Twice shall every word be written
An Angel's dream, but no one listened.
Kyosk slouched against the balcony, his fanged mouth opening wide in a huge yawn as he cast an uninterested gaze over the huge entrance hall of Lord Arzath's keep. A few weak streamers of sunlight faded in and out every now and then through the dusty, arched windows high above the main doors. The hall was clad in its usual musty gloom; gargoyles on stone plinths stared sightlessly out of the shadows between the six massive pillars that supported the lofty, vaulted ceiling. To his right, an impressive black marble staircase flowed from the landing into the hall, the stone polished to a high sheen to match the floor of the foyer. A long red carpet oozed down the stairs like a trickle of giant's blood.
Kyosk tapped his halberd lazily on his shoulder, listening to the echoes of the two Grik guards stationed by the door. Evidently they thought their game of Rat Bones was preferable to watching the dust settle.
The Grik Clanmaster yelled at them, relishing the way his voice was magnified by the stone walls and the startled looks on the faces of the guards as they scrambled to hide the bones and rush clumsily back to their positions. He sniggered to himself and then yawned again. He was bored and becoming restless. He wished a fight would break out so that he would have an excuse to lop a few gems off someone. Or better yet, a Human servant to torture. But the only current resident of the dungeon was that servant Arzath had locked in a cell filled with starving rats, and his screams had died away several days ago…
A sudden metallic grating noise invaded his thoughts, and he turned his gaze back to the doors. The two Grik guards were heaving on the heavy iron bar that secured the doors. It slid grudgingly sideways in its brackets and the Griks grasped a door handle each and pulled them open, letting in a sliver of sunlight and a brief rush of fresh air. A black-clad figure pushed through the gap as soon as it was wide enough to permit his body and immediately ordered the guards to close the doors. As the strip of daylight disappeared behind him, Lord Arzath strode across the entrance hall, his black cloak billowing, and swept up the stairs.
Kyosk stood to attention immediately. Arzath looked angry, but that was not unusual; these days those green eyes permanently smouldered, like a forest on fire. As the sorcerer reached the top of the stairs, however, he slowed and then stopped, supporting himself with one hand on the balustrade and breathing deeply, as though he'd just been for a long run. Kyosk caught a glimpse of his face as he lifted his head, and for a moment, the anger wavered and a different, but equally powerful emotion flickered there.
Fear? Kyosk thought, hardly believing what his eyes were telling him. In fact, it was more than fear: it was closer to blind terror.
The Grik's heavy brow lowered further. As long as he had been loyal to Arzath, he had never seen his master afraid of anything. Not ever. He had witnessed anxiety and irritation and rage… but never this.
Something was very wrong.
"My Lord?" he asked cautiously.
To Kyosk's astonishment, Arzath actually jumped, apparently unaware that the Grik had been standing there. In an instant, the angry expression was back, his eyes blazing more fiercely than ever. "What?" he demanded.
Kyosk suppressed an urge to shrink back into the corner. Arzath looked as though he was about to disembowel him.
The Clanmaster averted his gaze. "Nothing, my Lord," he muttered.
The sorcerer continued to glare at him for several frightening seconds before stepping onto the landing. "What news of Cimmeran's whereabouts?" he asked.
Relieved at the change in subject, Kyosk nevertheless hesitated a moment before answering: "None, my Lord."
Arzath stared at him. "None?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Haven't any of the patrols reported in?"
"Day 'ave, my Lord, but day 'ave nothing to report. Day could find no trace of 'im."
Arzath sighed, his face twisting as though he was in pain. He pressed the palm of his hand into one eye. "Fools," he spat. "FOOLS!" He shouted the last word, scattering echoes throughout the hall. He turned abruptly and went to the door of his throne room. "All of you! Useless, incompetent fools!"
He punctuated the last word by wrenching open the door; or at least, tried to. Instead he nearly dislocated his arm: the door was locked.
"Who… locked… this door?" he raged as soon as he could speak again. Kyosk was already fumbling with his key ring, but before he could select the right one it was snatched from his hands.
"Do not, ever, lock any door in this castle unless I specifically order you to! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"Yesmlord," Kyosk grumbled.
