Tuvhe dug the metal fingers of his gauntlet deep into the snowy earth and hoisted himself up the last rock. As he clawed his way over the edge, he let out a sigh of relief for finally reaching his goal. The entry to the temple that housed the Soule Flame was just up ahead, no more than a few paces down a worn flagstone path. He rolled onto his back, snow stuck to his hair, and fought the desire to take a much-deserved nap.
“You can rest at the Flame,” He encouraged himself aloud. “At least there, it will be warm.”
Tuvhe forced himself up and made his way down the path, careful to avoid the patches of ice that glazed over the stone’s surface. The silver-capped roof of the temple poked above the dead branches of the treeline. The sharpened branches snapped against his armor as he pushed through and into the courtyard outside of the temple doorway. The courtyard was probably one of the most beautiful sites in Lidaesea back when it was constructed, yet all that remained was a ghost of its former self. Broken stones littered the corners and dead vines wormed through every crack and hole time had dealt the site. The flower beds, empty for centuries, were nothing but frozen chunks of dark brown soil. The door itself was a heavily patinaed mess, the once awe-inspiring etchings of Eslen’s accomplishments now weathered down to almost nothing.
Metal scraped against the stone with every step Tuvhe took toward the door. The stifled sound of laughter from inside the temple caught his ear. He pushed the door open and peeked his head inside.
“Tomhaus? Yarcon? Are you two there?” He called in a hushed tone. The incoming air kicked up a cloud of dust. Laughter continued to echo through empty halls that felt more tomb than temple. Tuvhe stepped forward, gently closing the door behind him. He examined the area, but nothing seemed off inside the bronze-laced interior of the entryway. He followed the laughter toward the temple’s main chamber. “Hello?”
Tuvhe walked through the open archway of the chamber and immediately halted in surprise. Tomhaus was sprawled unmoving in a pool of deep red that spilled into the grooves of the temple’s floor. Yarcon hovered over him, dagger in hand and a mad grin across his face. Behind him, the roaring inferno of the Soule Flame, housed atop a granite goblet, cast a scarlet glow across his body. His head shot up to meet Tuvhe’s glare, an impish look in his eyes.
“Vull, you mad man, you made it past the Ravilors?”
Tuvhe stepped forward, hands close to his side. He wanted to make sure he was able to draw his sword quickly in case the situation escalated. First, however, he needed to know what happened. The temple of the Soule Flame was a sacred place, one that had now been defiled by the act of the maddened Deriden. Something inside him yearned to find the truth.
“Tell me what happened here, Yarcon,” Tuvhe suggested calmly. His left foot stepped into the red beneath. “Why did you kill Tomhaus?”
Yarcon responded with an open-mouth guffaw and a point of the dagger in Tuvhe’s direction.
“You just jump straight to the hard questions, don’t you?” He responded, blackened irises twitching. The auburn of his short, coarse hair took on a more brown tone. Something was very off. Tuvhe gently slid his hand closer to his sheath. Yarcon didn’t notice.
“You see, it’s a miracle,” Yarcon continued. “The Soule Flame talked to me! It showed me the things I was too blind to see.”
“What does that even mean, Yarcon?” Tuvhe pressed. None of the legends regarding the flame ever spoke of an ability to speak, much less show visions.
Yarcon stepped up to meet Tuvhe, who braced for an attack in return. The latter’s breathing slowed in an attempt to remain at ease. Yarcon slapped his knee and doubled-over in more hideous cackling.
“You really think I want to kill you, Vull?” Yarcon managed to get out between bouts. “I would squish you if I did. Besides, you’re not my enemy, right, Vull? No, not like ol’ Tomhaus over here, dead as doornails. You want to know a secret?”
Yarcon leaned in and beckoned Tuvhe forward with a flick of the dagger. Tuvhe didn’t budge. Yarcon’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“The Flame said we’ll all be dead before the third decade. Wiped from existence. It told me Tomhaus was going to push me into the Mark on the way home. Dirty sod was going to steal my girl. And you know what the worst thing about it all is?”
Tuvhe tugged on the hilt of his blade to loosen it.
“It told me that she was going to be happy. Happier than she ever was with me.”
Yarcon’s eyes grew watery yet his smile never faded. It seemed almost eternally plastered to his face. As the tears began to streak down his face, a thin trail of black formed in their wake.
‘Tomekeeper,’ the pompous voice in Tuvhe’s head called out. A sharp pain developed in his mind as it spoke. ‘Be wary. This one carries a darkness unseen since I ascended.’
Tuvhe stared at Yarcon and studied his eyes. He shuddered. Tuvhe realized that Yarcon’s irises weren’t twitching, but splitting into three. He drew his sword and held the point against Yarcon’s throat. The Deriden brother laughed again.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” He said. “You shouldn’t even be here. The Ravilors were told to kill everyone. Everything. I need my husk to survive outside. His nectarine pain sustains me.”
“And what exactly are you?” Tuvhe questioned.
Yarcon licked his chapped lips viciously. “Ask your friend Eslen. He should know.”
