TR: 36

Chapter Thirty-Six: True Force

Zocks led the party through dense jungle roughage, Arlyrra following closely behind him like a self-imposed shadow.From the ease with which she navigated through the foliage, Zocks could tell she was well accustomed to the area. Elves had always fascinated him; if history had taught him anything they were powerful, savage creatures at times, capable of the most atrocious war crimes, genocides and mass destruction, even against their own kind. Yet, on the other side of the coin, they were renowned as among the most spiritual and pacifistic races, at times having served as the peacekeepers and reconcilers to the very wars that their brethren had brokered. All of that was to say that one could invest no more trust in an elf than they could their own ability to pronounce the god-awful languages they created. The sheer manipulation that they were capable of was a trait that was not lost on Zocks. He wondered what her true motives for being there were…

As they came into a clearing Zocks held up his hand motioning the party to stop. The vast crunching of underbrush slowly died down as the thousands of bodeis halted on spot, gathering around the edge of the canyon. Looked down onto the scene with his massive albeit motley army behind, Zocks couldn’t help but feel a sense of exaltation standing there thirty blades up at the shelving edge of the mesa, a small but subtle grin forming at the corner of his mouth. Below and just beyond was an ancient basin of dusty caliche, the verdant forest surrounding it petering out near its perimeter until it was nought but shrivelled scrub and brush that could barely be called alive. The delineation between the boundary of the jungle and the basin was so stark it was if there was some kind of barrier or curse that repelled any growth beyond that point, like bacteria recoiling away from a speck of penicillium mold. Yet, if any of that were true, it was undoubtedly not the basin itself which cast such iniquities but the massive runes in its center. Ancient and far beyond recognition, they were likely part of a colosseum once upon a time, as evidenced by the remaining fragments of pilasters spanning the perimeter, suggesting a massive arcade circumscribing an arena. What had most likely been the stands had mostly degraded and fallen over into piles of stone, now nothing more than very expensive granite rubble. The eastern wall too had not stood the test of time and had all but collapsed, exposing the area to turbulent ocean winds from the east.

“You bring us here, Commander?” Arlyrra huffed.

“This will suit our needs just fine.” Zocks said in an indifferent tone before jumping indiscriminately off the ledge.

He slid down the face of the mesa, his boots gliding effortlessly across the dirt, tracking up dust in his wake. He hit the hardpan, sliding to a stop, a plume of particulates diffusing out around him. He stood at the base of the slope, taking in the view around him. After a long moment of reflection, Zocks turned to his group, looking up at them on high.

“As you can see, this once was a great colosseum; a training ground for the world’s elite warriors. It has seen many events, held many of the greatest competitions, and now it lies in ruins.”

Zocks flow-imbued voice echoed across the canyon walls, making him sound much larger than he was. Exchanging nervous glances, the army slowly made their way down the slopes. Some of the braver ones following Zocks lead, others backtracked to find a made path. Arlyrra glowered down at the squad commander, her long braids tousling in the wind. She stood for a protracted moment, as if suspended between the decision to follow the impulsive man or take the chance to bow out. With a halfhearted grunt, she chose the former and  jumped from the ledge, somersaulting through the air, clearing the embankment. She landed on solid ground with the grace of a bird, no sign of crude impact.

Zocks acknowledged the feat with a barely perceptible nod. Once everyone had filed into the canyon, they followed Zocks into the forlorn arena. What remained of the arcade loomed over them, arches pitted by time and weather, peering at them like old, admonishing eyes. The upper floor had mostly fallen away over time; all that remained was a jutting cross section cantilevered upon a scant few limestone supports, appearing to defy gravity itself. As Zocks scanned the debris, a large cloven beast covered in short, bristly white hair stepped into his view, confronting him.

“These grounds are sacred.” It snorted in raspy voice, air snorting violently in spurts from its bovine muzzle.

A minotaur. Strange to see them this far from the mountains. Zocks thought.

“They do not belong to you, wizard. They do not belong to anyone, by sacred rite. Rom forbids it.”

Zocks eyed the creature casually. It stood nearly a blade and a half tall and was pure, ropy muscle. Despite its outwardly crude and primitive appearance, its blood red eyes showed a mark of intelligence but not so far as to be called cunning. It certainly exhibited no fear. This was in line with the stout battle axe across its back, confirming its tribe’s penchant for battle. Still, the creature did not seem to be making a challenge but rather an appeal. Zocks weighed his words before responding.

“I am fully aware of the claim that the Jejum have to these lands, but I can assure you we have not come here for worship, minotaur.”

The creature grit its teeth. Now Zocks remembered: minotaurs had short tempers. The situation could go either way, then. But the creature was likely adept in battle, and that made it an asset, and assets were investments. Zocks held up a hand, attempting to balk.

