles and strange foreign influences, and due to the narrowness of the valley and premium prices for land, most of the structures towered many stories high, abutting the cliff walls wherever possible.
Decorative walkways and arches spanned twisted, cramped alleyways alongside criss-crossing webs of colourful washing hanging out to dry. Elegant statues of forgotten rulers, gods, heroes or just extraordinarily wealthy aristocrats perched on ledges, fountains, plinths or anywhere there was space. Amongst it all, the bushy round heads of ti-trees peeked between gaps and gargoyle-infested chimney stacks like dark green clouds hovering around the city.
Whereas Sunsee was neat, clean and orderly, governed by strict military rule, Sel Varence thrived on chaos. There were more street performers and musicians than beggars, more artists' workshops than blacksmiths and more merchants than soldiers. Markets choked the streets, which were permanently abuzz with people and cheerful tunes and the over-enthusiastic cries of hawkers. People of all races and backgrounds mingled and conversed without fear of judgement or discrimination. Enopians walked openly beside Darorians, Sirinese and the Centaurs of Remast. No one seemed to care about the war on the Middle Isle: many people had forgotten entirely which countries were feuding over it.
Even the Watch were lax in their duties, more often to be found drinking and smoking in taverns than surveying the streets. They mostly patrolled at night, when novice criminals mistakenly thought the darkness made them invisible and tended to be more reckless and stupid, and thus, easier to catch. Most of the problems of the city were handled privately, behind the scenes. With so much wealth and variety of skills floating around, anyone could be hired to do anything. Corruption was rampant, but it provided an odd sort of balance, and withheld the peace.
No one asked questions in Selvar.
But everyone wanted answers.
Carmine Vandaris sought more answers than most. In fact, her livelihood depended on it: for she was a spy.
She smiled to herself at the thought. Of course, the term she preferred to use in business dealings was 'information gatherer.' And she had a feeling that the information she was attempting to gather at this very moment was of great importance indeed.
She reflected on this as she scaled the south wall of the Angelican Embassy. A representative from Arkana had turned up in Selvar with no warning whatsoever, refusing to speak or to leave the embassy until he had met with the King of Daroria in person. It was an incredibly ostentatious demand: the King rarely left Crystaltina for any reason. The fact that he had agreed to come with very little negotiation beforehand suggested that he, at least, believed that the message the Angel ambassador had brought was of a highly sensitive nature.
Therefore, to the right people, highly lucrative.
Carmine intended to be one of the people who reaped the benefits from the meeting. But more than that, she was personally intrigued.
She wasn't the only one: the city was alive with rumours. People were talking about it on street corners, in taverns, discussing it with shop owners and anyone who happened to be walking past. The questions were all identical: Why is the Angel here and what is he going to say to the King?
What, indeed? Carmine thought as she pulled herself up onto a smooth, sloping window ledge. Her heart was already thumping at the prospect of finding out.
She paused for a moment, brushing loose strands of her long, dark red hair out of her face, her grey eyes surveying her surroundings with well-practised swiftness. She was taking more than the usual risk, breaking into the embassy in the middle of the morning in a fairly open space, but she had no other choice: the King's entourage was approaching the city and was due to arrive in an hour or so. A large crowd was already gathered in the square below, murmuring voices drifting up to her on the breeze, along with the perfume of a nearby jacaranda tree. She was crouched in a patch of shadow, partly obscured by the curve of the embassy roof, and most of the crowd were peering and straining for a view of the street to the west in any case, in anticipation of the King's arrival. If anyone had spotted her, they had not drawn attention to the fact.
Then something glinted briefly in the sun near a chimney buttress across the street. Damn, she cursed inwardly. Competition.
She would have to be careful: she wasn't the only one in this town who ran a freelance eavesdropping service, and most of her rivals were far more ruthless and adept at it than she. Carmine was an amateur: she'd only been learning the trade for a few months.
But she had a good teacher.
