Chapter 24: The Tavernkeeper's Son
There was Mist.
Mist and Rain and Dew-kissed blades of grass.
The chilly night winds were heavy with trepidation; touched by destiny and fate. The stars knew it. The glimmering, pallid moon, mistress of the night, knew it.
And the sky; the cloudless desert sky, cloaked in the richest celestial velvets of prussian blues, knew it.
The push and pull of the waves upon the city walls were loud against her ears; a crash of saltine liquid upon walls of gold and brown—and then another, and another, and another. It was passive, and it was violent. The nature of the sea was as such.
She stood upon the harbor of the Jewel of the East; the Port City of Lut Gholein. Even from afar, the horizon of the seas—the line of convergence between sky and sea was visible to her. The light of the stars glittered upon the surface of the water—reflecting heavily from ripple to ripple, and wave to wave.
She stood, and she observed. Her hands were limp upon her sides; she knew the laws well.
To gaze into the future required a peace of mind beyond emotions. Required a force of will to bend even the most obstinate seers to submission; to passive observation.
Here, within the subtle, yet distinct laws of time; past, present, and future, one could not sway to emotions—one could not aid one side, nor another. Time was not to be toyed with.
Here, within the subtle, yet distinct laws of time, one was to observe; one must not alter the events of the past, present, or future.
Twas' the debt of the seers; forever doomed to see, and never to act.
Yes. She knew the laws very well.
She watched as the man, tall and strong, with a beard to rival her grandfather's, fought; she watched as he was, despite his valor, defeated.
She watched, grim-faced, now, as he was dragged into the catacombs beneath the earthen grounds of the Golden City.
And then time seemed to fly. The Lady of the Night skies came away, and in her place rose the Lord of the Day, bright and golden as ever a great Star was. He fell; and his Lady replaced his domain once more. On, and on, this pattern remained; day and night, and night and day.
And then it happened; and she knew.
The flash of crimson crept, slowly, into the early morning skies. Rosebud pinks and mandarin oranges lined the edges of the horizon, amidst the crisp, golden yellow of the early-rising Sun. Yet her eyes were not upon this sight—beauteous though it was.
She saw a boy; young, perhaps in the summer of his fifteenth year. She saw his face, muted with silent torment and sheer determination.
And she knew.
She watched, silent, unmoving, as he stole across her, his footsteps light upon the ground. For a moment or two, his eyes caught hers; but if he recognised her presence, he did not show it.
How easy, how easy it would be for her to simply reach across the barriers of time and space; to take him by the arm, and to lead him home to his bed.
To his mother.
But she knew, even as he slipped onto the stairs by the edges of the city, that he would not live to pass the same way once more. To stop him would be but a doom upon both the boy, and herself.
The trial of seers; to see, to withstand the temptations of offering aid. She had passed it many times.
But never before had the trial weakened her resolve so, as it did now.
Her heart felt heavy within her chest, and her throat was dry. She lifted her left hand, wincing faintly as the golden bangles within her wrist slid upon one another; then flexed her fingers slowly, gently. The false extention upon her little finger was of beaten gold; a narrow, pointed nail.
She sighed; then traced a line of symbols and runes of the Ancient Order upon the air before herself. Her eyes were shut—she did not require sight for such tasks.
The lulling whispers surrounding her form amidst the chilly winds of time and space told her but one thing.
It was done.
She opened her eyes, and saw her pale-blue orbs reflected within those of her mother's.
Arlene of the Medjai was not one to rise quickly to fear. But there was fear, now, and trepidation within the careworn lines of her face. "What did you see?"
She narrowed her eyes; then rose. While she stood, she was a head and more of greater height than her mother—but the elder woman possessed the regal commands of royal blood; the proud and dignified air in which she wore her posture and expressions. A lady was always aware of herself.
In the presence of her mother, the bayu-aldyn of the Medjai-Kiel was more child than woman; and she was very rarely a child. But she sought to steady herself; enough, perhaps, to calm her mother, before choosing to speak.
Her voice was a low, silky murmur as she began—"Atma's son will die in four hours." She paused—and, sensing impatience within her mother's countenance, "You, as well as I, know that Cordelia is not one to sit idle in the face of such darkness. She will face his assailant—of that I have little doubt."