“But I understand the delicate nature of this…cultural artifact and its significance to your kind. In fact, you can invite your whole family here. I could definitely put them to use.”

“You cannot train an army here! It was forbidden by the Elder Samush two centuries ago. This is a holy place, commander.” The minotaur warned.

“Softly, my friend!” Zocks raised his hands.

The army exchanged worried glances. Starting a fight with a minotaur was something that most avoided. The first reason was usually there was no contest, since the creatures were bred for war. The second was that, in the slim chance one did defeat them, four more would have already surrounded the victor in bloodlust over their lost comrade. While Zocks didn’t fear the creature, per se, senseless bloodshed was not usually a good ice breaker for an aspiring leader, so he kept to the defensive.

“It seems that we have reached a point of miscommunication.”

Zocks paced in slow circles around the beast. It turned with him, warily, as to never expose its blindside.

“Somewhere along the lines you seemed to have confused spirituality with reality, I am afraid. You question me now about my intentions, but should it not be me questioning you as to your allegiance?”

The beast snorted in derision, its eyes a blazing fury. As it seemed poised to strike, it collected itself at the last moment, eyeing the sprawling army behind Zocks for the briefest of moments.

“Commander, we have a saying in my tribe: a good soldier obeys the word, but the greatest commands it. The word of Rom is all, and those who turn a deaf ear to his invocations are doomed to rot in silence. Is this truly how you wish to spend eternity?”

Zocks nodded his head, contemplating the creature’s words.

“It is a conundrum, to be certain. On one hand–as you say–I obey this imaginary, surly, cow-headed effigy of yours and gain salvation in his eyes, yet on the other I openly denounce and betray a time-tested aether lord who once upon a time nearly conquered the world, and gain his ire. Hmm, decisions, decisions…”

The minotaur had grown so furious it looked as if it would explode. It unsheathed its axe and snorted a spout of air, its voice dripping with rage.

“How dare you speak of the creator like that! In honour of Clan Miradesh and the Great One himself, I challenge you to a match to the death, interloper. ”

The creature charged at Zocks with murder in its eyes. It raised its axe and swung for his neck. Zocks leaned backwards at the last moment, the axe passing just in front of his jugular. The creature came at him again. Zocks raised his hand at the hairy hulk and a loud hollow whirring sound sliced through the air as a compression wave erupted from his palm in the shape of a ring, colliding into the creature’s ribs. The minotaur shuddered, groaning in pain as its ribs cracked and its spine dislocated. It flew backwards from the force and landed onto the earth with a loud thud. It lay lifeless. Zocks lowered his hand and Arlyrra looked at him incredulously.

“Do you have any idea what you have just done?” she yelled frantically.

She ran over to the fallen beast, blood seeping out of its ears and nose. Its eyes were fastened in a permanent state of agony. She reached under the corpse to its neck and she felt around through the hair. She grasped something and tugged on it. With a small snap she produced a chain necklace bearing a strange symbol.

Zocks eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”

“You really have no clue what you just got yourself into, do you? Look at this.”

She held the necklace up to him. He snatched it out of her hand. Zocks looked over the strange symbol that looked like a pair of lightning bolts coming together. On the back there were strange glyphs that he could not decipher. He shrugged and tossed the object aside.

“I don’t know what it says. Looks like a gaudy knickknack to me.”

“Well, that gaudy knickknack says that you just killed a Yaheyan’s son. That means, commander, that you killed the child of a very important member of their tribe–their spiritual leader, if you will. Clan Miradesh, apparently. I would not be surprised if he was sent here on a diplomatic mission to better understand your activities. Minotaurri are not violent by nature, despite the popular stereotype.”

Zocks raised an eyebrow and the bovine corpse between them. “That blood-stained battle axe says quite the contrary.”

Arylyrra ignored the sarcastic remark. “They probably would have been fine with it all if you had not come here. This is a type of…sanctuary. If you were truly a man of this land–as you claim you are–then you would know that.”

A drop of water fell onto Zock’s cheek, and he looked up to catch raindrops falling onto his goggles. After several seconds of pitter-patter the rain began to fall in great sheets, a grey pall overtaking the ruins. He looked around in dismay. There was still much to be done and a deluge wouldn’t make it easier.

“This is not a good omen for us.” She cursed under her breath.

The creatures looked at each other with unease. Zocks could sense their apprehension. He was under no illusion that at any moment they could all rebel–thousands of them–and there would be nothing that he could do to stop them. His entire plan would be put to waste. He could not let them think he was losing control.

“Look around you!” He shouted, raising his arms into the rain.

“Does this look like the work of a god to you? Does it?”

He walked along the line of the creatures, reading their expressions as he spoke.