"Go and fetch Wingmaster Varshax! I want to speak with him!"
"Yesmlord!"
Furious, Arzath unlocked the door himself and stormed inside, letting it swing shut behind him with a bone-shuddering thud.
Kyosk let his breath out slowly, and tactfully decided to complete the remainder of his guard duty in another corridor.
He shook his head and growled under his breath as he turned away. Arzath had ordered him to lock all rooms that weren't being used, and the sorcerer had not visited his throne room in weeks. He had not specifically requested that it be left unlocked, so how was Kyosk to know?
The Grik was twenty paces down an adjoining corridor when his ponderous footsteps stopped. He turned slowly and looked curiously over his shoulder, his brow furrowing deeply.
He opened the door with his hand, he thought. Arzath NEVER opens doors with his hands…
Arzath strode across his throne room shaking his right arm vigorously; partly to restore the feeling, partly because he was angry, and partly to cover the fact that he couldn't seem to stop trembling.
A long beam of sunlight sliced through the dark hall like a burning blade from a single, thin window above the doors, igniting an exquisite throne at the far end of the room. The throne was made of redstone, deepened with age to the colour of pooled blood and gilded extravagantly with gold. It had once belonged to a Sirinese emperor until the museum that housed it had been mysteriously ransacked in the midst of an unexpected thunderstorm. Sitting in it gave Arzath a comforting feeling of power and authority.
He sat in it now, but its presence did little to fill the echoing cavern inside him, or banish the pervading sense of vulnerability. A redstone chair would not protect him from his brother's wrath.
A wave of panic surged inside him and he snapped his head up to look at the black stone walls around him.
Paper, he thought. Without a magic shield, they're nothing but paper…
A sudden cry of mingled anger, fear and anguish tore from his throat, the echoes bouncing around the empty hall as though searching for a way out.
But there was no way out, Arzath realised. He could leave this castle, leave these walls and his minions far behind and live in cave on the other side of the world for the rest of his life… but it would make no difference. Requar would find him. His brother would hunt him down, just as Arzath had hunted him down and triumphantly discovered him hidden away in this quiet little valley all those years ago.
He squeezed his eyes closed and put his face in his hands, but the image of that stone bouncing off Requar's shield seemed burned into the back of his eyes.
After a moment he became irritated by an insistent rapping sound. He grabbed the arms of his throne, ready to glare at whatever was making the noise, then realised that it was his own heel tapping nervously on the marble dais. He got up abruptly and paced around his throne, his black cloak swishing behind him.
From somewhere far above him in the shadow of the ceiling, a deeper swatch of liquid black dropped to the floor, silent save for the faint click of its talons on the highly polished marble.
The shadow folded its wings and waited patiently for its master to notice it was there.
Arzath swept around the chair for the third time and stopped at the sight of the Muron Wingmaster.
"What do you want?" he snapped irritably, resuming his pacing.
"You sssent for me, Masster," the Muron whispered with icy calmness.
Arzath shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then rubbed at his temple as yet another headache flared up. "Why has Cimmeran not been found yet?" he demanded, sitting back down.
"The sservant eludesss uss, Masster."
"Eludes you? You're Murons, for Dark's sake!"
Varshax's already narrow eyes shrunk into barely visible slits, and his lip curled back to reveal obsidian dagger teeth in what could have been a grin or a snarl. "Very perceptive of you, Massster," he hissed.
This time, it was the sorcerer's eyes that narrowed. Instinctively he sought to call forth his magic, as he always did when faced with such bold insolence. His only reply was a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.
He settled for glaring hard at the Muron instead.
Varshax met his gaze apathetically. Unlike his Griks, Arzath's Murons harboured no fear of him. They feared nothing. But they had witnessed the devastating effects of his magic and they respected him for it.
