The Question
Achlys could not stop thinking about Kalista. It had been over a month since her meeting with Ledros, but her mind kept going back to that day. She thought about how he had said that Kalista had forgotten herself and that she was not as cruel as she appeared. Achlys had trouble envisioning the Spearmaiden as anything other than one of the most terrifying things on the Isles, but then again, in that brief moment when she was beside Ledros, Kalista seemed different. She had ceased to radiate the wrathful will of Vengeance.
"Do you think she was Vengeance in life or was she different?"
Achlys posed the question to her assembled council; Grimm, Miss Spider, Clammy, and Acheron. Their responses were a resounding "I don't know."
"Me neither," Achlys sighed, "but I think I know who would. When the Chronicler tried to show me the day of her death, I saw Kalista in the memory. Maybe she and the Chronicler spent time together in life. It's worth asking. The Chronicler loves answering questions."
She pulled herself out of her lifeboat bed and stretched with a grunt.
"Let's go, Acheron. Hopefully Father will bring us to the city since he's too worried to let us go by ourselves again."
Acheron tilted his head at her final comment. Achlys furrowed her brow at him. She could feel the judgment in his glowing eye sockets.
"I'm not afraid, Acheron," she protested, "its Father who is worried, not me! I know you will protect me. Now, come on."
Acheron made no comment as he followed after Achlys.
She found Karthus in the cathedral's yard, speaking with the wraith Gaspare. Karthus was asking him about some of the notes Elise had left in the books on Noxian etiquette, a topic which the gruff soldier had little to comment on.
"Excuse me, please," Achlys said as she approached, "Father, can I ask for a favor?"
"What do you need?" Karthus asked.
"Can we go to Helia, please? I want to visit the Chronicler. I have questions to ask her."
Karthus was silent for a moment as he considered her request. Then he dismissed Gaspare, who looked relieved to be freed from the tiresome conversation, and turned his full attention to his daughter.
"Is this a question I may be able to answer?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"Is this a question about Kalista?"
"Yeah."
"Are you still worried about her?"
"Yeah."
Achlys was prepared to try and justify why she was still concerned about Kalista, but she never needed to.
"Very well," Karthus agreed, "we may go."
"Oh," Achlys gasped, "oh, thank you!"
"You appear surprised that I agreed to your request."
"A little."
"You are curious, my dear. This is a good thing. If I were never curious, I would have never followed after the tally-men of the Kindred, and if I did not remain curious, I never would have set out on my pilgrimage to find this blessed place. It is important that you remain curious and that you ask the right questions."
"What kind of questions are the right questions?"
"The ones that will help you to understand the wonders of this place and your role in it."
"I think this is one of those kinds of questions."
"I believe so as well. Let us go to the Chronicler so that you may ask it."
Karthus led their way through the city to the library and up to the heavy doors of the private sanctum of the Chronicler of Ruin. Before they could knock on the doors though, they began to steadily open on their own.
"You may enter," came the Chronicler's doleful voice from within.
They entered as she commanded, and as they did, the Chronicler rose from her grand desk and glided over to them.
"Karthus, Achlys," she said, "father, daughter. Your arrival is sudden but not entirely unexpected."
"Forgive our intrusion," Karthus said, "I hope we are not interrupting anything of great import."
"All things in this chamber bow to my command. If I demand them to wait, they shall wait," she responded before turning her attention to Achlys, "I could sense the question burning in your mind since you entered the library, child. Ask it."
Achlys stepped forward.
"Okay. Chronicler, did you meet Kalista when you two were alive?"
"Kalista, the Lady of Vengeance, the Spear of the Argent Throne, the General. Yes, I met her in life."
"Can you please tell me what she was like?"
"I can show you. Take my hand, Achlys, and let my memory flow into you."
She held out her hand to Achlys. With her magic and an eager mind, Achlys reached out to the Chronicler. As their hands touched and magic melded, Achlys felt her mind slip back in time as the world around her grew bright.
She looks up to her father. Today though, they are not together as father and daughter, but Lord Chronicler and apprentice. Down the marbled halls towards the chambers of the city's master's they walk side by side.