Permitting herself another quick smile, she skimmed the white, seashell-inspired curves of the distinctly Angelican building looking for lead ropes and found none. Unhooking her own grapple, she wound up her rope, tucked it neatly back in her belt, then placed her hands on the window frame and pushed gently.
It wouldn't budge.
Argh, he didn't bother to leave it unlocked for me, the brute!
A little irritated but not entirely surprised, Carmine pulled a lockpick from a pocket in her leather vest. With some fiddly manoeuvring and a couple of stifled grunts, the latch finally slid free. Breathing a sigh of relief and pride at her accomplishment, she carefully opened the shutter and checked methodically inside for caltrops, trip-wires or other nasty surprises. Finding nothing suspicious, she swung her legs over the sill and dropped quietly into the building.
The room she found herself in was a small attic space, empty of furnishings save for a wardrobe and a tarnished bronze plaque on the wall, depicting outspread Angel wings. The floorboards were bare and water-stained. A wooden door directly opposite her stood closed.
Carmine paused for a long moment, eyeing the wardrobe apprehensively. The perfect place for a rival spy to spring an ambush, stab me while my back's turned at the door…
She remained in a crouch, watching, listening intently.
Nothing seemed amiss.
Nevertheless, she silently slid a knife from her boot. Straightening slowly, she took one step towards the wardrobe… and suddenly winced.
The floor groaned alarmingly.
Her cover blown, she breathed a curse and rushed the wardrobe, flinging open the door, her knife raised…
It was empty.
Click.
She heard the soft sound too late to do anything about it, and felt the telltale burning prick in her shoulder.
With a gasp, she spun, grabbing the dart out. She slumped against the wardrobe in disbelief, her gaze falling upon the plaque on the opposite wall. There was a mark on the peeling plaster where it had shifted.
"Dammit!" she cursed aloud. Already, she was feeling light-headed, her vision blurring…
No, she thought, her heart racing frantically, struggling against the invisible claws reaching down through her shoulder, into her chest, into her lungs... It was a mistake, just one mistake…
What if the poison was lethal? She might never see Hawk again.
Hawk…
Through her tears, she glared at the tiny needle that had snatched away her dreams in a careless instant. Something about it seemed familiar…
She blinked, her eyes refocusing with a start. It was fletched with black feathers.
That's the signature of...
With an effort, Carmine resisted the urge to bang her head against the wardrobe door until her stupid brains fell out. Idiot!
She went limp, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. She lifted a bare tanned arm to her forehead, grimacing in relief.
Bastard! she thought, her hand clenching around the trick dart. She pushed herself away from the wardrobe and threw it inside, where it stuck in the backboard, then she strode to the door and cracked it open.
Beyond lay a shadowy hallway that opened into an arched gallery. In the distance, Carmine could see rainbow beams of light streaming from a high, stained-glass ceiling.
Okay, she told herself, taking a deep breath. No more fooling around, the ambassador's down there.
Slipping through the door, she made her way down the corridor in a half-crouch, her soft leather shoes making no sound on the moth-eaten carpet. At the end she paused again, quickly scanned the gallery, then scooted forward and dropped to the floor with her back against a section of wall between two arches.
Over to her left, in the shadows on the other side of the arched opening, her partner turned his head so that she could see his good eye, and smirked. Lifting his hands, he signed noiselessly in code-speak: What took you so long?
Carmine took a moment to let her heart settle and her own hands to stop shaking. Glaring at him, she pointed to her dart-struck shoulder, then patted her heart, then shook her fist.
Mekk'Ayan raised an eyebrow. Next time, he signed, smirk still in place, dodge.
She gave him a sarcastic look, stuck her tongue out, then sat back with her arms folded in pretend moodiness.
The Angel saluted and went back to watching the meeting chamber below.
Letting a wry smile creep back onto her face, Carmine caught Mekka's attention again and cocked a thumb at the chamber. Any change?