"Send the patrols–” Arzath started after a long moment of tense silence, then stopped. He had been about to order Varshax to send the Muron patrols out again to continue searching for Cimmeran, but another, more anxious thought had occurred. It was impossible to know for sure if his brother was on his way back here, but nevertheless…
"Send half your squadron out again," he continued, "to survey the surrounding mountains, in particular the South Pass. I want to be informed immediately if Lord Requar is sighted anywhere within twenty miles of this valley. Send one patrol out to continue searching for Cimmeran, and if those Murons report back without him or without news of him, they will be executed. The rest of you are to remain in the castle."
He leaned forward. "Are my orders understood?"
The Muron did not reply at once. Instead he cocked his head on one side and gave Arzath an intensely curious look. Staring into the creature's eyes was like looking at the sun shining through a vial of poison; sinister and sickening, but at the same time strangely entrancing.
No one had ever outstared Arzath before, and no one had ever outstared Varshax. Yet the longer he held the creature's gaze, the more his confidence began to flake away.
He suspects that something is amiss. Could it be that he knows…?
Varshax blinked double-lidded eyes, breaking the trance. His voice sighed between his teeth like a snake sliding over pebbles: "Ass you wisssh."
He spread his great wings and with a single powerful flap leapt back through the opening in the ceiling, leaving Arzath alone with the gentle rustling of the drapes.
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The beam of sunlight dwindled as a cloud smothered it, and the throne room felt suddenly very cold and dark.
* * *
Morning dawned slowly, darkness easing aside to reveal a dreary grey, the ghost of a sun yet to come. Shadows lay thick across the land, as though the night was reluctant to release its grip. Ferrian was not aware that the day had broken at all until he opened his eyes from a cold, miserable doze and realised he could make out the hunched figures of his companions without squinting. A distant rumble of thunder told him that the storm hadn't yet fulfilled its vendetta, although the rain had softened into steady drizzle. It made little difference, however; Ferrian was so wet that he could no longer feel the water trickling over his skin.
He straightened from the tree he had been slumped against, wincing at the spikes of pain that shot through his cramped muscles. Commander Trice glanced up at the movement, and Ferrian noticed that Captain Sirannor was awake as well. From the drawn looks on their faces, he surmised that they had been no more successful in gaining any sleep that he had.
The same, however, could not be said of their new companion. Cimmeran lay curled up in a ball like a cat with his head buried in his arms, fast asleep.
"How can he sleep in this?" Ferrian muttered, attempting to rub the feeling back into his shoulder.
"If you're tired enough, you can sleep in anything," Grisket replied. "At least we know we have his trust."
Ferrian looked around at the forest. A thick white mist had rolled in off the sea during the night, clinging to everything with a cold, clammy dampness and reducing visibility to about ten feet. Ferrian suppressed a shiver. It was as though the world had been eaten away and the only place left in existence was this patch of ground where they sat, and a few shadowy trees. "What do we do now?" he asked.
The Commander stood up stiffly, water showering off his cloak, and stared into the mist, considering their options. "We won't be going much of anywhere without food and supplies. We'll continue on to Sunsee as planned, re-equip, and then head north to the Break." He glanced down at Sirannor. "But first I want to head back to our camp and see if there's anything left to salvage. Captain, how are those wounds?"
"Not a concern," Sirannor replied simply.
Ferrian stood up abruptly, stumbling slightly as his legs cramped. "You're going back to the campsite?" he gasped. "But, but that thing, that Muron is still out there!"
Grisket gave him a steady look. "It's blind and flightless, lad. Not to mention it'll stand out like an ink stain on white linen in this fog," he nodded at the white veil of mist encircling them. "Should be easy enough to avoid."
"But… what about the other one?" Ferrian persisted.
"The one with my sabre in its skull?" Sirannor replied quietly, glancing up at Ferrian without moving his head. "If by some curse we should happen to come across it alive, I will make certain to push the sword in even harder." He got to his feet, the briefest flicker of pain flashing across his angular face as he did so. He turned swiftly to stare out into the mist.
Ferrian's doubt must have shown on his face, because Grisket placed a hand on his shoulder, startling him slightly. "Sirannor and I know how to watch our backs," he said. "We won't be gone more than half an hour. And you and the others are as safe here as anywhere, if you sit still and keep quiet. If one of the creatures stumbles upon you, run for the highway." He pointed west. "That way you won't lose your bearings and we'll know where to find you. From what I've learned from Aari of those black devils, they're not the most dexterous creatures over solid ground."