"Breathe," her father says, "this is an important meeting, but you need not be worried about it. I will record what is said, you shall record the details. I have seen you do this many times before. You will do well."
"Yes, Lord Chronicler," she responds.
It was an unusual meeting that they were summoned to record. A foreigner had been welcomed to the Isles and was being granted an audience with the city masters. The young apprentice had heard the story.
The foreigner was detected yesterday by the city's guardian scryers when her ship sailed into the veil of mist that protected the Isles. The guardians had looked into her heart and sensed her intention, to save those she loved, and commanded the mist weavers to allow her to pass. The mist parted and she sailed into Helia's harbor. She had been offered every kind of hospitality but had refused them all. All she had wanted was an audience with the city's masters as soon as possible. It was a request they granted.
The thought of this whole unexpected situation has the young apprentice's stomach fluttering with excitement as she and the Lord Chronicler enter the audience chamber of the city's masters. They move to the scribes' desk stationed beside the elevated stage the masters are all gathered on, sitting in a row behind a long table. She prepares the vellum, quills, and inkwell for both herself and her father as he goes to briefly speak with the masters. She does not hear what they are saying. Her attention is on the sound of approaching armored footsteps.
A guard motions for her and her father to be seated. They obey. A moment later, the doors at the end of the chamber open and the foreigner is escorted in. At once the apprentice begins her duties, taking in the appearance of the visitor so that it may be recorded.
The woman's posture is proud but not haughty. Despite the evidence of the long road she had traveled clinging to her, the foreign general did not allow her body language to betray any fatigue. Her cheeks were sunburnt, her eyes bore the color of sleepless nights, and her long, dark hair was beginning to come undone from its braid, but her eyes are bright and filled with steadfast determination as she looks over the masters gathered before her.
As the apprentice studies the woman before her, she feels a sense of respect well up within her. Though it is obvious her road had been long and difficult, she stills holds her head high, projecting an aura of confidence, strength, and dignity.
She continues her observations, noting how the general's armor was likewise worn from the road. At one time, the dark metal may have been beautifully polished, but at that moment, it was dull and dirty. Salt from the ocean had dried to its surface and any fabric she wears shows signs of fraying. It appears as though only her helmet, adorned with a great indigo plume of some grand exotic bird, has been spared such weathering. Instead, its surface sparkles immaculately, as though it had been meticulously cleaned every night.
Such a familiar task, she imagines, must have been a comfort to the general.
There is the sound of the chamber's door closing. The hearing is about to begin. Quickly, the apprentice begins to write at the top of the vellum before her.
"Kalista of Camavor, Spear of the Argent Throne and Grand General of the Camavoran Army."
On the stage one of the masters stands. A gentle smile crosses her aged face as she looks down at the city's guest and speaks.
"Kalista of Camavor," she says, "we welcome you to our blessed city of Helia. It is not often we meet with outsiders, and to give an audience to an unannounced guest is unheard of, but our diviners spoke highly of your spirit and said you were worthy of seeing."
The general gives a polite bow.
"You honor me with your presence," she speaks, "I understand that my arrival is likely viewed as an intrusion by many, but you still have agreed to grant me an audience none the less. For this kindness, you have my thanks."
She raises her head. There is a fierce determination in her eyes that blazes through the fatigue.
"And now I must ask for more from you. Allow formalities to be dropped. Forgive my abruptness, but time is of the essence in my quest and every hour is precious."
"You may speak freely," the master responds.
"I have been dispatched here by my sovereign, King Viego of Camavor, to seek aid."
A member of the masters speaks out, interrupting her.
"Your king knows of the Blessed Isles?"
There is a murmur of surprised and concerned voices from the stage.
"No," Kalista answers, "he does not know of this place. I was not ordered here directly. I was simply bade to find aid, wherever it may be. By luck, fate or providence, I do not know which; it was only by chasing a rumor that I found this place."
"What sort of aid were you to seek?"
"A medicinal miracle not found in my kingdom."
"For what purpose?"
"My aunt," she pauses as if that word caused her pain to say, before taking a breath and continuing, "Our queen, Isolde, was injured due to my carelessness. If she were to die, I could never suffer enough, for this deplorable failure."