‘Listen to me, Tomekeeper,’ the voice of Eslen called out again. ‘You cannot let him escape. Strike him down. Finish this before one becomes many.’
“We are already many,” Yarcon said.
Tuvhe stumbled back. “How can you hear him? He’s in my head.”
Yarcon tilted his head to an almost inhuman degree.
“You won’t be alive long enough for me to bother answering.”
Yarcon let out a screech and jumped forward, dagger aimed for Tuvhe’s heart. A singular word crept up into the Tomekeeper’s mind. He drew his sword and swatted away the dagger with a counter-clockwise motion, then kicked Yarcon squarely in the chest. The young man stumbled back and fell over his brother’s body.
“Dahfuolenitehn,” Tuvhe said as he raised his sword. It shifted back into the familiar shape he had seen once before: an elegant falchion made entirely of silver and hued in a white glow. The guard jutted out and downward into a sharp, diagonal point and the hilt was encrusted with ice. A carnelian red outline ran along the edge of the blade, created by a type of jewel Tuvhe had never seen before.
‘Judgment has been passed,’ Eslen declared. Tuvhe’s arm raised against his will, ready to deliver a fatal blow. He felt like an observer in his own body.
“I’ll be seeing you again, Vull,” Yarcon grinned.
Tuvhe’s arm swung down and the creature ceased to exist.
__________________________________________________________
I’el steeled herself at the foot of the staircase that led up toward the Synthesis Chamber, meeting place of the Phreeton elders. The Chamber and the staircase that connected were carved directly out of the trunk of the Obsidian Oak, an astounding three-hundred-and-fifteen foot tree that was said to be grown by the goddess Noli herself. Its vibrant green leaves clashed against the deep black of the tree’s bark, giving them the illusion of floating when the sun went down. Atop the staircase stood two Sentreenals, hulking humanoid creatures of bark and vine with burning yellow orbs for eyes. They made no noise and only ever silently watched. I’el had never seen them in battle, and felt bad for anyone that ever did or would. She dusted pollen off of herself once again and tried to walk through her story.
Friston had managed to slice her out of her cocoon of horticultural doom using a serrated knife he carried around for baking. The task alone took most of the day, but she was thankful to be free. Friston told her he would run ahead to prevent the elders from adjourning their council and give her time to prepare. To prepare what exactly she was still unsure of.
‘Do I give them a speech?’ She pondered. ‘Or maybe I should just show them my powers outright.’
I’el looked down at the piece of vine clasped in her hand. She held out her palm and furrowed her brow, her thoughts focused entirely on making it move. The vine didn’t react, but she did manage to garner the attention of the Sentreenals. One elbowed the other, who in turn just silently shook its head. I’el didn’t need to hear any harsh words to still feel mocked. An intense heated gust blew her hair back.
Among the branches that laced the top of the Obsidian Oak, a frightening cyan dragon with translucent purple wings landed and stretched. Four curved tusks adorned its rectangular face, two around its bottom jaw and two under its piercing golden eyes. Spikes trailed from the back of its head and all the way down toward its forked tail. It tilted its head up and released a bellow that reverberated through the forest and every part of I’el’s body.
‘Qenolev, my poor friend. He’s lonely,’ the melodic voice in I’el’s head rang.
I’el looked around in surprise but couldn’t track where the sound was coming from.
‘Calm, keeper. I am guiding you from the mental space,’ Noli explained internally. ‘Only you can hear me. Do not call attention and act as you normally would.’
“That’s much easier said than done. I have a goddess talking to me,” I’el rebutted aloud. The Sentreenal’s looked at one another in confusion.
‘By Ghantei’s grace, I have an imbecile,’ Noli sighed. ‘You don’t have to speak aloud, keeper. I can hear your mind.’
‘I understand!’ I’el thought with an energetic nod.
‘Please continue. The sooner you embark, the sooner we can connect with the tome.’
I’el walked up the steps and gave a small wave to the Sentreenals as she passed by. The doors embedded within the Obsidian Oak opened with a heavy creaking and the scent of lilac and sage welcomed I’el inside. The circular chamber within was a warm mahogany color with swirling rings engraved into the walls, lit by orange-hued lanterns and a pulsating emerald crystal that hung overhead. Seated in the middle of the chamber, across seven seats at a singular table, was the council of elders. Lord Valwell Slil and his wife, Lady Bresha Slil, Friston’s parents and ruling leaders of the Phreeton people, were placed comfortably in the center. Friston stood against the wall behind them with his arms crossed behind his back. He offered a small, and noticeably more reserved, smile.
“I’el Rivini, our troublemaker turned Tomekeeper,” Lord Valwell said with a raised goblet. “Please, come tell us how you managed to persuade our great goddess into blessing you with her power.”
I’el chuckled nervously and shuffled toward the council. Each of the members eyed her up and down intensely. She could almost hear their thoughts churning. “I’m not really sure how to answer, My Lord. I didn’t do anything but wake up from a nap.”