Ferrian nodded reluctantly and glanced to his left, where Aari was hunched over his knees on the sodden ground. The Angel had not made a sound or looked up throughout the conversation. Ferrian had assumed that he was asleep; but now that the light had brightened, he could see that the Angel's eyes were open, though shadowed, and his face was disturbingly pale. He was also shivering, Sirannor's tiny lantern clutched tightly in his hands as though trying to leach every bit of warmth out of it, even though the flame had long since gone out.
"Are you all right, Aari?" he asked.
The winged man did not reply.
"Sergeant?" Grisket said.
Aari blinked and lifted his head jerkily. "I… I c-could do with s-some more w-willow bark," he replied, his voice a strained whisper.
Ferrian and Grisket exchanged troubled looks. "Ferrian, are you sure there was nothing left in that medical satchel?"
"I–" Ferrian started, then stopped, casting another look at his battered companion. He was certain, without a doubt, that there had been no healing herbs of any sort left in the satchel. He remembered scraping every last grain of willow bark powder out of its packet a couple of days ago. "I… think there… might have been a bit," he said.
Grisket caught his eye and a moment of shared understanding passed between them. Then the Freeroamer nodded. "We'd best get moving, then. Captain?"
Grisket and Sirannor stepped over the sleeping form of Cimmeran and headed into the forest. Ferrian watched them go. Within moments, they had been swallowed by the damp, pale void.
As though an omen of their leaving, the rain picked up again.
Ferrian sat down, listening to the steady patter fill the silence, oblivious to the thrumming on his face and head. He stared at the mist drifting languorously across his vision. The leaves on the trees around him hung limp and dark. He felt chillingly exposed and vulnerable with the Commander and the Captain gone and his hand felt for the reassuring solidity of his knife, but it was not there.
He remembered with a sudden jolt that none of them had any weapons: the few they did have had been abandoned with the Murons back at the campsite. Should one of the hideous black creatures lurch out of the mist, neither Aari nor Cimmeran were in any state to fight. And as for himself…
Ferrian swallowed against a throat that was strangely dry, despite his drenched surroundings. Their only choice, as Commander Trice had said, was to flee.
He tried to tell himself that one of the Murons was probably dead and the other severely incapacitated, but the frightening strength and relentlessness of them had shaken him. He didn't think he would feel truly safe unless he saw, with his own eyes, their bodies cut up into a lot of very small pieces.
He shuddered.
To his relief, the gruesome mental images scattered at the sound of Aari's voice.
"Guess you're going straight to the Sorcerer's Valley now, huh?" the Angel said softly. The disappointment in his voice was unmistakable.
"I guess so," Ferrian replied. "But Commander Trice isn't going to change his mind about letting you come with us."
Aari was silent.
Ferrian looked sideways at him, attempting futilely to brush the water out of his eyes with his dripping sleeve. What he saw in the other's face surprised him: he had expected resentment, bitterness even, but instead he saw a fierce, almost angry, determination. Buried in the depths of the Angel's dark eyes was a tiny blazing light that no amount of rain could extinguish.
Ferrian sighed. "You would have found a way anyway, wouldn't you?" he said quietly.
To his even greater surprise, Aari's mouth twisted into a smirk, some of his old mischievousness returning. "You bet I would."
"Even if it meant disobeying a direct order from your Commander?"
"Yep."
Ferrian shook his head in exasperation, but couldn't help smiling himself.
The smile faded from Aari's face then, and he stared down at the lantern in his hands. Water dripped off his fringe and trickled over the dark glass panels. An awkward silence fell between them. The mist thickened. Lightning flashed somewhere far off to the north-west, briefly illuminating the fog. Several seconds later there came a faint mutter of thunder from the same direction. The storm was moving out to sea.
Aari sighed hoarsely and set the little lantern aside, unpeeling his stiff fingers from around its frame. Very slowly and carefully he shifted his position, pulling his legs out from under him and half-stretching them before him. His shivering became more pronounced and he caught his breath sharply several times in pain, but eventually he seemed to settle into a position he was reasonably comfortable with.
