Note: Whispers of the Elenmír is a partial manuscript and the main spiritual precursor to the Raiders of Light series and Light's Shadow. Edited, of course. We hope you enjoy it. 

Chapter 1 | An Old Friend and a Promise

The man called Cal Linz blinked his tired eyes and set aside the old book he had been reading. His search for guidance had finally ended. He had stood at this crossroads far too long, and having a decision forced on him by now obvious truths had humbled him. Unsatisfied, those same truths had taken life and relentlessly taunted him for his stubborn disbelief ever since. To his chagrin, a mere folk tale was the link to what he was seeking. 

Still, as his aching, aging frame caused him to dwell on his own mortality more frequently, he realized that time would not permit him to complete his work. Death would take him before his promise could be fulfilled. That fact became more blatantly tangible with each passing moment. But what he needed now was rest, not dismaying thoughts. 

His wrinkly, exhausted hands worked slowly at relieving the burn and weariness in his eyes that had become unbearable. Laying his head down on the small bit of straw he used for a headrest, he sighed. Age had caught him. He noticed it now more than ever before. Closing his eyes, he let his tired muscles relax and all worries vanish as he drifted off to sleep.

***

While he slumbered, a young soldier in the Legions of the Province of Ank’nor was nearing the end of a long journey home. The thoughts and memories of past months and years began to come together while he walked. Three years ago, he had departed from a tiny little hovel that resided on the outskirts of a small and secluded fishing village. It seemed like yesterday he had left his home in search of adventure and glory. Alas, a boy’s dreams were soon revealed to be nothing more than delusions of grandeur. He had come to realize after several months of training and what he liked to call “cull work” that his dreams of soldiering and the military life were built on false beliefs. The castle was dank and musty, the food was detestable, and the closest thing to combat he had ever experienced was a mock battle arranged by the captain of the guard.  

Naiveté, he concluded, was the main cause of his departure from home—aside from his troubled childhood, at least. Stories of past Ank’norians’ heroism and the valiant battles they waged had given his imagination all that was needed to paint a fantastical mural of lies. The bare truth was that even if a war did erupt, the Legions in the far-southeastern lands of Ank’nor would be the last of Lorenthia’s soldiers into battle.  

These thoughts slipped to the back of his mind as he found himself in a familiar setting. Before him sat a small, leaning shack. Its thatched roof was old and decaying, and the foundation had sunk in on one side after standing through many hard rains. To the young man, it was the only home he could ever know. But to most of the villagers in Ren, it was a rat's nest of sticks and straw with a hollow space in the middle. Deep within the Pile, as the villagers called it, one could find the man called Cal Linz. 

Cal was a man who seemed average in most regards. What he lacked in physical strength and fortitude, though, was made miniscule by his exceptional wit and warmth of heart. Trahm remembered the story Cal had told him of his fateful past to the last detail. Eighteen years before, after one of the most vicious storms any of the villagers had ever seen, a fisherman had spied a small dinghy floating near the shoreline on the eastern edge of the village. In the small boat, he had discovered a woman and her infant, who was clutched in her arms and wrapped tightly in a thick, warm cloth. The fisherman had expected neither child nor mother to have survived the wrath of the sea. To his amazement, the baby had cried. 

Of course, Cal was the fisherman, and he had taken Trahm in and raised him like a son. 

Trahm Linz had grown much in the bittersweet eighteen years that followed, but he had never lost the childlike affection he felt towards the old man. At the very least, he would rather spend time at home with Cal than be ten leagues away in a rundown army garrison.  

Slipping quietly through the undergrowth around the small hut, he neared it as stealthily as he could manage. Gingerly moving the tangle of branches and leaves that was meant to be a door, he stepped softly over the threshold and into the dwelling place. The dirt floor hid little of the filth that could be seen in the form of fish bones and other waste. The familiar smell of ale wafted to his nose as dust stirred under the impact of his heavy boots. Using the hilt of his sword, Trahm poked Cal. The old man woke with a grunt. 

After clearing his throat and blinking several times, Cal spoke. His voice was tinged with delight. “Trahm? I thought I got rid of you three years ago.” 

“You didn’t do well enough. Or so it seems.” 

Cal sat up and grabbed the walking stick that lay by his bedside. “Oh yeah? Then I’ll have to make sure and do a better job this time!” Raising the wooden rod as if to swing, Cal quickly thrust it forward, lightly jabbing Trahm in the ribs. “You going to help me up, or just stand there?” 

“Haven’t decided yet.” Trahm paused before holding out his hand. “Give me that damned stick first.” 

“So. How do you feel about going into town and having a nice cold ale at the Cat’s Eye?” asked Cal when he was finally on his feet. 

“I’m not sure I want to go into town. Seems it would be easier if we just stayed here, doesn’t it?”       

Cal placed a hand on Trahm’s shoulder. “Listen. I told you before you left that no matter where you go or what you do, you are going to face troubles, Trahm. If you cannot overcome the ignorance of this village, then how do you expect to make it through life? You cannot keep running from your problems and fears. If you do, they will simply continue growing while your back is turned. If you run too long, you will find that when you finally do get up the courage to turn around and face them, they will have become too much for you to face. I can help you confront your troubles, but you must be the one who conquers them. I am here, but I will not live forever.” 

Trahm shrugged somberly. “Cal, this lecture is worn out. Just let me deal with it my way.” 

“Someday you’ll understand. I just don’t want you to have to learn the hard way, that’s all.” 

“I’d rather they all just die. But I suppose you’re probably right.” 

“Of course, I am. Anyhow, enough of that,” Cal grumbled. “Come on! If they say anything, just shrug them off. And remember—“ 

“Idle words have little worth,” Trahm finished, and then fell silent. 

Cal began to walk towards the hovel’s opening, slightly bent over by age. “Always remember that, Trahm. Forget it, and there’ll be no end to trouble for you.” He spoke softly but firmly. “Now, come on. And, for once, follow my advice.” He stepped slowly outside. 

Dusk arrived as the two began the climb toward the village. Fir trees and rock bordered the dirt path that led into Ren. Trahm knew every step down to the last pebble. Because he had not been allowed into the cliques of the small village, he had often found himself wandering solo, alone except for the company of Cal and Beyd, owner of the village tavern. He had often thought while he was away that if it had been only dreams that led him to the Legions, things might have turned out differently. It was not right to dwell on the past—he knew that well. Even so, he could not forgive the villagers completely for the misery they had made his childhood. His thoughts drove him to silence and brooding. Lingering in a place of spiritual darkness was wrong, but it was familiar ground and he stayed there. 

As Cal shuffled alongside Trahm, he noticed the anxiety building on his adopted son’s face. Those reddish-brown eyes burned with an intensity he recognized instantly. Countless times, he had tried talking to Trahm, hoping to ease the anger away with words. But the rage never lessened, instead festering like an infectious wound. All he could do was try and get the young man’s attention and keep it for as long as possible. 

“The Cat’s Eye is just up ahead,” said Cal softly. 

Trahm stared ahead, his expression blank. “Really, I never would have guessed. You think I’m lost?” He paused and then erupted angrily when he received no reply. “I lived here for almost twenty years, Cal. You’d think I might at least know the village by now.” 

“I expect you would. Sorry I mentioned it.” 