A glint of anxiety flashed within the amber of her mother's eyes; and there glittered something within them—a broken shard of glass which pained the Lady to no small extent.
Arlene of the Medjai was not one to rise quickly to fear. But to fear she rose, as was the norm for protective mothers.
And as the Lady of the Medjai departed in a flurry of crimson skirts and flowing sleeves, Estarra Cyn Cyrix could not help but to marvel upon the guile of the Greater Powers. To see, but not to aid. To observe, and never to warn.
Twas' the life and trials of the Medjai seers.
The sun was strong in the sky when Cordelia arose. Her slumber had been long troubled, and she had found no respite in sleep from the echoing chasms of nothingness within the vastness of her being. And it was then that realisation came upon her, swift and quick as a shadow in a darkened alley.
There was a weight upon her sheets, by the twists of blankets and pelts swathed about her bended legs; a head, deeply nested within arms clasped about one another.
The low, muted sobs of the woman coated the stillness of the air.
Atma.
The sorceress frowned—then leaned towards the elder woman, clasping a gentle hand over her heaving shoulder. "Atma?"
She shuddered—then lifted pale and lifeless eyes to the sorceress's. She seemed to have aged overnight; no longer was she merely a widow.
Where once she was strong, Atma was feeble, now, in widowhood, bereft of even the luxury of hope for the future, vulnerable against the attacks of failures and doubts.
She released a great, broken sob.
And the sorceress knew.
Within the deeps of the desert earth lay catacombs; tombs and crypts, hidden away beneath centuries' worth of dust and golden sand. None sought these tombs, save, perhaps, grave-robbers, eager, as always, to earn their livings in plunder and pilfering. The entrances to these crypts lay in derelict ruins—broken sandstones, collapsed in piles of dusty rubble. Desert vines stretched taut across the heaps; but the entrances were clear to the watchful eye.
They were clearer, still, to the watchful eyes of airborne hawks.
Had it been hours since their untimely descent into the darkness of the desert crypts? Saul found he no longer knew the time of the day. And, as he drew his blade in a single, fluid motion across the chest of the dark-skinned entity that was his opponent, he found himself enveloped in swathes of irony.
Who, by the Gods, cared whether the sun shone, when in the midst of one such battle?
Beside him, the amazon wove through the horde of undead with deadly precision; she barely touched their oil-slicked limbs. Yet her purpose was clear mere moments later—she broke free of the crowd, and, drawing a single, slender arrow, loosed it without further thought.
She watched, her expression grim, as the crowd exploded in a myriad of crimson flames. The corpses fell upon the ground with sickening crunches; more than undead skulls had been crushed in the fall.
It all spoke volumes of her experience—of her skill and accuracy in the handling of such situations. She slew without remorse; and if she was sorry for the war they waged, she did not show it. The amazon's face was impassive beneath the layers of oil, and ash, and soot.
A sudden, throbbing pain within the length of his spine alerted the druid that his opponents were not as dead as he'd hoped. He released a low, pained grunt—then turned, ducking the secondary blow he knew was to come. The thin, winged creatures of the night surrounded him as a cloud of darkness; bats, large, with great, yellow fangs and leathery wings imbued with lightning-tipped claws.
He paused a moment, wrinkling his nose as he assessed his opponents—but not a second had passed before he was forced to duck, once more. His spine tingled uncomfortably beneath the folds of his clothes; he had little doubt that the pain would soon begin to intensify. For a moment or two, he thought to strike at the winged demons with his staff, then dismissed the idea as no more than a ridiculous fancy. There were simply too many of them.
The druid winced slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck—then twirled his staff about his hands in several swift motions, before bringing the base of the twisted wood onto the ground with a resounding thump. "Araeya, get out of the way!"
She'd barely had a second to hear his warnings; but her reflexes were as good as any. With an almost alarming burst of speed, she drew three arrows from her rapidly-decreasing quiver, then let them loose into the fray of skeletal mages. Mere seconds later, they were nothing more than crystal blocks of ice upon the ground. Satisfied, the amazon turned her attention towards the druid—then swore loudly, her brows furrowed as she twisted backwards into the edges of the corridor.