“These vestiges of forgotten glory–of man’s toil and sweat? I think not. If there is one thing I have learned about gods, it is that they never forget. A god is just as spiteful, hateful, jealous as you or I. It doesn’t care about anyone else except itself, so long as it has someone else to do its bidding. Some call it omnipotence, I call it impotence. I will not sit back and watch as man battles internally with their gods while the world passes by around them. This has occurred time and time again and it stops now. From this day forward, this is a land of the people. For people imagined it, people crafted it and, ultimately, people died for it.”

Zocks rose up into the air, hovering above the horde, rain cascading down over his black armour, cohering there for a moment like a million tiny, dark crystals.

“There is no room for gods here. Legacies are not forged from faith but from fate. If any of you wish to believe in something greater than yourselves, just look to the one standing beside you. There, you shall see something more precious than anything any deity can offer you. In those eyes, witness the spark of life, the dreams of an individual–the real, tangible, pragmatic essence of spirit. This is what we shall embrace here, not some fairy tale for the weak-minded. Together, we will no longer stand divided, as our forefather and there forefathers have since Crimson Eve. The Titans of the past shall come to pass. It is only through  apotheosis that me may ascend to our birthright.”

Zocks panned his arms around the detritus.

“From this day, this will forever be known as The Forge: soldiers forge today, monuments of them forged tomorrow. As part of this clan, your names will become widespread and feared. A great prophet once said that the world is a clock, and without hands to move it, time stands still.’ We are the movers. We are the hand in the shadows reaching forth to turn the mechanism of history. We will show them not the light of the gods but the darkness–that same darkness which permeates the vast majority of space; the same darkness they have ignored for so long, attempting to bury in the shadow of misrepresentation. For, truly, it is darkness which drives the universe, exposing all things in its contrast.”

Zocks raised his arms above his head, gazing up at the heavens as if to challenge the gods themselves.

“We are the True Force, and this is our kingdom!”

As the crowd burst into pandemonium, Arlyrra grimaced as the rain checkered against her cheeks, watching in silent disgust as the Squad Commander hovered above them in full ostentatious display, and she thought:

This man is going to be the end of us all.

***

Celine made her way up the gangplank carting her luggage behind her as the casters clicked against the gaps between the boards. Hadurynn tossed a silver coin to the harbor master and patted the man on the shoulder who gave a nod of confirmation that everything would be seen to. He turned and hustled to catch up with his journey mate. When he was at her side he was slightly out of breath.

“It seems that all the years at sea don’t toughen a man as much as one would think. It’s the damned boots, I swear.”

Celine smiled some but remained overall reticent as she continued her way along the docks. The admiral could see that she was in no mood for sarcasm and decided to change the subject.

“So, did you find what you were looking for?”

She gave him a questioning glance.

“I mean, while you were in Symphonia. That was where they had you stationed, was it not?”

She sighed and stared down at the boards below them as she spoke.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose much on the basis of confidentiality, but let’s just say that I was visiting a sister to clarify some…discrepancies. As I’m sure you have heard, Symphonia has been the hub of some malignant activity over the past couple of months and the powers-that-be were having difficulty containing the situation. Civil breakdown is the last thing the coast needs with all that it is going on in the world, to put it mildly.”

“Of course, of course. I would not dare deign into your affairs, m’lady. However, as a man of the sea it does behoove me at times to get a pulse on matters of the current, as it were, such that I can navigate those tides and not be run aground. If you catch my meaning?”

Celine eyed the admiral quizzically. “I am not sure that I do, admiral.”

The admiral cleared his throat. “That is to say… I would very much appreciate your indulgence in my speculations, to see if I am on course with the matters abroad, to which you refer. I would hate to see any of my men put in unnecessary peril, had I been privy to information that would avoid it.”

Celine sighed. “I can neither confirm nor deny anything, but I am happy to–as you say–indulge you, if it helps your case. What have you heard?”

“All speculations to be certain, but it has been brought to my attention that  Symphonia has been the unfortunate target of…pirate raids. In that regard, there is some well-heeled controversy over the mayor cutting a black market deal on illegal weapons from Makis. The word on the streets, as they say, is that she hedged the arrangement–preordained the raid–a false flag operation to test out said weapons. The rumours extend further, suggesting the pirates themselves are hardly that and are men in her employ. Can you imagine…”

Celine turned to the Admiral with a perturbed look. “And you believe such hogwash?”

The admiral seemed taken aback. “Well…of course I can’t be certain but…”

“Is it because the mayor is a woman? And any woman who is not a witch by design–such as myself–is evil by some other mechanism. Is that correct?”

“Of course not! I would never hasten to call…”

“No, but you would hasten to conclude the answer must be based on a conspiracy that happens to have a woman at the center. I find this unwholesomely convenient.”

