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CHAPTER X:

The Venslayer

Midnight,

24 Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

25 Days until the Night of the Moon

The Alnujum

Blue and purple hues painted the night sky, casting a soft glow on the side of Íbolín's scarred face. His emerald eyes were once filled with the fires of passion, but in recent times, they were now hazy and clouded with uncertainty. He seemed lost in a daze, his vision consumed by the sprawling stars above. In their flickering light, moments of terror from battles past seemed to claw at him, reaching out from the cosmic depths. He saw the faces of those he had slain, each one etched into his memory, haunting him in quiet moments like these. Some faces belonged to nameless foes, others… were once his friends… some, close comrades, but all were connected by the sword he once wielded, and its hateful, unforgiving touch. Their eyes, lifeless yet accusatory, stared back at him, a silent reminder of the path he had chosen. This night, his hazy eyes feigned a glimpse of milkiness, from tears that would only freeze in the desert wind, had he cried them. The mountains of the Alnujum, their once dominating presence now dwarfed by his inner turmoil, stood witness to his silent agony. Even as the world slept, Íbolín wrestled with the ghosts of his past. The only battle he had ever engaged with no victory in sight.

It was cold. Íbolín was wrapped in his heavy Ishran robes, designed for their harsh summers and vicious winters. It kept him warm flawlessly, but he left his face exposed. He was used to the misery of the freezing, biting cold. It soothed him when he felt these shades attack him. Often, would curse under his breath.

“How could you…”

“You fiend…”

“She trusted you…”

“You bastard…”

“You should have just danced…”

“You should have said no.”

“Nape-reject.”

“Fatherless.”

“You are refuse.”

“You should never have said that.”

“Who does what you have done?”

“There’s no one as awful as you.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“You sinned, and now you want everyone to feel bad that you have to reap the consequences?”

“You were always a fool.”

“You should have listened to the ghost.”

Some were his words, others were the words of his friends... or foes. He rarely slept these days, unless he had gotten drunk the night before. But he couldn’t even bring himself to do that anymore. It made the nightmares worse. He’d see the faces in the shadows, behind his eyelids… he’d feel their hands reaching out to grab him. Some from malice and spite, others, begging for his mercy, but in those horrible memories his heart was hardened again as it once was, blinded by pride and ambition. It was blinded by pain.

Íbolín’s sword laid next to him, unsheathed on one of Prince Nedraj’s Nur rugs that was rolled out under them. Dathan slept on the other that was laying parallel to it, wrapped in several Ishran blankets. Íbolín clutched his sword hand which had been aching since the marauders attacked. It was a standard issue Fioran longsword, still slightly stained with blood. When he looked down, it seemed to transfigure before his eyes… the smooth, sharp edge contorted into a wicked serrated edge. The shine of its steel grew foul and black, giving way to obsidian. The hilt was black and sleek, but spiked at certain points in the handle. The pommel, was a transparent jewel, seemingly filled with a crimson viscous fluid, that seemed to glow, churn, and tumult. Íbolín clutched his sore hand once again, and peered down at his palms, seeing the scars from where those spikes on its hilt once sunk into his skin.

In his mind’s eye, Íbolín saw himself. His hair whipped violently as he slid through scores of len, cutting them down, one by one. None could stop him. If they met his blade with their own, Héspet would shatter theirs. It was rare that Íbolín would strike a foe and leave them with any shred of remaining life… and for those who he did, the blade’s seething malevolence would cause them to writhe in agony as its curses scourged and tormented them into oblivion. His heart plunged into his stomach as he realized all the misery that he had inflicted. The flames he left in his wake had finally caught up to him, as he pushed past the middle of his life, and their embers singed him as he tried to put distance between them.

Íbolín's eyes flickered, and the sword in his vision seemed to restore itself to clarity. He gazed upward at the unbelievable sight of stars, the tapestry that lead the ancient Nur to give the valley its name. It was seldom that he found himself feeling a strange connection with the infinite. The jagged mountains that encircled the Alnujum loomed over them ominously, their grandeur simultaneously awe-inspiring and oppressive. With every second that ticked by, the peaks seemed to creep inward, constricting the space around them like a slowly tightening noose.