The masters look among themselves and mutter. The apprentice only catches a few words of their arguments. She wants to strain her ears to listen, but she reminds herself that this is not why she is here. Recording the dialogue is the task of the Lord Chronicler.
She sneaks a glance at her father beside her. His quill is gliding effortlessly over the vellum as he records every whispered word. His script is neat and beautiful. Admiration warms her heart as she refocuses on her own task. She records what she sees in the chamber; the body language of those gathered, the mixed expressions of the masters, the unflinching look in Kalista's weary eyes.
Kalista's voice interrupts the master's deliberating.
"Please," she says, her voice loud and clear from practice of years giving commands above the din of battle, "I do not know how long I have been searching for a cure. The days and nights have blurred together. That I cannot determine the correct passage of time is sign enough that I have been gone too long."
"The queen is a gentle woman, more deserving of mercy than any I can think of. She does not deserve to suffer at the hands of a cowardly assassin's poisoned blade. She is of common birth, married for love, not for station. The kindness, joy, and beauty she brings not just to my king and court, but to our people is invaluable. Losing her would devastate us all."
"So when I heard rumor of a land blessed and overflowing with life, I had to seek it out. Not for glory, not to regain my pride, for that will never truly be the same, but for her. For my queen, my king, my country, my family."
She drops to one knee, places her helmet on the floor beside her, and lowers her head in a bow.
"Humbly, I beseech you, though the affairs of my kingdom are not yours, if there is aid you can give, be it medicinal, magical, or even simply informational, I will accept it with a grateful soul. Will you aid me?"
There is a moment of silence. The apprentice uses it to write and describe Kalista.
The general had showed no sign of discomfort as she took a knee against the cold marble floor, but as she lowered her head, there was a shift in her posture. Her shoulders had slumped. One knee was not enough to support both herself and the weight of her homeland.
The masters whisper among themselves. Their conversation is brief. The one who had spoken first rises from her chair once more to address Kalista.
"Stand tall, Kalista of Camavor," she speaks, "you need not prostrate yourself before us. We see that your intentions are pure, your devotion true and clear, to your throne, your kingdom, and your family. We have decided that we will aid you."
The sound was faint, but the she believes she hears Kalista gasp.
In one graceful motion, Kalista rises back to her feet, moving as effortlessly as though she were not clad in armor. She gives another low bow.
"You have my eternal gratitude."
"The type of aid we will give must still be deliberated on, but until a decision is reached, please, rest. Allow yourself to recover and enjoy what our great city has to offer."
The smallest smile pinches the edges of Kalista's lips.
"I thank you for your hospitality," she responds, "but I am afraid that I must politely refuse it. I will rest when my task is complete. Now, I simply wish to return to my ship and prepare it for departure."
"Very well," the master responds as a small smile graces her lips as well, "if that is your wish, our guards will escort you back to your ship and aid in your preparations. When the other masters and I reach a decision, you will be summoned back to us. Until then, Kalista, we of Helia bid you farewell."
Kalista bows a final time.
"Thank you."
And when she looks back up, the apprentice believes that she can see the faintest ghost of hope in her eyes.
The Chronicler let the memory fade away. Slowly, Achlys came back to herself as she rubbed her eyes as though she were waking from a dream.
"Did that satisfy your curiosity, Achlys?" the Chronicler asks.
"Yeah," Achlys nodded, "Kalista wasn't always scary. She just wanted to help her auntie. If my Auntie Elise were hurt, I would want to help too."
"What did you show her?" Karthus asked.
"Hope and tragedy," the Chronicler answered, "I showed her Kalista as I remembered her; a niece concerned for her aunt and a warrior burdened by her king's expectations."
The Chronicler paused for a moment before turning all her attention to the lich and speaking plainly with him.
"Karthus, I know what you try and conceal. It is not my place to involve myself, I simply record what transpires, but I shall tell you this; she knows his name now."
Achlys looked between the two wraiths looming above her. Though the Chronicler's face was expressionless as always, she saw concern cross her father's face. She didn't understand why knowing a name would upset him, or even which name was so troubling. So she asked him, repeating the only other name she heard in the memory.
"Who's name? Viego?"
Karthus looked down at Achlys as she spoke their king's name. His name from her lips was like a sword through his heart.