Guilt immediately ground away at Trahm. “I’m sorry, Cal. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I’m sorry. It just doesn’t seem right for me to have to suffer for something I never did. My parents are dead and somehow, I’m not. I don’t know where I came from or why I ended up here in Ren. I don’t even know who I am. All I know is that people seem to hate me for all of it.” They found themselves beside the Cat’s Eye and stopped outside the front door before entering. 

Cal placed a wrinkly hand on Trahm’s shoulder as he spoke. “I understand how you feel, Trahm, but that is simply how it is. If you truly want to know who you are, though, I can tell you.” 

Trahm lifted his gaze warily. “You’re not just messing with me. You really know?” 

Cal nodded slowly. “Yes, Trahm. I know who you really are. You are Trahm Linz, only heir to the extravagant estate of Sir Cal Linz. The one and only Cal Linz, master fisherman and Grand Nautica of the Termani Sea.” 

Trahm rolled his eyes and was soon eased into laughter by Cal’s chuckles. Together, they entered the small tavern, their cares and worries swept away by joy. 

Inside, they found the atmosphere equally jovial. The small room was filled with pipe smoke and the tangible fragrance of a light lace of hops. Dim light shone through the haze of smoke and spread across the floor, casting shadows with a life all their own. Aside from the blaze of the fireplace and two highly prized oil lanterns that Beyd had purchased from a rare traveling merchant, candlelight was the only lighting in the Cat’s Eye. Two square tables sat where the light was brightest, and crude chairs made of pine were placed all around them. When the chairs were all filled, the villagers would either sit on the floor or lean on a stack of firewood. Most of the village men spent their nights at the tavern, except during the annual festival. Many came because the only consolation for a hard day’s work and little to show for it was rumor spreading and storytelling. Amid the recounting of old tales and the passing on of recent happenings (things that were probably old news to the rest of the world), an occasional song would be sung or a verse recited. Ren’s people lived simply, and it was all they would ever know.  

Cal began to chuckle again. “There’s old Beyd. He’s started to turn gray. Rapidly.” The tavern’s owner, Beydin Krenneth, was a man of medium height and wide girth. Dark hair rimmed a growing bald spot and, as Cal had mentioned, was in the process of turning gray. Stepping away from the crowd as he saw Trahm and Cal enter, Beyd hastily scrambled over to meet them. Wiping sweat from his brow with a linen sleeve, his round face beamed bright with a smile that never seemed to diminish. Beyd was one of the few people who accepted Trahm—one of the few people in Ren that Trahm could honestly say he liked. 

His deep, jolly voice was warming. “Trahm. It seems like ages since I last laid eyes on you.” He shook Trahm’s hand and patted him on the back. “Good to see you again.” 

After greeting Cal, he took them both aside to the counter and set them up with a round of ale. “It’s on the house. Did soldiering not suit yeh well, Trahm? I never expected yeh’d come back here after leavin’ like that, lad.” 

“Not really, no. But I’m only home for a month. I had nowhere else to go.” 

Beyd spoke earnestly. “Well, it isn’t much, but if ya ever need anything, I’ll be here for yeh.” He slammed his fist on the bar like it was a gavel. “I mean it, lad. If ya ever find yerself in a tight spot, just call on old Beydin Krenneth and I’ll come a runnin’.” 

“Thank you, Beyd. Even if I never have to take you up on your offer, it means more to me than almost anything.” Trahm smiled genuinely, warmed from head to toe. Beyd always had that effect on people. Not a worry or care, it seemed, ever crossed his mind.  

“So, how have things been since I left?” A roar of laughter suddenly erupted from the crowd and drowned out Trahm’s voice. Beyd frowned, shook his head, and held a cupped hand near his ear. 

Nearly yelling, Trahm again asked, “How have things been around here?” 

His shout came through just as the laughter died down, and the huddled group’s attention was quickly drawn to the three of them. For a moment everyone quietly stared, but within seconds two figures parted from the crowd and stood to face him. Not Cal or Beyd, but him alone. 

Chapter 2 | Darkness

Easing past the tightly packed crowd, the two men moved slowly toward the bar. Never once did either of them take their eyes from Trahm. Staring, neither out of hatred nor welcome but out of forced indifference, they strutted forward arrogantly. Trahm gazed back at them in the same manner, intending not to show even the slightest hint that he would yield.  

They stopped a few feet from the dense cluster of men, and the older looking of the two spoke. “So, you came back. I guess the Legions have as much use for a worthless Sendrene as this village. What makes you think we want you here? I don’t. Why not leave before—"

“Before what Brice?” Beyd’s face was twisted with anger. “Before he wipes the floor with ya like last time? If I remember right, ya made a pretty good mop. Brice, why don’t you leave?” 

A snort of laughter escaped the fisherman’s bearded face and was soon echoed by the entire group. “Me? You’d rather I leave than that worthless dog?” 

“I’d rather serve dogs than a fool as steeped in ignorance and shit as you! If I were him, I’d cut yer tongue out and feed it to the dogs! Get out!” The crowd hushed. The look of rage and animosity on Beyd’s face was taking everyone by surprise. 

“I understand, Beyd. So be it.” He chortled. “Well, my good fellows, it seems that mold holds higher rank in this establishment than men. And, since my brother and I are the latter, we bid you goodnight.” 

“Out, I said! Out!” 

“Come on Dylan, let’s go.” 

“You can stay if you like, Dylan,” said Cal. “Your brother’s actions do not define you.” 

Dylan hesitated, looking intently at both his brother and the tavern keeper before Brice grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him outside.  

Others soon followed, and it wasn’t long before only the three of them sat where thirty had been just moments before. As the villagers filed out, a long string of disapproving and rude mutterings could be heard, most of them directed at Beyd. This wasn’t the first time that he had come to Trahm’s aid, but it was the first time he had upset so many at once in doing so.  

Slumping into the finest of his chairs, the fat tavern owner sighed heavily. His face was hidden for a moment as he took a swallow of ale from the deep pewter mug he held in his right hand. Setting it down beside him, he wiped the sweat from his brow once again and closed his eyes.  

Taking up chairs beside him, Cal and Trahm sat in the silence of the otherwise empty room. The uneasiness of the quiet was lessened by the crackling fire, but a seriousness lingered long after the other men had left for home. 

Beyd leaned forward in his chair now, running his stubby fingers through what hair he had left. He mumbled something under his breath that Trahm could not quite make out. Cal seemed to have heard it also and lifted a hand, firmly letting it rest on Beyd’s shoulder. 

The old man spoke softly. “Sorry, Beydin. It’s my fault. I should have been the one to speak. I am the one that took on this duty, not you.” 

Beyd eyed him somewhat reproachfully. “It’s not you that I’m angry with, Cal. And Trahm is no burden. These ignorant fools couldn’t tell a fly from a wasp.” He held his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “But something else bothers me. Twenty years ago, I was certain. Now, the more I think on it, the less sure I am. The war… were we right, Cal?” 

Cal lowered his eyes. “I don’t know, Beydin. I only know that we did what we were called to do.” 

“Still, I can’t help but wonder at it. If she had lived, would things have been different? If we could have saved her…” Beyd’s voice faded as he spoke, his ponderings flowing from word to thought. 