The camp was a shadow of its former self, dwindled to no more than a dozen hardened… and greedy mercenaries. Four more len had departed the company as the caravan harshly hobbled up the ridges and their goat and sheep pathways, straddling the eastern shelf to try and blend in with the red cliffs. Despite Íbolín and Dathan's gallant display of power, the marauder attack had taken its toll. Íbolín's strategic decision to create a false execution site with scant materials, while tactically sound, had only served to lower the morale of the Rajari mercenaries. Then the climb came, and many more had enough. Doubt and uncertainty hung in the air like a thick fog.

A shivering figure approached from the red rocks.

It was Prince Nedraj, cold and visibly distressed, stammered,

"Still tired, Prince?" said Íbolín.

Íbolín's question was confident, but tinged with concern.

"I-I'm FINE," Nedraj replied. "B-but y-you i-insist-t t-that w-we c-can't h-have a-a f-fire."

"I know you probably know this... and are just saying this because you feel the nagging need to complain at all times from your extremely high standards, but if you want to avoid attracting more unwanted guests, then yes, we cannot alert anyone else to our presence here," Íbolín affirmed, his voice steady despite the gravity of their situation. He smiled daftly.

Nedraj's eyes then fell upon the Ishran coat that Íbolín wore—a rich blend of black and white tribal patterns, woolen and heavy. Noticing that only Íbolín's scarred cheeks were rosy, and that his teeth didn't chatter at all, the prince's envy turned into action. With a bony hand, he pointed at Íbolín's garb and began to utter an incantation. Suddenly, the threads of Nedraj's own garments burst, expanding and contracting, until he was wearing an identical cloak.

Íbolín's eyes lifted, and a genuine smirk crossed his lips. "Now that is a neat trick," he admitted. "I need to learn that one. That's useful."

Nedraj leaned back on the red rocks, the warmth from his magical cloak enveloping him, and he sighed with relief. His shivering ceased, and his eyes twinkled as he looked at Íbolín. "W-well, Hell Flayer," he said, his voice still carrying a hint of a stammer, "I would be happy to teach you that trick on the return journey."

Íbolín's eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of curiosity and suspicion dancing in his emerald gaze. He doubted his sincerity.

Nedraj's eyes dropped for a moment, and when he looked up again, there was a different light in them. "At the Madrasa of Magic, I... I discovered a great many things, Hell Flayer. Discoveries that have changed me. Discoveries that have dragged me all the way out here, to the Cradle Valley with you… The old… Alnujum…" He said, becoming sentimental and nostalgic as his body warmed further. “You know that the Nur believe this is the very valley that their ancestors emerged from… dare I say… they actually believe Yol’s tree was here. Somewhere.”

“Yes, this I know" Said Íbolín, before he leaned closer, his interest piqued. "What sort of discoveries?" he asked, his voice soft but insistent.

Nedraj looked away, his eyes drifting toward the distant mountains. "Terrible things. Exciting things," he murmured, his voice trailing off. "You see, Hell Flayer, as you have no doubt experienced, I studied with the Conjurer's Guild… but I worked in the realm of Prophecy. In The Hall of the Seeing Stones."

"You. You? You worked?" Íbolín's tone was teasing, but his eyes were sharp. "The prince of Rajar, worked?"

Nedraj's lips curved into a half-smile. "One must always strive for more, Hell Flayer.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to Íbolín and continued, "In Rajar, we have a saying: “Luck may build a kingdom, but toil keeps the throne.”

Íbolín raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "How very ironic," he replied, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Íbolín's smile faded as he considered Nedraj's words. "And what did you see in those stones, Prince?"

Nedraj's face grew pale, and his voice dropped to a whisper. He looked at his companion. "I hate to say it, Hell Flayer… but I saw war... and maybe something worse. The thing is… the future is a shadow, and it is ever-changing… but what I saw… was quite distressing... but it was not all distressing. I saw more... learned more than my peers would have ever dreamed of."

Íbolín felt a rare sense of foreboding settling over him. He knew the truth when he heard it. "...And you abandoned everything, all of the splendor and coming glory of graduating… because of these visions?"

Nedraj nodded, his eyes wide and haunted. "It's not just htat, I had to leave. The wrath of my father be damned. The Madrasa was no longer a place of learning for me…”

He turned to Íbolín once more.

“It was pit of nightmares."

Íbolín leaned back on his elbows and dropped his stoic expression for the first time in his travels with the prince.

“...I won’t lie to you, Prince, I had my doubts… but it seems we do have quite a lot in common.”