He glanced sidelong at her, then his gaze flicked away again, and he shook his head. No.
Carmine peered carefully through the arch, through a gap in the balustrade, following his line of sight.
Below them was a circular chamber, filled with hazy coloured sunlight and ringed by tiers of disintegrating wooden pews: the embassy had been abandoned ever since the Angels left Daroria over a hundred years ago. Obviously, no one had bothered to maintain it, and as such, it had fallen into a sad state of disrepair. Parts of the upper gallery had collapsed as well: beams and bits of debris lay scattered on the floor, covered in dust. In the middle of the chamber was a round podium, and standing in the very centre, like a statue expecting to be worshipped, was the Arkanian ambassador.
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Short and slim of stature like most Angels, he wore decorative flight pants tucked into calf-high boots, overlaid with robes of beige and brown, with a feather pattern of gold splayed across his shoulders and upper arms. His great beautiful wings, folded officiously at his back, were a shimmering golden-brown, with flight feathers tipped purest white. A pair of tiny round spectacles clung to his small, upturned nose, and his straw-blond hair was swept back tightly from his face and pinned behind his neck in a birdlike ruffle of spiky ends. He stood erect, hands behind his back and his eyes closed, as though meditating while waiting for the minutes to pass.
The ambassador had been standing there, in that exact spot ever since he'd arrived, and had said nothing except for his request to meet with the King. No one knew if he'd moved at any point to eat or sleep.
The expression on his face was one of such arrogant seriousness that Carmine was forced to stifle a sudden, irrational urge to laugh.
Mekka, unwilling to risk even a whisper, scowled at her instead and signed hastily: If you jeopardise our position… He made a slicing motion across his throat.
Carmine bit her lip, swallowed back her laughter and mouthed: Sorry! She drew her knees up to her chest, folded her arms on top of them and set her chin on her arms, settling down to wait for the King to arrive. It couldn't be long now. She tilted her head to watch Mekka for awhile.
A black silken patch covered his left eye. Carmine had no idea if his eye actually was busted, or if he only wore it to make himself look more mysterious. And frankly, it worked. Even Carmine couldn't help feeling attracted now and again… but she was careful not to let these whispering thoughts interfere with her love for Devandar, of course. He was something else entirely.
But it couldn't be argued that Mekka wasn't a good-looking man. He gave off the impression of a quiet, sophisticated rogue, and made a healthy living from street dancing. He was just as talented at that profession as he was at spying. In fact, he was mesmerising.
His shoulder-length hair, tied behind his head, appeared black at first glance, but shimmered green in sunlight, and his eye was a perfect match: as deep and darkly viridian as a forest shadow. His wings were raven black from shoulder to feather-tip, their shade so intense they cut a sharp silhouette even in the dimmest light. Once, when he'd been out in the city late at night, a couple of Watchmen had almost attacked him: mistaking him for a Muron.
When Carmine had found out about this, she thought it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard in her life and laughed her head off. She had been forced to apologise belatedly, however, when Mekka hadn't seen the funny side and became quite disgruntled.
Since that incident, he had taken to covering himself in stone or wood dust to dull his outline. Hawk, on one of his brief visits to the city, had commented jokingly that it wasn't the Watch that Mekka needed to look out for: it was the pigeons.
This had Carmine in hysterics all over again.
The Angel hadn't spoken to her for a week after that, and had refused to communicate with Hawk since.
Carmine shook her head in remembrance. Mekka tended to take things rather personally. And he didn't just hold a grudge: he shackled it to himself and threw away the key.
She sighed inwardly. He and Hawk didn't get along very well. Normally, Hawk wasn't the jealous type, but Mekka rubbed him the wrong way, sometimes intentionally.
She wished dearly that she could go and work with Hawk on the Middle Isle, perhaps that would ease his conscience a little. But first, she had to find a way to get past her father.