A long silence followed, and Trahm felt nothing existed in the world that could have broken it. The young man understood little of what he had just heard. Other than the war that Beyd had spoken of, none of it made sense. The War of Termani was what he assumed they meant. Many stories and myths surrounded it, even though it was less than thirty years gone. A deep hatred of the Sendrene had resulted from that war because of their brutality. It was strange, Trahm thought, that they had suddenly withdrawn from the front lines when the time for the true invasion had come. The Sendrene’s unexpected retreat had been the only reason the midland provinces of Lorenthia, and perhaps the entire nation, had survived. But none of the stories he had heard from the few travelers whose path coursed through Ren ever cast any light on the subject. Cal seemed to know more than he said, and Beyd also, but neither would ever tell him anything useful. 

Not thinking, he let go a question. “Who is this person you’re talking about, Beyd?” 

Beyd snapped out of his trance-like state, and Cal seemed suddenly alert as well. Trahm sensed a bit of edginess coming from the old man and saw cautious uncertainty on the tavern owner’s face. Never before had he felt it his place to join in on one of their conversations, but his curiosity had at long last towered above the fear of overstepping. 

Beyd stammered before Cal gave him a quieting look. “The things we speak of are from the distant past, Trahm. They are for us to remember and reminisce on, and for you to leave them be.” 

“But, Cal, the boy should—" 

“Should do as I say and keep his nose out of this? Should stop whining and make the best of things?” Cal’s frown seemed to carry more emotion than his words. There was something in it other than anger, regret possibly, but Trahm was too dumbfounded to see it well. Feeling betrayed and belittled, he glared at the floor. Compounding his frustration, Cal and Beyd continued arguing as if he wasn’t even in the room. Disgusted, he shook his head at them both and headed for the tavern door. The faint smell of chill, April air grew stronger when he neared the exit. As he stepped out, he heard Cal call for him to come back inside, but his anger flashed and he ignored the old man’s pleas as he would the wind. 

Outside, the night air was stirred by a gentle breeze, making it feel fresh and clean. Leaning against the wall of the tavern, Trahm ground the toe of his boot into the loose soil and flicked it lightly. The only time that he ever felt peaceful was at night. The dark was quiet and empty, and his mind was serene. Even now, as questions raced through his thoughts and buried fears surfaced once more, he was calm. 

Yet something was amiss. He could feel it without ever having truly touched it. And whether he could see it or not, it was there. Scanning the dense line of evergreen trees that rimmed the inner circle of the village, he observed only darkness. His eyes darted about rapidly, straining against the bleakness, but still he saw nothing. Fear began to grip him—fear of what he couldn’t understand. Slowly, he eased closer to the door. Slipping around the corner, he felt for the opening and the light within.  

Hearing nothing other than the shifting of branches and needles as the wind caught them, he suddenly realized what was missing. That he could have gone on so long without realizing it irked him. Standing in nearly utter silence, he had missed the one thing that should have been utterly obvious. The night sounds, normally coming forth in an endless flow, had for some reason been all but completely hushed. 

Nocturnal creatures had grown reasonably accustomed to men walking the paths late at night. Men could move through the trees and thickets, their presence unknown to other men, but the animals always knew. It would have been unusual for the fishermen returning home to have disturbed their song for an abundance of time. When something foreign to them stepped into their territory they made it tangible by their silence. It was not an easy quiet, and it brought no peace of mind. 

Easing forward, Trahm peered into the dense cluster of trees directly in front of him. The light from the tavern cast strange shadows that leapt and darted about, making his scanning of the growth difficult. For a moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a dark figure—roughly the size of a man—in the distance. Edging forward, he came upon the spot where he thought he had seen the shadowy outline. Looking around, he could find nothing. 

Then, a figure cloaked in complete darkness threw itself upon him. Reacting quickly, he thrust his elbow into the shadow and somehow hit his mark. The creature fell back into the brush with a grunt. Not waiting to see if it was still conscious, the young soldier ran from the forest and burst into the Cat’s Eye. 

“There’s something outside,” he said frantically. Neither Beyd nor Cal showed any concern. “I’m telling you that there’s something wrong outside!” 

Taking his pipe from his mouth, Cal raised one eyebrow and glanced in Beyd’s direction. “Eighteen and still afraid of the dark.” He grinned mischievously. 

Beyd shrugged and let a slight smile cross his face. “Scary things can happen when yer all by yerself. The dark is full of bad things.” 

Emboldened, Cal went on looking at Trahm in the same teasing manner. When he sensed the young man was about to burst, he slowly rose to his feet and moved to the door. Beyd followed closely behind him, and Trahm took the rear as they walked outside. 

The smoke from Cal’s pipe rose in a wisp as the wind picked it up and lifted it high above them. Still seeming unconcerned, he tapped the pipe against his staff and held it loosely in his left hand. Calmly, he turned to face Beyd, and it was when their eyes met that his expression changed. 

“Strange winds tonight, wouldn’t you say?” Cal seemed to ask the night sky. 

Beyd sniffed the air. “Aye, it is strange. Perhaps a storm is brewing over the ocean. Or mayhap a wind stirs from the north.” 

Cal nodded in reply to Beyd’s statement and then yawned. “I suppose that’s all the old fool can do for pleasure these days.” His tone was almost scornful. “You can come out, Malank. You have frightened the boy quite enough.” 

For a while no sound could be heard, no change noticed. But, after a time, laughter rose up from a small tangle of brush barely visible from where they stood. 

“It has been a long time, Kilk. A very long time. Perhaps that’s the reason you don’t recognize me,” said a man’s voice. 

Faint light from inside the tavern stretched towards the steadily moving figure, and soon the stranger had been revealed.  

“My mistake, Vorin. Age must be getting to me.” 

“Yes, perhaps.” The stranger forced a tight smile that he was obviously not accustomed to displaying. 

His face was thin and his skin dark. Wide eyes glimmered even in the darkness, revealing an almost yellow color. Disheveled, dark brown hair covered his head, and a frown darkened his face. His clothes were finely sewn, almost regal, and he carried no weapon that could be seen. He stopped when he stood before Cal and held out his hand. The aging fisherman took it in his own and clutched it briefly. 

Vorin glanced at Trahm out of the corner of his eye and then leaned forward to whisper something in Cal’s ear. Cal nodded and walked together with Beyd and Vorin into the Cat’s Eye. Before he stepped through the door, Beyd motioned for Trahm to follow. 

“I’ll come inside in a minute.” 

Nodding, Beyd shifted his weight slowly and then stepped inside.  

The young soldier stood alone in the night, waiting to hear the creatures renew their chatter. Right now, being alone meant safety, and until the sounds of the night returned there was no guarantee they were alone. Yet the minutes dragged on, and it was not long before he followed the others inside. 

Chapter 3 | News

Inside, the three men were already seated and had begun to talk. They appeared not to notice him entering the room. Even after he had slid a chair across the floor and seated himself beside them, they paid him little mind. As Vorin spoke, Cal and Beyd listened attentively. Occasionally, one of them would show small signs of surprise or amusement, but usually they listened quietly and without outwardly expressing emotion. It wasn’t until Vorin said he had important news that the oddly casual visit had turned solemn. 

After an agonizing silence, Vorin cleared his throat. “The ordeal of thirty years ago. Right.” He looked from Cal to Beyd and then back to Cal. “Well, this is all just rumors and hearsay mind you, but…” 

“For goodness’ sake spit it out, man.” Cal’s almost perpetual calm seemed to have been murdered by suspense. 