The admiral stopped mid-stride, looking a like a bird with ruffled feathers. “M’lady, any question of my character you can address directly. I have no qualms with any woman or her station. It is not in my jurisdiction nor my interest to slight anyone who is undeserving of it. I only meant to assess the validity of the suppositions, which I believe you have stripped of their veracity, however unkindly.”

Celine stopped, catching herself as she reflected on the situation. She looked at the man before her–a good man at that–perhaps, unjustly attacked. She did not know what had just come over her. She was feeling so many things in that moment–failure, guilt, anger, shame–it was near impossible to settle on any one, and so she appropriated them all. But the admiral didn’t deserve the butt-end of that stick, for it was her failure that landed her where she was, not his. He had done everything possible to try and keep them safe. He had done his job. There was only one person she should be angry with, and it wasn’t him.

“I…apologize, admiral. I do not know what came over me. I am very…overwhelmed by this situation, and I do not think I have the heart to conspire at this time. You did not deserve that.”

The admiral’s shoulders visibly lowered, the look on his face confusion, as if expecting a different response. “I…accept your apology, lady Celine. I do hope this exchange has not tarnished your image of me. I only meant to lay bare the information as it was handed down to me. In no way was I committed to it, to be candid.”

Celine forced a smile. “I think you paint a very memorable image, admiral. I am sure there are many women out there who would agree with me. And to find a man with both a strong jaw and character is a rare combination at that.”

The admiral’s cheeks flushed and he coughed into his gloved hand. “Well…I do appreciate the sentiment, m’lady. But I do hope you didn’t think I was propositioning…”

A loud uproar from the streets above cut the Admiral off mid-speech. The two stopped in their tracks, looking up the steep gangplank leading to the causeway beyond, watching as an angry mob of people paraded by.

“What is going on?” Celine asked.

The admiral raised a hand to shield the sun, squinting at the lot. “I’m not sure, to be exact. Protestors maybe?”

Celine watched them for a moment more and then, with renewed haste, continued towards them.

“I don’t think so.”

The admiral shot her a questioning look and held his hat down from the passing breeze and jogged after her. Moments later they arrived at an intersection which, under normal circumstances, was one of the main avenues connecting into the city proper. But on that day, no one was getting in or out of town; what must have been hundreds of thousands of people had gathered, shoulder-to-shoulder, in some kind of gathering. From the sound of it, it was not a happy one. Many were waving handmade signs and placards with various handwritten scrawl on them:

STARVING CHILDREN: WELL-FED MONARCHS.  Said one sign.

A PRINCE IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING. Said another.

THE BRAZEN ENBRAZEN.

HATS OFF TO THE PRINCE–IF WE COULD AFFORD THEM.

And so on.

The messaging made it very clear that the rioters were upset with current conditions, but this was nothing new. What had set them off? What had changed when she was away?

Celine walked up to one disgruntled man–a butcher by the look of him, with blood stained apron and chain gloves hanging from a pocket.

“I say, what is all this commotion about?” She practically yelled to avoid being drowned out by the din.

He gave her a reproachful look. “Where have you been, lady? The town’s in a mess over the announcement. Haven’t you seen the signs?”

Celine exchanged glances with the admiral who just shrugged in response. It was likely he had been gone from the city as long as she had. The man shook his head in disgust and pointed off towards a large marble building that towered above the rooftops in the distance. Its dazzling spires peaked with bronze archtops beamed triumphantly in the sunlight.

The Royal Palace of Enbrazen.

“The prince is going to be giving a public announcement at noon today. Ever since the posters went up last week the town has been in a stupor. He’s got everyone worked up in a fuss. Seems that I wasn’t the only one sick a’ his antics. Finally get to air our dirty laundry, show it to him to his face.”

As if on cue, the mob pushed in around them and the man was swallowed up into the crowd as they paraded towards the city square and the palace. Celine and the admiral fought their way back out of the throng of protestors, stumbling out into an empty alcove in front of some shoppes. The windows had been shuttered and closed signs put up, indicating the proprietors too had taken time off to revolt. Given the number of people there in that sector at that moment, it wouldn’t surprise Celine if half of the entire city was present that day.

The two sat their in awed silence, minutes passing until finally the crowd petered out, the last few stragglers disappearing around a bend and out of sight. Celine bent over and brushed the dust off of her skirt. The Admiral shook his head in disapproval.

“This is brewing up to be another storm, I think. Except, this time, the Royal House is in the eye, not us. It’s been a high long time since Enbrazen has shown his face. They will have that place guarded like it’s run by CASARI, I would wager.”

Celine grunted. “Yes, that is most likely, though I doubt that the spectacle will last long enough for anyone to even catch a scent of the Prince. That man shows no hide nor hair longer than he has to. Diplomacy, it seems, ended with his father. He gives absenteeism a whole new meaning, that one.”