Nedraj turned to him and smiled.

“I knew you would eventually see things my way.”

“Hang on.” Said Íbolín sharply. “Easy now. I assure you, I am the last len in Etria you will convince to become another sycophant.”

“Oh of course not, Ithandacar.” He said. Íbolín’s ears perked. It was the first time he had heard him call him but his proper name.

“I’m simply saying… when I heard you were apprehended, I knew our alliance was written in the stars. The forces of the cosmos, the motion of the universe...” He said. “These stars of the Alnujum. They've drawn us and binded us together under their canopy.”

Nedraj’s countenance dropped to that of seriousness once more.

“And what about you, Hell Flayer? You have done as much seeing as how you were aware of the Den of Glory and Excellence, and its treasures?” He said. “You could have had it all, had you stayed in the Fioran legion with the Hell Fangs. Wealth, prosperity, fame, and power. And you chose to walk away, in your prime.”

“...Well prince, that’s because, I don’t really think those things were waiting for me on the other side of the Drümmargian hordes. I think jealousy, intrigue, slavery, and death were waiting for me, had I continued.”

“Fine, have it your way then.” Nedraj nodded. “But for me, as I said… even though I knew my father would disown me… and I’m sure he knows by now that I am missing… I had to leave. I had to summon a party, and come here. I had to get into the Den at all costs.”

Íbolín's mind raced, piecing together Nedraj's revelations with their current predicament. He could see the fear in Nedraj's eyes, but also determination. "What did you see that scared you so, Prince?" he pressed, his voice gentle but unyielding.

Nedraj looked into Íbolín's eyes, a connection forming between them, a trust born of shared danger and secrets. "I saw death. Devastation. I saw what will make the plague years and the war of aggression the Fiorans have waged this past decade look like child’s play. I saw… well… I can’t even say it, Hell Flayer. Not now.”

He nodded his head, reassuring himself.

“But.. then… as I said. I saw beauty. I saw treasures… and powerful artifacts hidden in the Den of Glory and Excellence. I couldn’t believe what the Sultans have kept under our noses this whole time… under all of Etria’s noses…"

Íbolín's heart skipped a beat. "Indeed. There are undoubtedly treasures and artifiacts. We all know that, the marauder blood on my blade stands as proof. But.. my good prince…" he asked. “I don’t think they will serve you if your prophecy saw a new war and calamity... if it proves true.”

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The prince hesitated, his eyes jumping to Íbolín's."I saw something specific, something I couldn't believe." He paused, uncertainty in his voice. "Something that could change everything."

Íbolín leaned forward, masking his growing interest with skepticism. "You speak in riddles. What makes you so willing to risk the probably likely death that awaits us in the Den?"

Nedraj's face lit up, the doubt replaced by determination. "First, Hell Flayer, the risk of the Den is minimized because of you and... well, I guess Sir Dathan, Toilet Knight of Crownless, Barbarian Turdalbion. You are the first two to get past the gates in a millennia. That's why I bought your freedom by bribing the guard in Nur-Surra jail. I need your expertise, Hell Flayer."

Íbolín's heart skipped a beat, but he maintained his composure. "You still haven't told me what it is you saw."

“I'll tell you Hell Flayer. But despite your sympathies to that sleeping old len's religion, you still won’t believe it.” Nedraj's eyes locked onto Íbolín's, a gleam of excitement mingling with resolution. "I saw Lumendíl, the Blade of Lumenaris, Bane of Umbraneth and all Venganzi. the Venslayer. The sacred sword of Yolgar the Conqueror."

Íbolín forced a chuckle, concealing his true reaction. "Surely you jest." Inside, a flash of preemptive envy and greed filled his heart. He felt his displeasure toward Nedraj that he tried to suppress though his gut began to erupt like a volcanic flame. “I thought you were certain that was all a mythology, Nedraj.”

I knew it. Íbolín thought.

"The sword does exist, Hell Flayer." Nedraj insisted, his voice filled with conviction. “But not the sword of you and the old len's conception. But that's okay. It doesn’t matter if it truly possesses those... 'divine' properties. What matters is its superstitious properties. Of course it can't cut through Venganzi like butter. Only starvation can make them vulnerable to a sword's edge. Its superstitious qualities are what matters. The people believe that it can, and if they see it, they will believe all the more. That they believe that it was once held in the hand of their god.”