The pale-brown slabs of stone set within the ground began to crack; and moments later, fell away to reveal a rich, brown river of mud—it swirled for a moment within the deeps of its pit, and, as clay pots are formed, rose from the ground in the form of a low, wide-based mountain. Crimson-and-amber lava bubbled ferociously within the heart of the volcano; it was spitting fire. The dry and ash-defiled steam gushed forth from the lava's surface, building a layer of stifling heat upon the slowly deteriorating air.
Saul growled, and it was thick and feral within his throat. His grip upon his staff tightened as, with a low, rumbling echo, the volcano exploded—exploded! in an eruption of red-hot spheres of flame and searing ribbons of burning lava.
The bursts of fire were warm against his skin—yet they flew in every visible direction from the mouth of the volcano, bursting into sparks of crimson-gold as they came into contact with the beasts of the crypt. The winged demons shrieked their distaste of the light and heat—yet all fell dead onto the ground, and, within moments, were swept away into the midsts of the volcano's fiery onslaught. The lava came in torrents; and all that were within its path of destruction were instantly engulfed in ash and soot—and death.
It would soon flood the entirety of the corridor.
He waved his staff once more, gritting his teeth as he conjured a large gust of chilly winds from the tip of his staff; then leapt onto the frozen, greyed magma square upon the sea of fiery waves, wincing as he felt it slide along—and in such a manner, surfed the scorching lava towards the amazon, who, despite the precariousness of her situation, stood devoid of fear. He reached out as he came by her, and had only just succeeded in pulling her onto his frozen island, before the burning liquid came crashing down upon the ground where she previously stood.
And then there was silence.
She walked as though in a daze; a dream. The ground was hard beneath the soles of her deer-skin boots, and the salty tang of the chilly sea fog clung upon her skin, tickling at her lungs and at the back of her throat. Her cloak fell in swathes and layers of ebon velvet about the back of her knees, richly hemmed with a brocade border of silver-and-gold vines. Her Medjai-mage robes, she'd left within her lacquered rosewood chest, won, so long ago, from the Countess of the Forgotten Tower; for they were too heavy, and too stifling for such weather as the realms of Aranoch had to offer. In the stead of the robes were the clothes of the desert locals; a sleeveless, belly-baring bodice of a rich, jade-coloured silk, worn beneath an emerald-encrusted collar of gold and silver, a pair of loose-fitting pantaloons in shades of jade and peacock-blue, and a slitted, wispy overskirt of ebon satin.
She found the clothes strangely lacking in ways—yet they were comfortable enough to trudge about in, in the blistering heat.
But clothes, at any rate, was the last thing on her mind.
It was as though she were dreaming. She saw, out of the corners of her eyes, the people she passed; the sentiments they expressed, and the doubt they carried within the depths of their eyes. The streets were naught to her—she heard nothing, and took nothing into account. The crystal phials of swirling amethyst that hung from her belt tinkled against one another as she walked. Her staff hung limp within the palm of her hand.
And still, she walked.
"Cordelia!"
Jerhyn.
"Cordelia, where do you think you're going?"
Hush, Jerhyn. I have no time, nor heart to discuss my motives with you.
"Cordelia, wait!"
I'm sorry. I refuse to be merely a trophy bride.
"Cordelia!"
He ran to her, his turban flying askew as he reached out to grab at her arm. She twisted in the air—then turned, and, for the first time in a long time, faced him fully. His eyes were dark with worry, and his jaw was set. Perhaps he knew the contents of her heart at present.
"Let me go." Her voice was a low and quiet murmur.
He shook his head. "No. It's too dangerous!"
"Kei is in there. I have to get him out."
He frowned.
Dear God, was that all he had to express his grief? His grief for the life of Atma's son? A mere frown?!
"Cordelia, it's still too dangerous. Perhaps the guards—"
"No. I need to go." She began, stiffly, cutting him off. "Don't do this, Jerhyn. Don't stop me."
"I'll come with you." There was determination in his tone. "Just give me a moment."
"We don't have a moment." She said, gritting her teeth. "Kei might not have a moment, Jerhyn!"
"I'll just be a minute." The prince was adamant in his claim. "Wait here."
She scowled. "Fine. One minute. Go."