Somehow, Sirannor always managed to get in her way without actually showing himself, like an invisible wall. Yet, he was quite happy to train Hawk, talk with Hawk, be best buddies with Hawk, but couldn't look his own daughter in the eye! This hurt Carmine deeply, but she refused to allow herself to become depressed about it. Instead, she became angry, and more determined to find out exactly what he was hiding from her. One day, she vowed, she was going to learn what really happened to her mother.
She was, after all, in the business of uncovering secrets.
Sirannor's deceptiveness was partly why she had taken up the stealth trade; she was good with a sword but wanted to expand her repertoire. Working the market stalls selling silks was incredibly boring, but she kept it up anyway as a cover to her more secretive profession. Although, the bright, flouncy skirts and pandering to customers was starting to drive her a bit nuts…
The sound of distant trumpets brought Carmine abruptly out of her ruminations. Straightening, she gave Mekka a thumbs-up, the signal for Good Luck.
He returned the gesture with a nod, and they waited.
Before long, the doors of the chamber opened and the King of Daroria swept through, accompanied by half a dozen strong-muscled, gold-armoured members of the Royal Guard.
Carmine was slightly startled, he had arrived much sooner than she'd expected: he must have practically leapt out of the carriage. The King's flustered face and heavy breathing seemed to confirm this observation.
Dispensing with formalities and even greetings, the King said: "I came as swiftly as I could, ambassador. What news?"
The ambassador opened his eyes. He regarded the King from the dais, taking in the monarch's sumptuous crimson and orange robes, the precious redstone beads twined in his thick black beard, the gold crown with its setting sun design, and his stoic but equally gleaming guardsmen. Then he looked carefully around the lofty chamber. Carmine and Mekka flattened themselves against the wall either side of the arch as his gaze travelled over the gallery. Finally, he turned back to the King and inclined his head towards the guards. "Please dismiss your escort," he said.
The King scowled. "I will do no such thing. These men are my personal bodyguards, trusted with secrecy and my life. They remain with me at all meetings for security reasons."
The ambassador closed his eyes again. "You will send them away, your Majesty, or I'm afraid I cannot deliver my message."
Carmine gave Mekka an incredulous look. Is he for real? she mouthed silently.
King Neodine stiffened, and his expression turned angry. He gestured at his guards, who, in perfect unison lowered their heavy pikes at the ambassador. He took a few steps forward, his patience clearly at the end of a very long tether, and pointed a jewel-encumbered finger at the Angel.
"Understand me, you little winged upstart. I have come a long way to meet your demands, and on very short notice. You will tell me why you have been sent here, right now, or I shall have you arrested for wasting my time!"
There was silence for a moment, then the ambassador replied: "You cannot arrest me, this embassy remains part of Arkanian territory…"
The King took another step forward. "Who," he challenged, "is going to stop me?"
The ambassador considered this. Finally, he sniffed and adjusted his spectacles. "Very well," he sighed disdainfully. "Might you close the doors, at least?"
The King ordered his men to do so, and then, despite his own words, sent four of them to keep watch outside. The remaining two took up position in front of the doors. Neodine folded his arms. "This had better be worth it," he grunted.
"Your Majesty," the ambassador said, "my government has spent the last six months altering our foreign policy simply to allow me to come here legally. Believe me, you will want to hear this."
"Out with it, then."
The ambassador took a deep breath and descended the steps. For the first time, he gave a respectful bow, acknowledging the King's effort to meet his request by sending most of his guards away. "Tell me, your Majesty," he said, pacing slowly around the dais, hands behind his back again. "What has become of your Aurellian Sync?"
"My…?" The King frowned and shook his head. "Excuse me, I'm not familiar with that term."
The ambassador paused. Though his back was turned to the King, Carmine saw his eyes roll briefly and heard him mutter something along the lines of: "How soon we forget…
"Your Farseer?" the ambassador explained, turning. "Aegis-Eye?"