Íbolín was impressed. For being such a pompous imbecile, he was right.

"When I hoist it above my head, I will be surprised if the Ishrans do not immediately sue for me to assume the Dominion of the church of Yol!"

Nedraj's eyes were filled with stars, and not the stars of the Alnujum.

"I've seen it. In the seeing stones. I read of it, in the most secret and coveted papyri that were stuffed in the Madrasa’s most restricted selections… and with your help, we can find it. We can repel the tide of Fioran aggression and restore the Northern League to balance and prosperity."

Íbolín looked up at the stars once more, before turning to Nedraj once more, who was curling onto his side, ready to sleep.

“Okay. So let’s say we pluck this precious blade from the Sultan’s hoard. How specifically do you plan on doing that, Prince? You are aware that once past the gates, there are terrible, excruciatingly difficult traps and puzzles that the Sultans have laid?”

“And what do you know about them, Hell Flayer? Why don’t you tell me your genius ideas?”

“You first.” Said Íbolín.

“...In the days to come, as we get closer, then we will discuss it. I will tell you what I know.” Replied Nedraj.

“Fine. Then tell me how you intend to set things right with you effectively classify as... a butter knife?”

“Well first, I’ll take it home to Rajar.” He said, his head turned over, which muffled the sound. “I will present it to my father, who will forgive me for abandoning my education for producing such a priceless prize, and then we will prepare to push back against your former empire. As I hoist it above, it will rally and galvanize the triple alliance that my father and King Ümgrimm are undoubtedly forming with the Domoss and the Council of Cranes in Ishra. Venrex Venzio will have no choice but to surrender from fear of him and his kind being vanquished. Even though it is a legend built on lies.”

Nedraj turned over and looked at Íbolín with one eye.

“I mean… isn’t this plan… what you would want too, I gather? You’ve been pretty tight-lipped since we first discussed your business with the Den back in Nur-Surra. But I must tell you, Hell Flayer… It’s pretty obvious. Because, you’re here… not there. You’re not serving the venlord anymore. Banished. Bannerless.” He appealed. “I see it… I already know that you’re looking for a great ransom to escape these shores forever and live out your days in splendor. Maybe in the Ihitan islands or deep in the jungles of Kemodesia? I understand. And I will pay you handsomely, as promised. If I succeed and we repel the legion, your fugitive status will inevitably be overlooked and forgotten. And if that doesn’t work… in fact… either way! I’ll will get you immunity and citizenship within the Republic when we are all done. You will be remembered as the redeemer of the Northern League, the Doge’s right hand. A chosen knight. It’s the least I could do for you saving my life. You are a great asset, Ithandacar. Remember that.”

Íbolín slyly looked at Nedraj and blinked. It was as if he had heard these things before. In fact. It sounded like Venrex Venzio.

“...That sounds nice, sure.” Said Íbolín, guarded.

Nedraj looked a bit puzzled, disappointed even.

“I think it’d be more devoutedly wished for you, Hell Flayer. I promise these things to you as the future Doge of the Merchant Republic of Rajar. I swear it. You will be dressed in fine Yaporgine silk and your neck and hands adorned with the choicest gold and silver. The finest jewels cut by the finest artisans and jewelcrafters of Rajar…”

You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I’ve become.

Íbolín thought to himself.

Nedraj scanned Íbolín, who didn’t seem impressed. Eventually, he gave up and returned to his carefree countenance.

He let out a drawn out yawn with a rather effeminate fanning of his hand over his mouth.

“Well. I will see you in the morrow. Good night, Hellflayer.”

Nedraj rose to his feet and carried off.

The sounds of night critters continued to fill the air, contrasting against the crunching of Nedraj’s sandaled feet through the patchy sands and red rocks that they took refuge in.

Íbolín waited until the other had turned into his tent, then shifted his gaze to Dathan, whose one eye was open. Their gaze locked, as they shared an unspoken agreement. Dathan slowly rose, his body heavy with weariness but his blue eyes sharp with curiosity. He combed back his thinning blonde hair with his hand.

“Well, what do you know,” Dathan said, his voice low and tinged with amusement.

Íbolín allowed a smirk to play on his lips. “It’s true. After all this time. We’re after the same thing,” he responded, his gaze fixed on his older companion. “I had a feeling.”

“Me too,” Dathan acknowledged, his voice trailing off. “I’ll tell you what though…”

“Huh?”