“Yes, well, it appears you’ve changed. Maybe these yokels have rubbed off on you. In any case, back to the matter at hand. It appears that he is on the move once more.” 

For the first time Trahm could remember, Cal appeared truly shocked. “You can’t be serious, Vorin. The Rathinel could not have allowed that to happen.” 

Beyd nodded his agreement, sensing Trahm’s curiosity and eyeing him knowingly as he did. 

With a wry laugh, Vorin replied, “Allowed is not the word I would use, Kilk. You remember how persuasive he can be when angry, do you not?” 

“My memory fails me. I must be growing old.” Cal stood as if in thought, his every motion brimming with sarcasm. “Of course I remember. But how could he have gotten free without us knowing?” 

“Yes. Without the Rathinel’s alarm, how can we be sure it’s him?” Beyd’s face displayed a thoughtful but worried look. 

Vorin answered them both with a shrug. “Nothing is certain, but there are rumors that he was seen in the Isles of Luhnrahn and then in a small village outside of Sternall. He is hardly one to be mistaken for another. However it ended, Arinza is one man that none too many will forget.” 

“True, but what does it mean? Maybe he has motives other than revenge,” said Cal. 

Vorin gave Cal a sidelong look. “I was right. You have changed. You’re too optimistic for your own good.” He drank deeply from his deep pewter mug before continuing. “Honestly, though. You cannot tell me that you believe he, of all people, would simply let this go. His memory is long. Do not think for one moment that he has forgotten our part in the whole ordeal.” 

Cal’s shattered calm had returned. “Then why are you here? To warn us? That is hardly like you. Tell me, Vorin. Why are you here?” 

Vorin drained his mug and sighed loudly. “For him.” He gestured towards Trahm. The signal given, two men burst into the room. Held in their hands were swords that seemed both real and unreal at once. They were not made of any earthly substance. To Trahm, the blades felt alive. There was little time to think, though. He saw that, from nowhere and nothing, Cal and Vorin had brandished weapons of the same make. 

Moving quickly so that he was out of the way, Beyd called for Trahm to follow suit. Instinctively, the young man sidled along the wall towards Beyd. He did not hesitate for an instant, but the external calm he was forcing belied the intensity of emotions roiling within him. His head spinning, Trahm relaxed when he reached Beyd. 

“Good boy. Someone of lesser heart would have been paralyzed with fear seeing aerthili for the first time.” He mopped his brow again. 

“Aerthili?” 

Beyd’s only reply was to shake his head and gesture at the four men facing off in the middle of the room. 

Cal scoffed when Vorin gave him that familiar deep stare. “Trying to play mind games with me, you pup? You’ve never been as adept as you fancy yourself, and I possess not the time or patience for boyish amusement.” Sword rising steadily in his outstretched arms, Cal spoke evenly, his eyes never leaving the other man’s.   

Vorin’s face was harsh and unreadable. “Do not make this difficult, Branthum. You know that he must be taken to Sternall. He must enter the Perinath. We are here to deliver him to the seers.” 

Cal’s eyebrows rose in curiosity at Vorin’s remark. “The Rathinel, after all? So that is how you knew where to find me.” 

“Yes and no, actually. We have known for years. It was easier for us to let you think you were overlooked here. But that is not the matter at hand. You’ve fulfilled your role, Kilk. It is time for the boy to realize who and what he is, and your presence can only hinder our enlightening him. We were ordered to sever you, Kilk. The Rathinel cannot be denied their wish. Make this easy.” Vorin imitated a comforting tone as he softly uttered the words. 

If his composure was shaken by Vorin’s speech, Cal did not show it. Eyes locked on his opponent, he shouted. “Beydin, take him. You must fulfill your debt to me and your promise to the boy.” 

“I will do both, my friend. I promise.” 

“What in the name of heaven is going on?” asked Trahm. Beyd was trying to pull him through the back door of the tavern, and he was fighting all the way. “Cal, what is all this?” 

A smirk crossed Vorin’s face. “Calgiss? I see. You not only caused his death, but you also stole his name. Then, what is the boy’s name?” He smiled wickedly at Trahm. “Linzaar? Daradin? Marathel, perhaps? It matters not. All are fitting names for one so low as him.” 

Beyd tugging at his arm was all that kept Trahm from charging at Vorin. “Don’t let it get to ya, lad. It’s only talk. There’s too much at stake.” 

“Silence, you fat-headed fool! What’s the matter, boy? Too afraid to speak for yourself? Or simply too ignorant? Or perhaps you’re captive to that idiot behind you holding your collar. Held on a leash like the dog you are, eh, boy?” Vorin’s sharp laugh was the final push. In a fierce rush of pure rage, Trahm had drawn his sword and leapt at the man. 

“Trahm, no! You cannot fight him!” A voice called from what seemed miles away, but it was far too late to change his course now. In a flash, his sword was out of his hand, and he was on the tavern floor, held down by Vorin’s right boot. 

Vorin’s eyes were full of contempt as he glowered at his defeated adversary. “Trahm. The name of a fisherman! His father would love that, Kilk.” 

Cal’s eyes wore a sharp and dangerous look. “His father’s foolish pride is what caused all of this, Vorin. Do not think for a moment that I would be the one to nourish that folly so that it grew so strong in him.” 

“It seems you have failed there also. The boy is a mirror image of his sire. Rash and temperamental—a fool begging for death.” Vorin lifted his boot from Trahm’s chest and and replaced it with his sword. “However, I am not here to kill. Simply to fulfill a small request. Get up, boy.” With a flourish of his hand, Vorin commanded his two companions to come forward. 

As they drew nearer to him, Trahm saw that they were not much older than him. He also noticed dried blood in one of the two men’s nostrils and supposed that he was the shadow-cloaked figure from the forest. The man confirmed his suspicions by giving him an odious look. Rising to his feet steadily and trying not to make his intentions obvious, he moved as close to them and as far away from Vorin as he could manage. The weapons in their hands vanished seemingly at will and were replaced by strands of twine they had tucked in their belts.  

Overconfident, the two men glanced at each other and smirked. Taking advantage of the small lapse in their defenses, Trahm slammed his elbow into the bleeding one’s face and sent him tumbling. Surprised by the suddenness of the attack, the other could do nothing until it was too late. A swift kick had taken out his right leg and sent him to the floor in agony before he could materialize his weapon. With the two sprawled out on the floor, Trahm quickly jumped over them and out the front door. Dashing into the trees and safety, the last thing he heard was the clash of battle from the room he had just left. Another shadowy figure appeared in the darkness in front of him, then everything went black.

***

When he awakened, it was still dark but quickly turning into morning. The cold, rocky earth pressed into his back, and a light ocean mist filled his lungs. Every part of his body ached. Trees surrounded him except for the ocean behind him. As he studied the area, he saw that he had spent the night near a coastal bluff. The sound of the ocean crashing on the rocks below was refreshing and the beautiful birdsongs calming. But how had he gotten there? 

He rose to his feet, annoyed by how damp his clothes felt. Reaching down to his belt, he found that his sword was out of its scabbard and nowhere in sight. Footprints covered the ground around his apparent resting place, and a horse was tied to a tree not far from the small clearing.  