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I suspect.”

Celine raised an eyebrow.

“Captain!” Came a voice from behind them. They turned and Jack Ballade came up to them with Kade cradled in his arms. He was still sound asleep.

“I’ve brought the boy as ye’ commanded.” He huffed.

“Right. I’ll see to it that he makes it back to the embassy where the nurse will…”

“That will be quite alright gentlemen.” Celine interrupted.

“I would much prefer that the boy came with me. I was the first to see to his healing and, though I was unable to complete it, his care should be consistent. The other Sisters will see to that.”

The men exchanged worried glances. The admiral held out a hand in protest. “Lady Celine, we mean no offense to you or yours but the medical staff at the embassy are trained specifically for this kind of situation. Surely, they…”

“Surely, they what, admiral? There is still corruption in this boy. Do your medical staff know how to purify one’s being from the taint of an evil so vile that a shade itself would put distance between itself and said evil? Or, perhaps, I am wrong and they have the tools necessary to awaken this boy from his current catatonic state which is purely induced by the spiritual malignance that lies within him..”

Celine looked down at Kade.

The men’s’ expressions went bleak.

The admiral removed his hat, holding it to his chest. “My lady… I had no idea that the boy’s condition was so dire and…beyond simple physical repair. Perhaps, then, such a…distinct case is best left in the hands of those with which you confer.”

Celine contemplated the unconscious youth for a moment, squinting as a flash of pain wracked her heart at the thought of having to be the one to tell Kade about his friend, once he had awoken. She blinked the tears away.

“I know of one who can help him. If you would please follow me, Mr. Ballade, it is of the utmost urgency he gets to the citadel as soon as possible.”

The Admiral patted his comrade on the back and gestured at Celine. “I must return to my crew. If ever you need passage across the great blue, the Leviathan is at your beckon.” He kicked a leg behind him, bowing cordially.

Celine nodded in gratitude and turned to his majordomo.

“Come, we haven’t a moment to lose.”

***

An hour later, Celine closed the door to her personal chambers and stepped into the warm hall. She had changed into her casmilé–the traditional dress worn by all the Ovraelle. Like all of the walls in the Citadel, her dress was a brilliant turquoise blue, and lined with brocaded scrollwork across the neckline and along all of the hems of the bodice and sleeves. The skirt radiated out in pleated layers of white and crimson which draped down past her ankles, brushing gently across the floor. The very first thing gifted to a newly boarded novice was the casmile, though theirs would be yellow, signifying their rank. After that, red for Adept, then purple for Initiate and, finally, turquoise, signifying both a becoming, as a sister of the calm and, the passage into womanhood.  Tuorqoise had been the color of the Ovraelle ever since she could remember. It represented the serenity and tranquility of mind which the sisters sought to embrace in their healing.

Oh, how she had missed those halls! Their warmth and colour was inviting as always, the smell of rosehips and dragonbell–and whatever other incense the novices had set up around the citadel–welcoming her home from many otherwise mundane and dreary adventures. Yet, this time it was different; their usual charm did little to diminish her mood. As a girl she believed there must have been a a special kind of magick within those walls, one that refused to let life’s most cumbersome issues in. It was entirely possible there was magick in the walls, as she had never thought to ask her superiors. Yet, like most things nostalgic, time and truth had tarnished their memory and Celine felt like she had been inserted in a silent, monochrome version of an otherwise vividly vivacious memory. Despite the wall of despair in front of her, she had many fond memories of the Citadel of Nayana or, simply, the Citadel, as it was known to most. The Citadel was one of many Reaches–instructional houses officially sanctioned by the Ovraelle, the organization to which she formally belonged. Each Reach was governed by a regional representative, a fully-fledged sister, known simply as the Headmistress to her colleagues and students. It was the job of each Reach to find and cultivate gifted women, until the time that they were deemed ready for The Trials. At that time, the Initiate–as she was known–would undergo a series of rigorous magickal and spiritual tests which would probe the limits of her power and, as a result, her readiness to join her sisters and become one of the Ovraelle. On average, from novice to initiate, it took most women ten years before they were ready to undertake the Trials, though the gifted-squared (the gifted gifted) may be ready in as soon as eight. At any given time, a Reach had anywhere from as many as twenty novices, as little as three. Gifted women were deemed rare, perhaps, as scant as one in three hundred thousand women, and gifted men even rarer, though no one knew exactly why. The official statement of the Ovraelle was that the flows only attuned to a man who was clear of mind, free of intention– a disposition which came much more naturally to a woman. As such, the Sisterhood had somewhat of a disparaging view of gifted males, deeming the flows feminine in nature, as was part of their creed. Officially, men were easily corruptible, power hungry, and rarely without hate in their hearts. Thus, they were essentially reprobate. Not all its members shared in this view, however. While it was frowned upon in some circles for an Ovraelle to take a romantic partner, this didn’t stop some. Some even married multiple. Some even trained their male counterparts, though this usually took pulling many strings and calling in special favours. If there was one constancy among the Ovraelle, it was this: no man would ever take up the Sirran. That is, the sash awarded to an ascendant after she passes the Trials, becoming a full sister of the arts. The Rite of Ascension, as it was known, was a sacred ritual, dating tens of thousands of years back, and the gifting of the Sirran a holy sacrament. Over time, a sister could earn more Sirran, based on her accomplishments, though never more than the Headmistress, a title bestowed only to those ascendants who attained five or more Sirran. Likewise, no one Headmistress could out-sash the Ajelle–the leader of them all. Celine, herself, had earned three Sirran during her tenure as a full sister and, even despite her precociousness, earning them had taken incredible feats of energy, dedication and time. All the more, this made the accomplishments of the scant Headmistresses that much more poignant, not to speak of those of the Ajelle–who outranked them all in virtually every distinction.