“He doesn’t know that much about Lumendíl,” Dathan continued, his tone serious.

Íbolín stared at him for a heavy moment before slowly nodding, his eyes drifting to Nedraj's tent. “...Because he doesn’t know its properties?” he replied, uncertainty coloring his words.

Dathan shook his head, dispelling Íbolín's conclusion. "No. He's surely versed in them books of the Madrasa and from his time in ther'. He knows the scripture, even the Nur-Yidi; he couldn't have missed its location in that ther' blasphemous addition to the Holy Lyric of Yol. That’s probably where he learned o' it. The Nur believ' it te' be resting somewhere under these sands. But that’s just it. It’s not about knowing these things, Íbolín."

“He took the blood of the rocks,

Five great metals, strong irons flowing from the heart of Etria,

Forty tears sown from the finest twisters of jewels and steel,

Four sacred gemstones,

The edge traveling over three continents,

to find the hands of the Son of Yol.”

Dathan sung quietly to himself, his voice a haunting whisper.

“That’s oddly specific,” Íbolín said, his brow furrowing. “Can’t say I knew that little jingle either. That from the Lyric of Yol?”

“It is.” Said Dathan. “Stanza three. The Forgin' of Lumendíl.”

“But… if he knows the enchantments, why do you think he’s lacking something? He’s a magician, after all… This is not making sense.”

Dathan's smile widened, revealing his scant toothless grin, filled with knowing mischief. “Who told you of the blade’s true existence in the first place, my lord? Who risked his life and knighthood to reveal the secrets? I suffered great pains traveling far from my homeland, my sanctuary in the misty city of Galeron… all the way to find your bony behind in a Niskau monastery in the most unlikely, darkest, and coldest place in the Northern League.” he retorted, turning his gaze toward Nedraj's tent. “So listen to me carefully.”

Dathan cleared his throat.

“It’s not about knowing. It’s not about lacking. It’s about overlooking. I’m telling ye'. He would not be so confidently goin' after it.”

Íbolín's expression remained lost, confusion clouding his features.

“Come on, Ibe,” Dathan urged. “Ye' know why.”

Íbolín's confusion only deepened.

Dathan's smile grew wider, his eyes twinkling with delight. “He’s blinded by pride in his mind. He’s convinced the blade is nothing more than,” he finally revealed. “He knows the scriptures, but he doesn’t believe that it possesses those properties. He thinks it’s just a religious symbol. He told you as much, did he not? If he truly believed… he would know it’s a fools errand for him.”

Dathan glanced around at all the fine tapestries, rugs, and expensive tents, and chuckled to himself.

“Yeh… the prince is in for a rude awakening,” Dathan said, his voice rich with amusement. “But not ye'. I truly believe yeh have a chance. It could change everything in yer hands... save the many.”

Íbolín attempted to smile with him, but his countenance quickly turned grim. The weight of their quest hung heavily upon him, and doubt gnawed at his mind.

Dathan, noticing his change in demeanor, adjusted his position and peered at him. “What's wrong ther'?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Beneath Íbolín's eye, a glint of fear began to shimmer. “I…” he stammered. “Even if we find it. I am the least worthy person in all of Etria.”

“Who is worthy? What’s that suppose' to mean?” Íbolín turned to Dathan, his teary, reddening eyes filled with a torment that went beyond mere words.

“Because,” he choked out, a ragged edge to his voice. “This is my last chance.”

Dathan sucked his few teeth, his eyes narrowing in that wise way of his. “No,” he said, his voice shifting with the timbre of admonition. “Stop that there, lad.” For a second, Íbolín thought he sounded like Tal.

“It is, Dathan,” he insisted, his voice cracking with despair. “You… know what I’ve done. I won't be able to live with myself if we fail this time… I...”

“You’ll what? I don’t care what you’ve done,” Dathan retorted, his tone unwavering. “I am still here, aren’t I? I swore to lead you, teach you, and protect you, my lord.”

Now, he thought he sounded like the Sentinel. Íbolín's face twisted, and he swiveled his head around, scanning the rocks, as if he had heard a ghost. “She will…”

“She hasn’t yet,” Dathan said, his voice firm. “Has she? No.”

“But she will,” Íbolín persisted, desperation creeping into his voice.

“You don’t know that,” Dathan replied, his tone unyielding.