Taking extra time to survey his surroundings, he concluded that he was probably a mile or less from Ren near a place called Naman’s Thumb. Setting his course to the west, he headed for the village with a blaring headache and a touch of urgency. Not knowing what to expect, he reached a jog as he moved into the trees. The rather steep climb was normally the worst part of the trip. Today was unique. 

Before he could crest the hill, he found himself facing the point of a sword. It was much like the weapons he had seen the night before, and with closer inspection Trahm found that it appeared to be constantly moving—living motion. Not daring to think too much or look around for fear of his head being removed, he remained as still as possible. 

“It’s alright. He is not an enemy.” 

A man dressed in battle gear appeared from behind a thick cluster of trees. His light brown hair was trimmed to a little less than shoulder length and his face was wind-beaten and leathery. His hazel eyes shone with a brightness that felt kindly. “Don’t detain him if he wishes to leave. I need an update from the village anyway. Will you go with him and report back to me?” 

The sword point fell out of Trahm’s view, and he breathed a very quiet sigh of relief. 

A young man most probably in his early twenties stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Yes, Master. Of course.” 

The older man smiled. “Thank you, Lang. You may proceed as you wish. Be cautious.” 

Lang bowed again, more deeply this time. “I will.” 

“Oh, and Lang.” Lang gave a look that said he was listening. “Ask the old man if his senses are still keen enough to feel the north wind blow. If he says yes, tell him to follow it.” 

The young man’s face was blank despite the strange command he had received. “Yes, Master.” 

“Good. You may go.” 

He then turned to face Trahm, his hand held out firmly. “I am Brasa Langiles.” 

He was pale and slender with dark hair. Trahm surmised from what little knowledge of the other provinces he had that Lang had been born in the northern lands, in the province of Hazilled or Myrna. “My comrades call me Lang. So may you, if it be your wish. Brasa is also acceptable.” 

Shifting his feet a bit awkwardly, Trahm shook the other man’s hand. “My name is Trahm. Trahm Linz.” For some reason, the name didn’t ring as true after last night. What was it Vorin had called Cal? Kilk Branthum. What in heaven’s name was going on? 

Solemnly, Lang pulled his hand free and climbed upwards in a westward direction. “Are you coming?” 

His mind flooded with unanswered questions, Trahm forced it all aside and hurriedly took a few long strides to catch up to Lang. “What happened last night? All I remember is running out of the tavern.” 

Lang eyed him warily as though he were a spy and then pointed to the northeast. “Do you know what lies in that direction?” 

Creating a layout of the area in his mind, Trahm nodded. “The old Legion outpost lies about twenty-five miles in that direction, double that and you’ll hit the Serath River and Swiftwater.” 

“And beyond that?” 

Thanking his good graces that he had always been interested in maps, Trahm continued. “Another one hundred miles would bring you to Klairda, the capital city of the Ruling Province of Nephored.” 

“What do you know of the politics in Nephored?” 

So much for not looking the fool, thought Trahm. His knowledge of politics was about as broad as a needle’s head. “Only a little. When I was at the garrison, the officers used to talk about ‘strained relations’ and ‘bad blood’ between the Magistrate and the Chair. It meant nothing to me. I mostly ignored the whole thing.” 

Shaking his head, Lang explained as they walked. “That is only on the surface, and the problems run much deeper than that. But, yes, that is essentially the cause of this entire mess. The Supreme Magistrate and the Reilin Chair have been at one another’s throats since the current Magistrate came to power seven years ago. Two days ago, orders were sent by the Magistrate calling for immediate mobilization of the provincial army to defend against the ghost of Arinza. However, Behnas Nephil, the current Reilin Chair, disagreed. He declared it a power grab with no justification. Moving east with those loyal to him, he occupied the city of Hapsel. But he is outmanned and outmatched. If nothing changes, ere long his armies will be sitting in your village square.” 

Most of what Lang had said was beyond Trahm, but his final remark was intriguing. Dreading the answer for a multitude of reasons, he asked, “What was Vorin’s reason for being here?” 

Lang shrugged. “I’m not sure. My master told me most of what I just told you. If you want to know, ask him.” 

Aware that Lang was trying to evade him, Trahm posed no more questions. The atmosphere tense, they walked on in silence until they reached the outskirts of the village. Surprisingly, things seemed mostly unchanged. 

It appeared most men had already gone out for the day’s fishing. That was evidenced by their absence within the village square and around their homes. The daily chores were left to the remaining men—the very old and the very young—and to the women. The men spent their days tending to small fields where they grew the food they could not catch, while the women spent their time inside cooking, sewing, and cleaning. All things considered, everything found the same peaceful note of tranquility Trahm had always known it to. All was as it should have been. 

Stepping through the trees, the two men came out into the clear. The village square was plainly visible from the raised piece of land they were walking on. Passing a few small shacks on their way, they came upon several of the villagers out doing their daily labors. Occasionally, someone would look up from their work. But more often than not, they would carry on with their duties, too wrapped up to pay attention to much else. They did not appear threatened or uneasy. 

Beginning the straight and gradual descent, Lang and Trahm moved casually along the path. 

Lang spoke in a pointed tone, and the effort to be conversational made his words seem forced. “I see the blacksmith is in his forge today.” 

It took Trahm a moment to answer. “Yeah. Bly Revil’s his name. A nice man and a good host to almost any guest, but not very ambitious or clean. His wife keeps after him. Nice lady, Sarah, but meaner than anything if you cross her.” His short laugh was quickly stifled by Lang’s lack of expression. 

Led to more serious thoughts by his companion’s blandness, Trahm changed the subject. “Everything seems fine to me. Why did your master tell you to be cautious?” 

Lang once again gave him that wary look. “When we arrived last night, we sensed the clashing of aerthili. We found—” 

“What are aerthili?” asked Trahm, realizing his rudeness far too late. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Obvious signs of forced calm showed on Lang’s face. “Do not worry, I am simply forgetting who I am speaking to.” His intention was not to be condescending, Trahm thought, but it sounded that way. 

“Now, as I was saying. We found Vorin—Lord Nortonga—and two Candidates. Excuse me, apprentice is a better word for you. Yes, well, we found those three dueling with two other men my master seems to be acquainted with. My master broke it up, and Lord Vorin left without saying much of anything. That is what transpired last night. Caution is necessary, because Lord Vorin might return at any time. He is not one to be taken lightly.” 

All holes in the story were filled but for one. “What about me? The last thing I remember is everything going dark.” 

“We saw two men running off into the night through the village square as we approached. You were knocked out and had a fair injury to your head. My master healed that well enough, I guess.” He paused for a moment, looking at his surroundings. His voice was quieter when he continued. “But that is another reason we must be careful. Those two men might have killed you if not for our arrival. Worse, they saw my master and me. If they find allies, we may have more trouble than we had intended, and we planned on quite a lot.” 

Trahm cursed softly under his breath. “Dylan and Brice Meran, I suppose. We aren’t exactly the best of friends. If there’s trouble to be made around here, they’ll be at the center of it. How long do you and your master plan on staying here? I’d suggest not too long.” 

“Not long. We leave as soon as the two men from the tavern last night are prepared.” 

“Prepared?” 

“Never mind that. You will know soon enough.” 

“Will I? Wonderful news.” He’d been left out in the cold again and couldn’t help but be bitter. “Then they weren’t wounded, either of them?” 

“No. My master and I arrived before Lord Vorin could do any real damage. In any case, your friends can take care of themselves, I think.” 