He folded his arms on his knees and rested his chin on them. "I used to love reading, when I was a kid," he told Ferrian, not looking at his companion but staring ahead into the gloomy morning. He was silent for a moment more, and then he asked: "Have you ever heard of Grath Ardan?"
Ferrian shook his head uncomprehendingly. "No."
Aari nodded. "Didn't think so. Not many people remember it any more. Grath Ardan is an immense library that lies deep in the ground underneath Fleetfleer, the capital city of Arkana. It's an entire city in itself; it was once – and probably still is – the largest repository of knowledge ever created. According to legend, it is supposed to contain a copy of every word ever written."
Ferrian's eyebrows raised. He could tell that his friend was about to tell him something important, but he couldn't resist interrupting. "Every word ever written?"
"Yep," Aari replied. "Not just every book, either; but every letter, personal journal, poet's random scrawl, signature carved in a tree by a passing traveller, in every country and every known language. Everything."
Ferrian stared at him incredulously, remembering all the times he'd idly carved his initial into kitchen benches or tavern tables. "Do you mean," he said slowly, "that if I were to write my name here in the mud with a stick…"
"…a copy of it would appear somewhere in Grath Ardan, yeah," Aari replied, grinning.
"But how is that possible?"
"Magic," he replied simply. "An extremely complicated, ancient form of magic, of a kind that was used by a forgotten race of beings that dwelt in Arkana before Angels, Humans, or any other race even existed." He stared into the rain. “No one knows what this race looked like or what they were called, or anything about them, except that they were powerful. They left behind Grath Ardan and Caer Sync, the Holy Tower. My folk just call them the Ancients.”
Again, a flurry of questions rustled through Ferrian's mind, but he held his tongue.
Aari gave a sudden sigh. "Or at least, that's the way it used to work. I don't know if the magic is still active or not, since no one goes there any more. The Arkanian government let the library fall into ruin."
"They let a place as incredible as that fall into ruin?" Ferrian said, aghast.
The Angel nodded glumly, blinking the rain out of his eyes. "For centuries, my people have closely guarded Grath Ardan. We went to painstaking lengths to keep it secret from the other races, afraid of the knowledge and truths it contained, and what potentially catastrophic uses such information might be put to.
There were legends, of course, though. Some of the sorcerers at the SOMS probably knew of its existence, but they would not have been allowed access if they'd gone looking.”
His voice took on a bitter edge. "There was a time when Angels shared their secrets freely with Humans, until the School of Magical Studies turned into a den of corruption. Sorcerers used their magic for selfish purposes and petty plots, and it all ended in catastrophe. Our people came to distrust them and decided that Humans were not worthy of our knowledge. Eventually, our governor closed not just the library but the entire country as well–”
"Aari!" Ferrian said suddenly. His voice was not loud, but held such a tone of urgency that the Angel gave a start and looked up, eyes wide in alarm.
"You said this Grath Ardan place contains a copy of every word ever written, so…" he paused, drawing his breath in carefully, "… that would include spells, right?"
"W-what?" Aari stammered, momentarily off balance and still expecting a sinister dark shape to appear through the mist.
"Spells," Ferrian repeated in a whisper. His silver eyes reflected not fear but a wide, distant look as though he was gazing at something wondrous on a far horizon.
Aari took a deep breath and winced as his back suddenly flared with pain. "I… know what you're thinking, but even if there is a cure for your curse in that library, you'd still need a sorcerer to perform it, and even read it, for that matter. Not to mention how on Arvanor you would find it amongst the millions of other writings, or even get into Arkana in the first place, let alone a sealed library beneath the country's most populated city!"
The glitter faded from Ferrian's eyes. "You really know how to kill someone's enthusiasm, don't you?"
The Freeroamer gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry." Then he added: "You could always mention it to this sorcerer you're supposed to be meeting in the mountains."
"Right," Ferrian replied dully. The dismal weather had done much to dampen the enthusiasm that had flooded through him the previous night.