“I sacrificed her, Dathan. Don’t you get it?!” Íbolín cried, his voice filled with agony. “I offered the most precious thing I was ever given, for what?” He pulled the rug from under his sword, causing it to fall over and hit the exposed sand. “What is this?” he spat, bitterness in his voice. “I… sacrificed a soul… a rare, true love… and got nothing in return.”

“No, Íbolín. You did,” Dathan said, his voice taking on a scolding tone. “You got exactly what you bargained for. But it was a lesson, lenning.”

Íbolín's face twisted, more tears dropping. “I killed her, Dathan. She might as well already be dead.”

Dathan’s eyes softened just a fraction. “Why do you worry so? We will succeed this time. We can overpower the gates this time.”

Íbolín wiped his face with his wrapped, mummy-like hands, his voice breaking. He stood up abruptly, and scooped up a red rock that was lying in the sand beneath his feet. “I gave her up and threw her away… all for a damn sword I don’t even have anymore. A sword now wielded by my nemesis… and an Empire… that will hunt me to the ends of Etria for the rest of my days. I’ve filled the days with evil for many, and mostly myself. All for a few moments of fleeting fame.”

Íbolín threw the rock over the cliff toward the basin of the valley.

Dathan shook his head, his voice filled with aged wisdom. “Sure, Íbolín. You sinned. You sinned gravely. We all have. And while Yol forgives, we do reap the consequences.”

Dathan snapped his fingers, causing Íbolín to look at him.

“Don’t you dare try and loop me into your self-pity, and try and get me to feel sorry for you. You sinned and are rightly reaping the consequences. Don’t expect us all to feel bad that now you’re paying for it. That’s what it does. What it’s supposed to do. Be a len. Yol’s ways are perfect.”

Íbolín's voice was barely a whisper, his soul laid bare. “I… should have… never gotten mixed up with Venzio.”

Dathan jabbed back, his voice sharp. “You’re right. The ven are diabolical, Íbolín… and you happened to get caught in the net of the worst one. You were young, hurt, and... dumb. But ye have to forgive yourself.”

Íbolín shook his head, his voice filled with resolve. “I’ll forgive myself when I cut him in half.”

“When you do, he won’t be in halves, he’ll be in powder on the floor,” Dathan's voice filled with conviction, slightly chuckling. “You’re atoning for that sin, Íbolín. And I swore an oath to your family… to your grandfather. To House Alemar.”

“A grandfather whom I have never met, a country that is not my own, and house who will almost assuredly see me as a bastard.” Íbolín quipped. “My father is nothing to me. That is your dream, Dathan.”

“It doesn’t matter if it's my dream, it affects yours, too, whether you like it or not. You cannot escape it. None of us can. Your father is a part of you... and as I have spent many Moons with you I would say, the best parts, Ibe.

Íbolín didn't move an inch.

"Ithand’s blood flows through your veins. Lord Sarx’s blood runs through your veins. Mystish blood. Royal Blood. Something that I have wished I had my entire life in service to the house of your ancestors. But by Yol's grace, at least I was adopted by your Grandfather who is a man of great honor and service. So, I won’t allow the blood in your veins to be wasted. And don't forget.”

Íbolín looked up.

"We have... the gift." Said Dathan. "And. This."

Dathan balled up a fist and hit his kite shield, which bore the crest of House Alemar. It was in a quadrant checkered pattern of white and sea-green, emblazoned with a embossment. A fierce lion, eating through a chain. When he struck it, it made a resounding “CLUNG-CLUNG.”

As he did, Íbolín rolled his eyes.

"Must I introduce myself again? Ahem." His voice rang out with the vibration, clear and strong, with bravado. “I am Sir Dathan Alemar, Crown Knight of Mystalbion. I am bound by vows to serve ye'. Ye' wish reverse this curse ye've laid upon yerself? So be it. I will be with ye', and see ye' happy again, with the Lady Síbela on yer arm. We will all be eating, drinking, and laughing together, on a ship sailing the harsh Mystal Crossing back to the soil of yer ancestors. To yer father’s house, and his father’s house, and his father before him. I will help ye', Íbolín Ithandacar. There, I will see ye' put away the orphan. Put away the wanderer, put away the Rabani, and the sinner… I will see ye be healed by Yolgar's might. By Yol, I will see it.” Said Dathan, pointing to him sternly.

“And so will you.”