Celine walked up to a painting hanging at the end of the hall, incense slowly burning in candlelit nooks on either side. The painting was called Foresight and it depicted a man on his knees in simple robes with a beautiful woman in a flowing dress placing her hand to his forehead. White light emanated out around them as if an epiphany had been bestowed upon the layman. As a girl, the painting had always terrified her, despite her preceptors’ exhortations to the contrary. All of the Ovraelle showed their sisters-in-training the painting as an inspiration and encouragement to keep up their studies.  Apparently, the intention of the author was to illustrate the selflessness of woman, though Celine couldn’t help but see a man on his knees, beguiled by one much more powerful than he. The effect was quite the opposite, in her eyes–and it still was, those many years later. As she studied the painting, Celine reminisced on all the tedious training she had undergone during her long tenure at the Citadel. She could not even begin to count the hours invested in divination alone, spellcraft notwithstanding. She had shared so many minds that it still baffled her that she could come across one like Kade. He was like…an entirely new complex. She put a finger atop the canvas and followed a broad stroke that the artist had made with her brush.

A door creaked down the hall and Celine’s attention was diverted from the painting. A large woman walked into the hall, closing the door behind here. She wore a dress of identical cut and color to Celine’s. She had a warm face with rosy cheeks that looked as if they had been exposed to winter’s breath. Celine smiled and the two women embraced.

“Sister Abby, how good it is to see you again!” Celine said.

“Oh my dear, we were so afraid for you when we heard about the storm!” Abby choked into her shoulder.

“The sisters were quite distraught. Sister Camille nearly fainted in the middle of supper when she heard the news!”

Celine wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m glad to know that I was missed. I’m alright, though. The Admiral was quite adept. Save one pour soul…” Celine had to pause to force back the image of Brian falling into the dark, relentless sea. “We all made it back safely.” She smiled past her emotion.

Abby studied her for a moment, and then her face lit up to its usual chipper self. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, dear. But you will remember, with every lost soul, ten shall be saved. I have been told that you have brought us one such miracle this day.”

Celine nodded. “Yes, he’s a very special boy. I’m not quite sure what to make of him, other than he has been tainted heavily with some sort of..dark presence. I would wish for Sister Dal to have a look at him.”

Abby stroked her lip in thought. “Sister Dal? It is serious then is it?”

Celine nodded bleakly.

Abby took Celine’s hand in her own and ushered her down the winding hall. “Well it won’t do to have your presence unannounced. The Ajelle has requested your council and the others are as eager to hear your tale. I am sure she will have some insight into this problem.”

Celine huffed along behind her as her companion dragged her into a large anteroom with a spiral staircase that seemed to ascend into the heavens.

“Fine, but we must hurry. I don’t think the boy has much time.”

The sister stopped mid stride up the staircase, looking back at the young woman.

“Time? Time before what?”

Celine panted, catching her breath. “The boy has been put under an immuration spell. Over four days have passed since its conjuring.”

Abby’s eyes went wide as saucers.

“That changes things, then. Come, we have not a moment to spare!

***

“Round and round, our world, upside down, we reach for the sky, but we don’t why, for we’ve lost the ground. The birds are laughing, bee bee bee, for they know what we don’t–we’re just a bunch of silly chumps, hanging in a tree.”