“Why do you keep calling him Lord Vorin? You act like he’s a god.” They were in the village square now. “If anything at all, he seemed a promising tyrant to me.” 

Lang gasped as if he had heard the world would end the very next day. “You must not speak of any of the seven Naidan that way! To any Candidate, they are almost as gods. My master, Malank Linwell, is also of that order. You do not wish to incur their wrath upon you. Only a fool would speak slander against any of their names.” 

Lang’s tirade was silenced by the appearance of Beyd from the tavern’s front entrance. Muttering something under his breath—Trahm caught the word "fool”—Lang forced a tight smile and nodded hello. Beyd returned the silent greeting and then turned to Trahm. His face showed signs of worry and, to Trahm’s surprise, a touch of anger. 

“Fool boy. Yeh could have gotten yerself killed. Yer lucky Malank showed up last night, or those two would’ve put yeh to sleep for good. Not to mention yer antics last night with Nortonga. That man could split yeh in half and never think twice.” 

Cal came out of the building moving very slowly. “Hush, Beydin. He has learned his lesson by now, I hope. Only in the worst possible turn of events would Vorin harm the boy. For now, at least, Trahm is more useful to him alive.” 

Beyd begrudgingly agreed with Cal and folded his arms across his chest. Cal turned to face Trahm. “However, that does not change the fact that what you did last night was foolish. If Vorin were not so hungry for advancement, you would be dead.” Both Beyd and Lang vehemently agreed, making Trahm flush in embarrassment and aggravation. 

Cal could see the anxiety of not knowing building in Trahm once more. He gripped the young man’s shoulder, walking him away from the others. “I know all of this is hard for you to accept, but you must. I had always hoped this day would never come, but it has. Nothing will ever be the same.” He drove his walking stick into the ground, hard. “I will explain everything the best I can when there is time. You must be patient.” Trahm was feeling overwhelmed and left out, but he hid it behind a nod and a faint smile. 

Cal then turned to Lang. “You are Malank’s Found, are you not?” 

Lang nodded sternly, his voice and body language the very embodiment of formality. “Yes, I am a Candidate. I am called Brasa Langiles.” 

“I am honored to stand in the presence of a true Wielder once more, young Langiles.” Cal spoke formally also, but his manner made him appear of a higher rank or station. Lang was poorly suppressing his annoyance over the situation. “Vorin seems to have lost something over the years. I feel it, but I cannot name it.” He seemed glad and troubled in the same instant. “But what he lacks is something I sense strongly in you. There is hope for the future.” 

Lang wore an inquiring look. It was one of the few times Trahm noticed him outwardly exhibiting an emotion other than condescension. “How is it that you know of Master Malank and our Order, Sir… may I ask your name? Something of you strikes me as familiar.” 

“Since coming to this village, I have taken on the name Cal Linz.” He hesitated, weighing in his mind what he was about to say. “You may remember a different name, though. I was at one time called Kilk Branthum.” Lang’s eyes went wide, but the old man droned on. “That time is now long gone. I would rather you leave that name and everything connected with it where I abandoned it all years ago.” 

Cal’s eyes twinkled thoughtfully as he watched Lang’s changing expressions. “It seems I have fulfilled both of your curiosities at once, young Wielder.” 

“You are Kilk Branthum? Fourth of the Order. Regarded by scholars in Sternall as perhaps the most brilliant of the previous Seven before the last Shattering. No offense, but many think you are dead. With my master always moving and all, we don’t often get fresh information. News is hard to come by. It is not always easy being the Found of Malank Linwell.” Lang finished with an ugly and rarely used laugh.  

Cal looked at Lang and sighed. “I doubt you would find truth in Sternall if you lived there your entire life. It is seldom found there. The Rathinel serve only one end. I am sure Malank has made you aware of that, or in the least tried.” He paused for a moment and smiled, a gleam in his eyes. “As for my brilliance… It was not difficult being the most intelligent of the Seven with that lot.” 

Lang appeared baffled and offended, leaving Trahm bewildered. “Do not degrade yourself, Lord Branthum. Why, you are still one of the Naidan. I was in the Perinath long enough to learn that.” 

The old man shook his head. “That is not so, I am afraid. I laid aside that calling long ago, Brasa.” 

“I speak to you in earnestness and truth, Lord Branthum. The Rathinel still hold you as the Fourth, my lord,” Lang said firmly. “As I am sure you know, before being selected as a Candidate one is given the history of the Order and the true meaning of the Purpose. One is also told of the Seven and the Bonds that are present. You are indeed the Fourth.” 

It was Cal’s turn to be perplexed. “That is impossible. The Rathinel told me I had been released. The Deep Knowledge left me.” He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. “Yet, if what you say is true, it is no wonder the others knew where to find me.” 

Lang again seemed suddenly wary. “It is true, I assure you. This is disturbing news. The fact that you were granted release and that your bond with the Rathinel was not broken is unnerving. But now I understand how he found you in... this place. I am sure much goes on in the world that is not yet known here. My master can inform you of what has happened since you came here.” 

Lang gave a start and then blurted out, “Master Malank ordered me to ask you something, Lord Branthum. I thought it strange, but… in any event. Are your senses still keen enough to feel the North Wind blow?” 

“Tell him I said yes.” 

“Then, my master says, you are to follow it.” Lang fulfilled Malank’s command solemnly and precisely. 

“Still up to his old games, I see. Fine. Tell him we will follow.” 

“Good. I will report back to my master at once. We must depart soon. Can I tell my master to expect companions?” 

Cal shook his head. “No, that is not necessary. Fulfill your orders, nothing more. There are some things you must simply accept, young Langiles.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Lang then turned and walked away in the direction he arrived from. 

Cal shuffled his feet to face Beyd. “What do you suppose he is up to this time, Beydin?”  

Beyd shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Either way, we’re stuck taking his lead in this dance.” 

“Right. I know too little of the world as it is to lead us and am too weak in my old age to protect us. We are stuck chasing the wind, Beydin. I just hope I don’t end up wasting more time.” I haven’t much left to spare. 

Chapter 4 | A Fool’s Bargain

“Cal… Kilk, I mean. What is all of this?” asked Trahm, as the group prepared to depart. 

Depart! There had been no mention of where they were going or why, only a plethora of vague answers that sounded ridiculous. 

“We’re leaving, but you can’t say where we’re going. You won’t even say why we’re going. Tell me what’s going on!” 

Cal did not look at him. “There is too much to explain and too little time to explain it right now, Trahm. As for my name, Cal will do. The name Kilk is not all that common in the southern provinces and may draw attention. I would rather forget my attachment to it, anyway. All I can tell you is that this place is no longer safe, and that Malank is our best hope for surviving right now. Be patient. The rest will come in due time.” 

Trahm’s voice quivered. “In due time? I come home to find everything I care for, everything that brought me back here, to be nothing more than an illusion, and all you can tell me is ‘be patient’? Damn you!” He turned to storm off but thought better of it. He had more left on his mind. “My life to this point has been nothing but a lie. Your lie. I don’t know who you or Beyd are. Everything I thought I knew is foreign to me. I can’t trust you.” Cal stood silently, clearly full of regret. “You’ve betrayed me my whole life, so how can I be sure you aren’t still?”  