He nodded; then turned, and disappeared into the crowd. The sorceress counted to three—and, with a somewhat disgruntled growl, and a flick of her staff about her hands, she turned on the spot, and reached her hands out for the infinite darkness that governed the realms of non-existence.
There was in no way she would wait for him. Not while Kei was in such danger as that which precipitated death.
They were surrounded.
Encircled within a circle of hell-spawned demons.
Bordered within a loop of what was, surely, a sign of premature death.
They stood with their backs to one another, weapons drawn and stances beleaguered with anxiety amidst other emotions. He held his staff within the palm of his hand, and the copper-hilted blade in the other. She had her bowstring plucked taut, a single, ivory-fletched arrow notched against the be-jewelled rosewood arc. As one, as though they'd rehearsed, they tensed their fingers—and as one, they attacked.
The world spun in a myriad of flickering shades of reds and golds as Saul twisted and turned, dancing about the blades of his opponent's attacks. The demon stood to at least twice his height; yet its form was that of a frail, slender man—it wore the guise of perfectly-mummufied bones. Bands, chains, and bangles glittered at the neck and at the arms. Upon its head was a headpiece of azure stone and faded gold.
It wore no robes.
Saul winced, shaking his head in an attempt to free the sight and stench from within the depths of his mind. The lights flickered; and for a moment or two, the druid thought the darkness could prevail. But a second passed—and light overcame the chamber once more.
But that mere moment of hesitation, alone, had cost him much.
He cried out, biting into his lower lip as the curved scimitar came into contact with his lower abdomen. It was a smooth, clean cut—long and narrow, but, thankfully, lacking in depth. Saul found himself heaving a faint sigh of relief—it came out harsh and rough, almost similar to the hiss of a mountain-cat; then ducked the second charge, bringing his staff up to meet the unslaught. He tasted blood in his mouth, but the brevity of his situation demanded he ignore it.
The sound of steel upon steel rang within the air. "Aha." Saul smirked grimly. His aim was true—it was the metal clasps upon his staff that had hindered the progress of the mummy's blades.
The mummified corpse drew away—slackened for a second; and was instantly reduced to dust as the druid drove the blade of his dagger straight into the faintly beating heart within the cage of bones that stood as its chest.
Saul made a face, coughing the dust from his lungs as he wet his cracked and chapped lips with his tongue. He tasted salt—and with a pang of disgust, realised that which he'd just ingested. But the situation allowed no time for such pleasures as disgust. Yet another crept upon him, scimitar poised to strike; to kill. He groaned—then rolled aside, parrying the blow with his dagger, and driving the end of his staff between the hollowed eyes of the mummufied giant. It crumbled to the ground at his feet. Already, it had begun to wither away into dust and ash.
Across the room, the amazon was but a blur to him. She moved with an almost elegant flair. Her movements seemed, to the druid, at some points, to be uneccesary; yet her training had served her well. There was naught save a long, slender gash upon the length of her left arm; her face remained untainted, save for the ebon stains that were the work of scorching fires and drifting soot. Her supply of arrows had dwindled away into a pathetic number—Saul thought he counted at least seven within her quiver. Yet she drew her bowstring, again, and again, and again, bronze-tanned face screwed in an expression of extreme concentration.
And then he saw the arrows.
Arrows, but not arrows.
Pallid, silvery bolts of pure, crackling energy. The amazon plucked her bowstring back—and between the parting of her middle and ring finger, the air expanded; more, and more, and more, until it claimed the length and size of a true, Amazonian arrow.
She caught the druid's eye. "Keep your eyes on your enemy, Scosglen Wolf." She smirked humourlessly—then let loose the arrow. It found its home within the chest of a winged fiend; and, even as it exploded within the air in a throbbing spasm of dim, silvery light, brought the fiend down with a dull, leathery thud. "I am no prettier than your crimson-headed princess, and less than inclined to share your bed."
The druid scowled in response, but chose to hold his tongue. Instead, he whipped around on his heels, releasing a low grunt as he struck, hard, against the skull of a straying demon-kin; a skeletal warrior, armed with sword and steel. Yet, it was but a mere pile of broken bone and ashes that sank onto the ground before him, staining the ebon of his boots with pale grey dust.