Still, the King looked blank.
The ambassador sighed. "A large, tetrahedral-shaped mirror, about three feet high?" He demonstrated the shape and height with his hands.
A glimmer of recognition sparked in the King's eyes. "Ah… yes. Yes, that old thing?" He shrugged. "I keep it in the basement of my palace with a number of other family heirlooms. What of it?"
The ambassador looked incredulous, as though the King had told him he kept his own grandmother locked up in the basement. For a moment, he seemed lost for words. "Majesty," he said finally, "that 'old thing' is an ancient magical artefact of extreme significance!"
The King appeared to be losing patience again, his fingers drumming on his elbow. Looking miffed at the ruler of Daroria's ignorance of history, the ambassador nevertheless resumed his pacing and went on quickly: "No one knows when the Aurellian Sync were first crafted, or by whom. Many thousands of years would be the best estimate. They were originally designed as scrying mirrors and proved very useful for spying on certain events around Arvanor. Too useful, perhaps, but that story is of no relevance right now.
"Around the time the Middle Isle Aegis was constructed, three Aurellians were modified for a unique purpose: to monitor the magical energy flux of the shield. Specifically, to provide advance warning of any problems with the stability of the magic."
The King's fingers had gone still. Slowly, his features shifted into a troubled expression, as though he could sense where this conversation was going.
"Go on," he prompted the ambassador quietly.
"These Aurellians were given to the three most powerful rulers of Arvanor at the time: the Emperor of Siriaza, the King of Daroria and our own leader, the Governor of Arkana.
"The Sirinese Aurellian was lost or destroyed en route to Trystania while being delivered to the Emperor. The Darorian Aurellian has, it seems, been neglected and forgotten. The Arkanian Aurellian, however, has taken pride of place in the Holy Tower tower of Fleetfleer for a thousand years since we received it from the sorcerers." The ambassador oozed smugness as he said this. "Hence," he went on, "when it began to exhibit changes, we noticed immediately."
"Changes?" said the King, with an effort.
The ambassador stopped pacing again, and the haughty expression slipped from his face, replaced with sombreness. "There were… lights, within it," he said. His voice was softer now, his eyes distant, almost as though he was talking to himself. "And… visions…"
King Neodine stared at him intently. "What did the visions show?"
The Angel did not reply at once. He continued to stare into space, until finally, he shook his head abruptly, as though something in his memory disturbed him. When he turned back to the King, there was a slightly haunted look to his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. "The… the details aren't necessary for you to know," he replied carefully. "But their meaning was unmistakable."
He hesitated. "Your Majesty… there is no other way to say this…
"The Aegis is failing."
Deep silence filled the chamber. Overhead, a cloudbank slid over the stained-glass ceiling, extinguishing the rainbow-beams and beckoning shadows out of their hiding places. Carmine exchanged a wide-eyed look with Mekka. Even the guards by the door shifted, glancing at each other uncomfortably.
The King stared at the ambassador for a long while. At last, he said: "No…" and grinned nervously, eyes flicking around as though expecting someone to jump out and tell him that this was a joke, that he had really been summoned here for a surprise party.
But the ambassador's face remained grim.
The King went pale. "You're serious?" he whispered.
The Angel nodded.
"But," the King argued desperately, "but… this cannot be true! The Aegis was designed to imprison the Dragons! It… it cannot possibly fail! It is supposed to last forever!"
"No magic lasts forever, Majesty," the ambassador answered quietly.
"The Dragons!" the King exclaimed, pacing furiously. "If the Aegis fails, the Dragons will escape! There will be chaos…" he stopped abruptly, terror sweeping across his face. "It will be the Great Breath all over again…"
"Quite possibly," the ambassador agreed.
"It cannot fail!" he declared, loudly and forcefully, whirling on the ambassador as though it were his fault, personally. "You!" he said, stabbing a finger at the Angel again and striding towards him. "Your people know how to read the mirror! You must know how to fix this!"