The most infuriating part for Trahm was that his words felt wrong even as he spoke them. He yearned to say and do completely the opposite of what he was, and the uncontrollable struggle proved aggravating and painful. Deep within, he realized things could not have gone another way. And, deeper still, he knew that he had asked for what was happening. Yet this only served to fan the flames of rage, and they grew so hot that he could not even speak. It was blind anger—a lethal poison as deadly to him as those around him. 

Seeing this, Cal made no attempt to draw nearer but spoke softly to curb his fury. “Trahm, I am human. I am as far from perfect as one can be. That fact has been made glaringly obvious many times during my life. I also know that the wound within you is large, for I know how it was created in the first. I have spent my time with you trying to fill the void in your heart, but now you are old enough to fill it with the truth. And the truth of your past is full of pain. I would share the burden with you if I could, but it is not mine to bear.” Now he did move closer to Trahm, grabbing him by both of his shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes. “But I know that if we do not move, that void will never be filled. A dead man has no memory or emotions. I ask not for your trust, but for you to think beyond impulse and make a wise decision.” 

All these things had occurred to Trahm, but Cal’s soft tone and the words he knew to be true bothered him. The previous night and its aftermath were fated. He knew that. The only real questions were when those events would happen and how they would play out. He could no sooner have stopped the sun rising than prevented the Naidan from seeking him out—and he hated it. He still knew nothing of himself.

He would have learned the truth about Cal and Beydin simply by searching for his own identity, but that made the whole thing even harder to stomach. They knew what he most desired and seemed not to care. Then, there was his wounded pride. The embarrassment of having lashed out like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum worsened his mindset. Inside, the realization came to him that he would not survive on his own. Without the help of Cal and the others he would be ignorant, and that ignorance would be his doom. On and on his mind traced this pattern until he was going in circles. Finally, he gave in and let his anger subside. After all, he reasoned, he had always dreamed of leaving Ren and searching for clues about his past. 

“I will follow, but not for you or for anyone else. I want answers. After I have them, I’ll travel wherever my search takes me. With or without you.” He stopped momentarily as if contemplating what to say next, but in the end uttered only an inaudible whisper to which Cal paid no heed. Beydin remained quiet outside of an unreadable grunt. 

“Good. Now we must prepare to leave.” 

Cal gave a quiet command to Beyd and then spoke to Trahm again as the fat man sauntered away. “You go with him. He may need a little help. Oh, and make sure to grab my books. They are important.” He spoke the words in a way that said any answer but “yes” would not suffice. Grunting his acknowledgement, Trahm turned and followed Beyd up the trail towards the Pile. 

*** 

“Trahm, I commend yeh for yer courage and fortitude,” grumbled Beyd. He was stooped over, sifting through mounds of trash and dirt strewn about the floor of Cal’s home. “Few could have survived this for so long. There is hardly a man alive who could remain here and not vomit. Roots and stones! This air is unfit for breathing. My mother, Earthmother keep her, would have fainted on the threshold of this heap of trash. Not even Marathel himself would dare enter here.” 

“What are you talking about? I think it’s just fine.” Trahm stood at the Pile’s entrance, watching with amusement. 

Trash and dirt were sent flying as Beyd pushed further inward. “If ya can endure this, my boy, have at it. Yer certainly braver than I. And perhaps lacking a sense of smell.” His pace as quick as Trahm had ever seen, the balding man hurried outside. A moment later he poked his head inside the room, a handkerchief held firmly to his nose. “Bring out what yeh'll need for travel and only what yeh'll need for travel. There is no time for reminiscing, so don’t dally.” Then he withdrew once again, now heatedly muttering to himself.  

Grabbing a few tunics and other garments, Trahm began tossing the things they would need in a heap. It was not long before he had collected everything but the books that Cal loved so much. He had always wondered how a fisherman became so learned and well-read as Cal had. Now that his curiosities were at last being fulfilled, he realized that even the smallest answers came with a price. Never had he dreamed that things would unwind as they did, or so quickly.  

Such were the young man’s thoughts as he uncovered the weathered and dirty tome lying beside Cal’s “bed.” Ignoring Beyd’s demand for speed, he opened the cover of the book. One thing Cal had done, though few knew it, was to teach him the written word. It was a talent very few of the villagers possessed. 

The text appeared to be rather mundane and plainly written—something far too bland to appeal to his tastes. He did, however, find a passage that caught his interest. 

Fire of the East, Flame of Hope. 

Master of the Sons of Morning and Light of the Path to Dawn. 

Bringer of Truth and Destroyer of Verity.  

Hope Embodied and the Despair of All. 

He will come, his journey witnessed by all yet truly seen by none. 

His legacy our steepest fall and our greatest redemption. 

Such will he be. 

Startled by the sound of shifting feet, he hurriedly closed the book and grabbed the rest of what was needed. Carrying all he had gathered, he stepped outside to be met by a clearly annoyed tavern owner. 

Beyd rolled his eyes when he saw Trahm. “Took ya long enough. I clearly remember telling ya not to dally. Was there something difficult to understand in that, may I ask?” Trahm opened his mouth to speak, but Beyd cut him off. “No, never mind! We haven’t the time for explanations and excuses. We hafta return to Cal quickly. Malank never was one to remain idle.” 

Hurriedly, they collected the items Trahm had brought outside and began walking toward the village. Their quick descent was halted by four villagers who burst from the trees not far from where they walked. All but one rushed past. It was Laike Elna, one of Brice’s cronies. He was short of breath and visibly afraid. 

He stared at Trahm and his eyes went wide. “You! You are the cause of this,” he said breathlessly. “It’s you they want. Hey! Over here! The Sendrene is over here!” His shout was quickly answered, and soon it seemed the whole village was upon them.  

Angry yells could be heard and threats were made as the mob closed in on the two like a pack of hungry wolves. Unsurprisingly, it was Brice Meran who parted the crowd and stepped forward. 

Brice clicked his tongue sarcastically. “Here we are again. We’ve made quite a habit of playing out this scene lately. It won’t end well for you this time. There’s no one to save you, and even if there was, you’ve got a whole village against you.” He paused, waiting for the villagers’ cries of agreement to subside. “It seems we’ve struck a deal with some gentlemen. The safety of our village in exchange for you. We all agree that it’s a trade we can’t refuse. We’re giving them the fat traitor as a bonus.”  

Before he had even finished speaking, the villagers had tied their hands and were shoving them both down the dirt path. The only small comfort Trahm had was Beyd’s reassuring and confident gaze. But he was soon robbed of that as well, for even the unshakable tavern owner seemed crestfallen when the pair were brought to stand next to Cal, who was also tied up. 

The last of Trahm’s poise slipped away when the mob disbanded and the “gentlemen” Brice spoke of were revealed. 

All five looked alike. They wore black armor with masks that covered all but their eyes. The darkness around them did not emanate but absorbed. The dreariness of early morning only added to the effect. Every single villager seemed to be subconsciously distancing themselves from them. Their masks made it impossible to see any facial expression they made. And their eyes, like the deceptively calm core of a raging torrent, were so still and eerily quiet that one look quelled any thought of resistance. Trahm was thrown to the ground before them, bleeding and feeling forsaken by all he knew and all he seemed destined not to. 

One of them spoke. Which one he could not discern. “This is him?” The only answer was a silent nod from one of the others. “Then we have what we came for. We must complete the rest of our task.”  