Again, and again, and again he struck, alternating between staff, dagger, and, at various moments, the magic bound within his veins. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could only just make out the shape of the amazon—the graceful arch of her slender frame as she drew and released, drew and released, causing flickers of light to appear, and, just as quickly, disappear from within the heart of her enchanted arrows.
A shriek of terror; a cry of pain.
And then—silence. Absolute, sheer silence.
He froze. He turned, as he, in a single, sweeping motion, swept the hair from his eyes. "Araeya." He murmured.
The amazon waved a languid hand, though the motion lacked its previous energy—Saul noted, grimly, as he watched her, the strain of her movement etched upon her pallid face. The various small cuts and bruises upon her body were negligable—but that which worried the druid most was the demeanor in which she now held herself.
She was silent. Before, she had been nothing short of an asp with poisoned tongue.
Yet she stood, docile, at present. Naught crossed her lips, save the faintest of grunts—perhaps she, too, was in pain, as he was.
It seemed forever before the amazon spoke. She lifted her hand, wincing slightly, gesturing vaguely towards the center of the chamber. "What's that?"
Saul frowned. "What's what?"
"That." She murmured, eyes half-lidded as she elbowed past him. "It's… alive, somehow."
He narrowed his eyes as he came up to her. "It's a chest. Nothing more."
"It's alive. Can't you feel it? Can't you feel the humming?" She persisted, her brows furrowing even as she placed callused hands upon the gilded lid of the chest. "I'm telling you, this—this is alive."
Saul sighed, shaking his head as he knelt. "I think it's what's inside the chest that's alive, at any rate."
"Perhaps." She smirked, rolling her shoulders back into a rather lethargic shrug—then slowly, calmly, brought the lid to a rise. "Aha. I was right."
He watched in silence as she reached with both hands into the darkness of the chest. Several short moments passed; her expression betrayed little, save slight amazement. Then, she drew back, and he saw the cube within the palms of her hands. "What—" He started. "—is that?"
The amazon rolled her shoulders back, shrugging slightly. "If you don't know, I don't see how you should expect me to know." She held it out—then slid it gently into his open hands. "It's heavier than it looks."
Saul frowned quietly even as he lifted the cube to eye level. Up close, he saw that the sides of the cube were carefully constructed of hundreds of russet-stained squares of ivory. The edges were gilded; bronze, and gold, held together with minute silver clasps. The tips of his fingers were cold upon the smooth onyx stones encrusted within the squares—he drew them away, then blinked.
Within the heart of the glimmering metals, he thought he felt a pulse.
His change of expression did not go unnoticed by the amazon. She smirked. "I told you so."
He scowled. "It doesn't mean you know any more than me what this could be."
"There's only one person who'd know, I'm afraid." Her smile was forced—it did not reach her eyes.
The druid arched a brow—then groaned. "Oh, dear God. You can't mean—"
She cut him off, and there was determination within the vestiges of her voice. "We must speak to Deckard Cain."
Perfect.
He threw his palm over his eyes—then swore.
Absolutely perfect.
Author's Note: And there goes another chapter! And, this didn't take as long as the previous chapter did, too! Be happy! Be glad!
…and, sorry if it sucks. I just haven't had much time lately. I'm officially in uni now! Mass communications and all.
…and I actually have my Sociology class in an hour, and I need to read something for it. So I need to be quick.
Much thanks to Ophelion! You ROCK, (literally, haha! XD) and this chapter would not have been released quite so quickly if you hadn't guilted me into it with your fluff-a-plenty last one. So, thanks!
Next up, skopde: I'm sorry you were having a bad time. I hope things are better now! Thanks for staying with me, mmkay?
Thanks also to Luna. Your review made me happy. Very, very happy. It was so full of constructive thoughts, that I couldn't help but to feel happy!
Thanks to Fallen Dragonfly: I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Thanks also to FantasyFreak4Life.
And welcome to Synapse and dragonst! Thanks so much for your reviews, and I sincerely hope you stick with my fic as Saul and Cordy journey through the realms together!
Thanks also to ArmchairANBU for the story alerts!
Augh, I need to read my notes for class now! NOW. So, look out for my next chapter, entitled, "Beneath the Jewel", and until then, cheers!