Brian sang to himself as he dangled from the cord at his ankle. He had lost track of all time and the slow rotations made him lose his sense of direction atop it. He felt that he was on a carnival ride that went in slow motion. Enough blood had rushed to his head that he had lost much feeling in his lower body and his thoughts and vision had become clouded, as if he were hooked up to a slow-drip of high-test liquor. The monkey had not returned though, at that point, he couldn’t say whether or not he would be happy for it; the company would be warranted but the mangy beast had left him to hang, after all…

“Round and round, that’s our sound, there’s no use telling for none can be found. It serves us right for telling the stones that that they waste their time; for now it is us they best; at least they get to take a rest…”

Brian began to hum the instrumental part to the folk tune. He had surprised himself by remembering the lyrics; the last time he had heard the song was when a bard had come into a pub back at his hometown, performing the song solo with naught but the strumming of his lyre. He remembered how lively the patrons had been–how they had danced! Taking up the serving girls in their arms and dancing about the table tops as they swilled their brew. Thinking of beer made Brian’s mouth water. He couldn’t recall the last time he had a drink of water. From the parched taste in his mouth, it had been a dangerous long while. He pushed the thought of not-so-distant death away and continued singing:

“Peace be with you, peace be with me, while I hang here in this tree. It serves us right for we danced all night and drunk till the moon couldn’t stand the sight. The truth be told, we cheated a nymph in the woods of old, we sought her pleasure with fool’s gold, and she left us here, aint that a scold? Now by and…”

Brian heard a squeak from behind him and he stopped in the middle of the next verse. As his body twisted around he saw the inverted image of the very monkey sitting in the grass by the peg to which it had once been bound. The cord was no longer attached to its ankle. It sat on its haunches examining him with its curious little eyes. Brian glared at the animal.

“I bet you think this is funny don’t you? Well I hope you enjoy roaming about out there at my expense. Freedom isn’t as free as you think.”

“Nothing is free, and nothing is ever as you think it is.” Came a voice from behind him.

Startled, Brian began to flail about wildly, torquing his body in the direction of the voice. As he twisted around there was no one where the voice had been.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

There was only the sounds of the jungle around him.

“That all depends on where you mean, my boy.” The voice came from behind him, closer this time.

He fought to twirl around in the other direction. The monkey was no longer sitting in the grass. The iron peg glinted in the sunlight looking like a small monument of defiance.

“Enough games. If you are going to kill me or feed me to your monkey just do it already. I’m getting sick of hanging here, marinating.”

“Nonsense.” Said the voice, immediately behind him.

Two powerful hands grasped his body and twisted him full turn. He came face to inverted face with what looked like a wolf with a giant crown of fur atop its head. Too startled to think or move he only moaned a response.

“I only kill what threatens my life and my appetite. And lucky for you, I am a vegetarian.”

With a sudden snap the cord at Brian’s ankle released and he fell to the sky-ground below. He landed on his shoulder, grunting from the blow. The world suddenly came back to him, though everything seemed to still be spinning. He held his head as the blood drained back into his body. He looked up and the vision of the wolf before him oscillated between spinning images. After a moment the visions blurred and become one, his sight returning to him. It was not a wolf at all, but an old man. He wore simple robes which were tattered, probably from traversing the jungle. His straggly white hair cascaded down his sunbeaten face from under a large brimmed leather hat with a saggy conical point that had long since been defeated by gravity. He had a large beard that was an unruly mass of white wisps like his hair, hanging down to his navel. His face was a kindly one but also one of a man who was vigilant. His eyes, penetrating as they were, were a beautiful azure color, the color of the tropical sea. Brian found a serene calm in them that he could not describe. He carried a walking stick which was ornately carved, not the work of an amateur. A squeak from the side drew his attention away, and the monkey ran up to the man, bounding onto his arm and settling on to his shoulder. It sat staring at Brian as it munched on a small tropical fruit.

“Doubly lucky for you, Marli is also a vegetarian.”

The old man glanced over to his monkey, who gnawed indifferently on the fruit. Brian couldn’t tell if the old man was grinning as the beard mostly obscured his mouth, but the tightness of the skin at his eyes told him that he found some humor in the situation. Brian stood up and stretched his neck from side to side.

“I don’t understand. What’s the need for a trap if you’re not catching animals?”

“Boy, I’m afraid the three of us are not the only ones on this island. How long have you been here?”

Brian frowned at the thought. “I’m not sure exactly. I washed up on shore and from there it seems like time hasn’t really been the same. A day, maybe two?”

A shrill cry sounded in the distance. Marli squeaked and looked nervously around them. The old man turned and headed off into the jungle.

“Come, we are not safe here.”

Brian turned and looked off in the direction of the noise. “What was that?” he asked

The old man turned and gave him an admonishing look. “If you don’t hurry you’re going to find out.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the foliage. Brian glanced back once more at the sound and then raced after the old man with the monkey on his shoulder.