They were quiet for a moment, listening to the rain. "Was there a reason you brought up the topic of this mysterious library, other than to tell me how impossible it is to get in?"
Aari coughed a laugh, which turned into another gasp of pain. "Y-yeah," he breathed, "there was."
He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "A group of friends and I discovered Grath Ardan at a very young age," he continued. "The main entrance – what was left of it, in any case – was well guarded; but one day, while exploring the forest, we found an alternative entrance under a mossy cracked slab.
"We had no idea what we had uncovered at first: as kids we were excited over the prospect that it might be an abandoned mine shaft or a hole filled with pirate's treasure. But when we climbed down into the darkness and saw the endless silent aisles looming ahead of us, stacked with books and scrolls and tablets, all covered in dust like grey velvet… we instantly realised that we had entered forbidden Grath Ardan.
"Every child had heard the horror stories of this place from their elders: chilling stories of black ghosts who would eat us and write books with our blood. My friends went pale with fright and wanted to flee immediately, but one of our group who was a few years older and had an irresistible adventurous streak – Mekk'Ayan, his name was – held no fear and wanted to delve further into the ruins and explore. My two other friends would have none of it and ran back to the hole, leaving Mekka and myself alone in the darkness.
"I almost went with Mekka, but…" he hesitated for a long moment, as though reluctant to continue. Finally, he said in a quiet, resentful voice: "My fear of underground places seized my mind like one of the black ghosts, and in panic I fled with the rest of them."
He turned his face slightly away, whether out of embarrassment or to avoid the rain dripping on his face Ferrian could not tell. He waited silently for the Angel to continue.
"Mekka was gone for two days. I was racked with guilt and fear, and my friends and I were convinced that he had succumbed to the fate that our elders had explicitly warned us against.” He shook his head, and smiled a little. “But then Mekka showed up, perfectly fine, though with a huge appetite and his wings grey with dust. And he brought with him some stolen relics from the library.
"They were books." Aari's eyes ignited with wonder at the memory. "My terror of Grath Ardan disintegrated the moment I laid eyes upon them. They were amazing. One of them in particular was bound in ancient red leather and studded with rubies, and the corners of each page were dipped in gold.
"It was a book about Dragons." He closed his eyes. "Mekka let me read the book whenever I wanted, on the condition that I keep it a secret. There were heavy penalties for those who trespassed in the library.
"The writing in the book was highly calligraphic and difficult to read, but I was entranced. And there were pictures…" he gave a wistful sigh. "As soon as I saw those exquisite colour paintings of huge, mighty beasts with fire in their eyes and scales that outshone the sunset… something came alive in my heart.
"I desperately wanted to see these creatures with my own eyes." He shook his head suddenly as though in answer to Ferrian's unspoken thought. "It wasn't just a childhood fantasy. As I grew older I became increasingly frustrated and bored with my homeland and its endless, pointless laws, and became ever more intrigued with the world beyond its borders. And I could not get the image of those Dragons out of my head; they came to be a symbol that represented my most burning desire: where Dragons dwelled, there also dwelled freedom." He gave a deep sigh and lapsed into silence.
Ferrian thought he was finally beginning to understand. "You left Arkana to see Dragons, and the world?" he said quietly.
Aari nodded.
“And...” Ferrian hesitated, staring out into the mist. “Is Arvanor as you expected?”
Aari was silent again for a long moment, then shook his head sadly. “No. Humans are much the same as Angels; just as petty, just as self-centred. The Middle Isle is a war zone; the Dragons are mean and angry and bitter, and just as trapped on their rocks as I was in Fleetfleer. The book didn't tell me that.” He stared gloomily into the rain. “None of the books that Mekka brought out of Grath Ardan mentioned… that the world… would be such a disappointment.”
He paused and glanced up at Ferrian through his dripping hair. “But I hope you find the sorcerer. I hope he can help you.” He shook his head. “The stories and legends don't always get things right. Perhaps this one is different.”
“Perhaps,” Ferrian replied quietly, watching the shadows of trees shift in and out of existence around them, unnervingly like the demon-wraiths in the mountains that they had come face to face with and survived. “Perhaps.”