"My people are not sorcerers, your Majesty," the ambassador replied, looking affronted. "It is true that our race did once possess a very powerful innate magic, but it disappeared from our bloodline over the ages. We do not study sorcery any longer. We are no more able to 'fix this' than you are. The Aegis was constructed by combining the powers of ten accomplished sorcerers. Nothing less than that amount of magic will restore it."
"Ten sorcerers?" the King repeated. "There aren't ten–"
"No," the Angel said scornfully, "there are not. If I were to hazard a guess, there may not even be one. Therein lies the dilemma and urgency of the situation."
He gave the King a contemptuous look, and Carmine could tell exactly what he was thinking: If your people hadn't misused magic and allowed their School to be wiped from the face of Arvanor, we wouldn't be having this conversation.
The King chewed his bottom lip anxiously. "How much longer will the shield hold up?" he asked.
The ambassador lifted his head thoughtfully. "It is difficult to say," he replied. "Months… maybe weeks. Maybe days." He shrugged indifferently.
The King scowled at him. "You don't seem particularly concerned about a potential worldwide catastrophe!"
The ambassador waved a hand in his direction. "The Middle Isle is currently occupied by your country, is it not? Therefore, may I presume that this crisis is your responsibility?"
“I'm surprised you even bothered to tell us about it!" the King snapped.
"We Angels eschew the affairs of Humans," the ambassador stated airily, "but we have no wish to see innocent people die. However, we have neither the power nor the resources to assist you with this matter. We do not even have a working army; our Sky Legion was disbanded shortly after our last disastrous attempt at Middle Isle occupation, some two hundred years–"
"In other words," the King interrupted heatedly, "you intend to do nothing! Do you mean to sit back and watch as monstrous, fire-breathing beasts ravage your neighbours?!"
The Angel stared at him. "Our council has not yet come to a decision–"
"YOUR COUNCIL IS A PACK OF FOOLS!" the King shouted. "What will you do when the Dragons cross the Tentaryl," he demanded, "or fly in from the sea? How will you defend yourselves?"
To King Neodine's surprise and fury, the ambassador smiled. He lifted his hands and placed them flat on his chest, thumbs linked representing Angel wings. "Our Goddess of Life will watch over us," he said, "and the God of Light blind our foes. No war, famine, pestilence or disaster has ever laid hands upon our forest. Our land is blessed by ancient holy magic."
The King's eyes narrowed. "Your arrogance will be your downfall," he warned.
"If that is so," the Angel replied, "then it will come on the heels of your own." He bowed again. "Good day, your Majesty." Then he spread his wings and leapt into the air, soaring up through the chamber towards a gap in the broken roof, through which a shaft of sunlight had reappeared.
Just before he reached it, however, he paused, wings thumping lazily, and looked back down at the King. "Oh, one more thing, your Majesty!" he called. "Four spies have been eavesdropping on our conversation from the upper gallery. I suggest you deal with them quickly, before they escape. After all," he smiled again, "we wouldn't want a panic to spread, would we?"
And then he was gone.
Mekka leapt to his feet at the same moment King Neodine whirled on his guards, ordering them up the stairs to the gallery. Before Carmine could recover from the shock of being discovered, the Angel grabbed her around the waist.
"Time to go, redfeathers," he said.
Spreading his great black wings with a thump of dust, he vaulted over the balcony.
Carmine's stomach gave a sickening lurch… then the floor of the chamber was receding rapidly beneath her. As Mekka carried her up to the hole in the ceiling, she caught a glimpse of two grey-clad rival spies scurrying for cover on the gallery opposite where she and Mekka had been hiding. Crossbow bolts thunked into the woodwork around them, and the entrance doors burst open, the remainder of the King's guards flooding into the building.
Then bright sunlight smashed into her face and the white roof of the Angelican embassy sank away, like a shell lost in the sea.