***

Plodding his way through the dense thorns and brush, the monotonous drone of the jungle finally broke with the sound of running water. The old man had disappeared in front of him, as he had numerous times already on their trek, but he always seemed to stay within following distance, giving Brian enough of a glimpse of himself as to keep his lead. Along the way, they had passed many strange sights that Brian had not expected to see in a jungle. They traversed through massive, moss-covered ruins made of stone remnants larger than some houses, though they were of no ancient architecture that he had ever seen or heard of. From there, they passed through an ascending pass up a mountain side, with a treacherous drop into a ravine leaves below them. Next, across a vast valley–a floodplain–where herds of strange deer-like animals grazed, a set of leathery wings folded gently across their back. Bolteros, the old man had called them. Once they crossed the plain they emerged back into jungle where they walked for several leaves more to their destination.

Brian pushed aside a layer of broad leafs and the sunlight struck him in the face. He stepped out into a clearing, shielding his eyes from the glare. When his eyes adjusted he saw a great river before them, fed from a cascading fall to their right. On the far side of the fractured limestone slabs through which the water cut, it dropped off over the edge of a cliff, beyond which he could see the jungle far, far below and beyond. It wasn’t until that point that he realized just how high they had come. He could see the beach and the curve of the island against the shoreline, and the ocean extending off into the distance. He was beginning to get an idea as to the size of the island–which was much, much larger than he had initially expected. He turned and watched as the old man stood upon a great stone platform in the middle of the stream, seemingly unbothered by the violent coursing water around him. Other slabs similar to the one he stood on protruded above the waterline, like giant stepping stones. Their design was such that it almost looked as if they had been placed intentionally. The old man stood waiting, watching Brian with a look of infinite patience. He stood before the great waterfall, the spray of its momentous force casting mist around him as it crashed into the stream.

Nature’s applause.

Brian made his way across the stones towards the old man, carefully hopping over the massive fractures in the stone which had been driven further and further apart over time by the force of the stream. When he landed beside the old man the man turned and pointed to the wall of rushing water.

“Beyond here is my home.” He yelled over the roar of the fall.

“Only those who know how to appease the water’s rage may pass further.”

Brian exchanged glances between the rushing water and the old man.

No kidding. That amount of force would crush a bear, let alone a person!

“Stand back!” yelled the man.

Brian stepped aside as the man raised his walking stick towards the sky. It was at that point that Brian realized the stick was actually a staff, now that his attention was upon it. Without a doubt, the staff was handcrafted, likely one-of-a-kind, intricately carved. Interestingly, at the very top of the staff it ended in a corkscrew that held within it a black sphere that seemed to me made of some sort of polished stone. The stone glinted triumphantly in the sunlight as it beamed down on them. At first, he watched as the man silently mouthed words he could not hear, and just when Brian thought the man had lost his mind on that island, a sound like nothing he had ever heard began to emanate around them. It sounded as if…the earth itself were speaking, an impossibly deep profundo, as if an earthquake had a voice. The words–if they could be called that–echoed around them, reverberating through the stones beneath his feet. Puzzled and slightly terrified, Brian gasped as the waterfall rippled wildly, shuddering against the old man’s breath. The flow began to diminish until the violent flow was reduced to drips of water clinging for life to the edge of what was revealed to be a hidden cave mouth. The silence that followed was uncanny, though any space that had been created was filled with inexplicable awe on Brian’s part. And in the backdrop, somewhere too far and too secondary to be considered in that moment, was the voice of the jungle–that ever-present, unrelenting drone.

“How did… did you do that?” Brian stammered.

The old man smiled. “When you’re surrounded by water long enough, boy, you eventually learn how to talk to it.”

Brian stared at the cave mouth in astonishment. Marli jumped off the man’s shoulder and ran into the cave mouth before them, disappearing into the darkness. Clearly, this wasn’t a new thing to either of them. Brian reluctantly followed the old man into the sodden cave, looking around at the rocks in silent astonishment as water drip-drip-dripped around them. The man turned suddenly, Brian nearly running into him, and with a thrust of the butt of his staff against the ground, the water came crashing back down with violent force, once again obscuring the entrance from outside view. Brian jumped back, startled. The roar of the waterfall resumed and they were cast into translucent darkness. A bright orb of light began to emanate before him, revealing itself to be the stone at the end of the man’s staff, glowing with a bright luminescence. The light cast deep shadows about the cave walls, illuminating the halls for a good distance. Brian looked up and saw their own shapes playing against the light on the cave walls, like a reminder of prehistoric times when the world was made of fire and stone. The old man turned to him and nodded once, signaling for him to follow. Before Brian could ask any of the hundred questions that had suddenly flooded his mind, the old man wandered off into the darkness without a word. Brian shook his head in disbelief.

It looked like he was in for another adventure, whether he liked it or not.