A light rumble of uncomfortable laughter arose from the council. Masrak Tawn, general of the Phreeton army, drummed his fingers on the table. His flowing silver hair accented the sharpened features of his face.
“Surely Noli, mother of our gardens and provider of our homes, has some grand plan for one such as yourself,” He droned. “Yet I have a hard time believing someone with your past would be chosen to begin with. Please, share with us anything that can truly prove you have been blessed with the powers of the vine.”
I’el glanced back down at the vine in her hand. She could try to do something with it - make it grow, move, maybe even form another cocoon - but if she failed, the elders could call her treasonous. Or worse. Given her recent attempt, she felt that probably wasn’t the best choice. Instead, she needed something that no one could argue against.
“Qenolev!” She spouted with a raised finger. The council looked at each other with raised eyebrows. She stepped forward. “The dew dragon above us is Qenolev. He seeks more of his kind.”
“Young lady, if I may,” Tawn began. “The dew dragon that resides with us here in the Orchard has been around for centuries. So long, in fact, that all records of his name have been erased from time. You could spout any name and claim it to be true. As for your statement that he’s lonely, that isn’t hard to decipher.”
“No, she’s right,” the strong voice of Lady Bresha echoed across the chamber. Her tawny-colored robe rippled as she stood. Ice-blue eyes stared down the other members of the table. “My great-grandfather was the dew dragon’s caretaker. Only those in my family lineage have been allowed to know his name, for it holds great power. The only way she would know is if the dead spoke to her. Or a goddess.”
I’el let out a barely noticeable sigh of relief. She fidgeted with the vine in her hand.
‘Good thinking,’ Noli complimented.
Lady Bresha turned to I’el and extended out her hands. “I’el, my sweet huntress, you have been given a wonderful gift. Do not waste it. You will need to make your way toward Prodigium as quickly as possible.”
Lord Valwell stood up and moved next to his wife. He was a head shorter but had solid stature and broad shoulders. Friston had somehow managed to be the perfect blend of the two. The young elf mimicked a silent clap for her. If she could gain the approval of Friston and his parents, being a Tomekeeper would definitely be a life-changing opportunity.
“We shall send word to the boats at Silver Falls to prepare for your arrival,” Lord Valwell announced. He took a swig from his goblet. “Once there, they’ll take you to the city of Selenti. We can arrange a carriage to transport you to Prodigium after that. From that point, I’el, it will be up to you. Make us proud.”
I’el felt an odd surge of emotion inside her. It felt warm and comforting, but full of energy at the same time. As Lord Valwell called for a toast and most of the council joined, I’el couldn’t help but think it was nice to feel believed in for once.
___________________________________________________________
Kliev Rorn did a running slide into a collection of speckleberry bushes and laid flat against the ground. His tan rabbit ears tilted toward the earth and listened for the footsteps of his pursuers. As with all the Wojlidoj people, Kliev’s ears were able to pick up the smallest of noises from about a mile away. Unfortunately, that meant his pursuers could hear him as well. He held his breath.
Footsteps stomped past the bushes and continued into the distance. Kliev allowed himself the smallest of breaths and tried to figure out where things had gone wrong. Everything had happened in such rapid succession, his mind was still reeling to process it all.
First, he was standing in the middle of Krijya’s grand hall with a flagon of ale in one hand and a roasted leg of mutton in the other. He had been talking to Chief Vintar’s eldest daughter about his plans for the evening when it felt like a warhammer had been smashed into the top of his skull. Then, he remembered his ears twitching, a thunderous voice telling him something about a book, and a bolt of lightning shooting through the ceiling of the grand hall and striking him where he stood. There was white light all around him, a deafening ringing in his ears and the feeling of hundreds of electric volts coursing through his veins. The bolt’s energy left a sprawling arrangement of branches inked into his back like the tattoos that covered his chest and right arm.
The drinking marred Kliev’s memory a bit, but he was sure that the resulting fire had caused Vintar’s daughter to get burned. That, he figured, was the reason the Chief sent a squadron of warriors after him. Or, it could have been because the great hall had now been entirely reduced to a pile of ash, waiting to be lost in the wind. Regardless, Kliev was in trouble. There was no way he could make his way back to Krijya until Vintar had a chance to cool his head.
Kliev ran a hand along his honey blonde hair, shaved on the sides and pulled back into a top knot. The voice had told him to go to Prodigium and, ever the adventurer, Kliev thought a journey halfway across Lidaesea might be just what he needed. He jumped to the top of the limber pine tree next to him and scanned the horizon. A sparkling turquoise river flowed at the base of the Krijyan mountains to separate the lands of the Wojlidoj from the Orchard and forests of the Phreeton. A little past that, across the thickets, was the edge of the Caphrineta Sea.
“A river, a forest and a sea,” Kliev thought aloud. “Quite the journey indeed.”‘I’ll say,’ boomed the voice in his mind. ‘When do we eat?’
Kliev panicked, caught off guard by the voice, and placed his weight on a smaller branch. It snapped clean, sending him tumbling down twenty-five feet of pine and toward the cold, rocky ground below.
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