He then grabbed Trahm by the hair and wrenched him to his feet, ordering two of his subordinates to watch after him. Unable to struggle and too afraid to speak, the last thing Trahm heard before being blindfolded and dragged away was a blur of confused noise he didn’t understand.  

*** 

As Trahm was being escorted away, the three remaining soldiers unsheathed crimson blades and surged into the huddled villagers. One by one they fell, blood staining the ground and trickling downhill in a river of death. Some ran, but it was a vain attempt to flee. 

As the murderers tore through the crowd and cut down their defenseless prey, Lang, aerthili drawn, broke free from the cover of the trees and hurled himself at the three killers. He dispatched two before the leader even realized what was happening. Turning, the black clad warrior halted his murderous onslaught. With icy reserve, he approached Lang. 

His voice was of nothingness and of everything in the same instant—quiet and shrill, serene and piercing. “Naidan. I expected you scum. We both pursue the same goals, you and we. Our purpose is the same. Yet you insist that you are righteous and we are evil. You and that entire order will perish before the end as payment for your hypocrisy. But I have no time for such trivialities. There is much I have to attend to, so I bid you farewell.” 

Turning his back, the man slowly walked away, hoping that he would hear footsteps of pursuit. Disappointment and surprise were the last two emotions he felt. As he ducked into the tree line, he met with Malank’s aerthili and near instant death. 

When Malank reached Cal and Beyd, he found that Lang had already cut their bonds and was preparing to give chase to the remaining attackers. 

Cal’s face was twisted in thought. “What were the Seirvith Nulne doing here? They haven’t been active since the war ended.” 

Malank spoke with haste, the urgency of what was unfolding weighing heavily on him. “Things have begun to move again, Kilk. We must act quickly, or we will be overtaken. I have horses enough for the four of us tethered just on the village outskirts. We must hurry if we are to rescue Trahm. Lang, come with me!” Malank and Lang raced into the forest east of the village while Cal and Beyd gathered what they could. 

*** 

When Malank and Lang returned, morning was growing bright and crisp. They each rode a horse and held the reigns of another. The dust formed low hanging clouds and hung in the air as they held their mounts at a quick trot. Surprisingly, each of them rode with a companion. Even more surprisingly, when they moved close enough that Cal could make out their faces, the two companions turned out to be the Meran brothers. When the group reached Cal and Beyd, they let go the reigns of the two extra horses and brought theirs to a halt. 

Brice was bound and sullen. Apparently, the great chip on his shoulders had been downsized considerably. When he saw the dead villagers, much to Malank’s dismay, Brice vomited all over himself. Dylan, on the other hand, sat calmly in the saddle even as he witnessed the carnage. 

Malank unceremoniously threw Brice to the ground. He chastised the two brothers, showing a look of blatant contempt each time he looked at Brice. “If retribution is what you boys seek, then retribution is what you will receive. There is a price to pay for what you have done. As long as I live, I assure you: A day will not go by that you do not remember the sins of this day.” He turned to face Beyd. “You must ride with this stench, Beydin. You have my sincerest apologies. I would do it, but Selrhed and I will have to move quickly if we mean to save the boy.” 

Selrhed pranced about as Malank spoke, seemingly eager to begin the chase. “We cannot use the road until we reach Swiftwater. It is too easily watched, and six of us will be sure to draw attention. We must also avoid the Nephored scuffle to the northeast. Cal, you must guide them. Are you able?” The old man nodded his head somberly. “Good. Then we ride. Lang, you’ll have to help that wee lad get into the saddle.” 

Lang hopped down and tossed Brice onto Beydin’s horse with one arm while holding the bridle with his free hand. “Master, you must go. We’ll be right behind you.”  

As Brice began to sob, Dylan remained stoic, the golden morning light shining upon his resolute visage. Malank seemed pleasantly surprised but said nothing. Instead, he grasped Selrhed’s reigns tightly and raced into the distance. As he did, his voice came as a breath carried by the wind. Only Cal heard it, but the message was very simple. It said, “Follow me.” 

Chapter 5 | North Wind’s Trail

It was a difficult thing for both Cal and Beyd to simply leave behind the multitude of villagers whose lifeless bodies were now lying where they had been cut down, some cloven nearly in two by the crimson blades of the Seirvith Nulne. Beyd had offered to stay and help the few survivors bury the dead properly, but Cal had insisted that he not. If they met any trouble along the way, the three of them would need to be together if they hoped to survive. So, it was with heavy hearts that they departed the village that morning. 

Brice and Dylan both remained quiet as the party raced along the animal paths and hidden trails of the Eastland forest. Cal had taken the lead, never once having to double back or stop to check his surroundings. Lang was following, bent low in the saddle and concentrating with all his strength on guiding his horse swiftly enough to stay with Cal. Beyd, his weight great in its own right and combined with that of his sulking companion, was always lagging a little behind. His horse bore the burden, somehow managing to never hinder the group’s brisk pace. They stopped only occasionally to rest and water the horses. 

During one of these brief rests, Lang struck up a conversation with Cal. “How is it, Lord Branthum, that you know the back trails so well? Pardon my saying, but you don’t appear as though you travel much.” 

Cal merely smiled at the youth. “It’s an old trick that only Malank and I know. If we ever have the time, I may teach you. The best I can do now is to tell you that we are following the North Wind. Perhaps you understand already,” he said, noticing a glimmer in Lang’s eyes. 

Then, suddenly, he leapt into action. “Come! He is moving again, and quickly.” He seated himself smoothly upon his stallion and they were soon back on the trail. 

When they finally broke through the trees, the first signs of dusk could be seen creeping over the horizon. At the summit of a particularly steep rise not far from the forest edge, they looked out upon a vast spread of rolling hills that seemed to stop where the coming darkness now approached. Looking down into the shallow valley between the hill they now occupied and the next, they spotted a small fire and a familiar face. 

Malank had prepared them a bit of food and built a fire near a stream and a small pond where they and the horses could drink. Cal, confused as to why he would stop and wait for them, questioned him on the matter. He had stopped to rest, he said, because the trail would be safer under the cover of darkness. 

“Besides, I’m minutes away from those bastards and there are things we need to discuss. Time is running out.” No further explanation was given or asked for. 

Settling down after having a bite, the four of them gathered near the fire and talked. As the conversation wore on, Cal took out his pipe and Beyd drank occasionally from a small silver flask. Malank informed them of the current happenings in Klairda—and of the sightings of Arinza and the tiff between the Supreme Magistrate and Reilin Chair. The entire time, Dylan and Brice sat apart from the others and said nothing. 

“So,” Malank concluded, “It seems probable that Arinza has not only been left alive, but he is free as well. Worse, he is within striking distance of the boy.” He was peering intently at the stars, as if he saw something the rest of them did not. “His timing couldn’t have been better. The spreading conflict in this land will create the perfect smokescreen for his return to power. If we’re to have any hope of stopping him, we must move quickly.” 

Beyd pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If we were to lose the lad, then what?” 

Malank’s gaze swept quickly from the stars to meet Beyd’s questioning eyes. “We cannot let that happen. That boy is the last thread in a frayed and battered rope. We can’t afford his capture, death, or worse. Anyone who hopes to harm him is our enemy.” 

“And if the Rathinel decide to nullify him?” 

“That, Beyd, is something I’d rather not discuss, not even think about. But if the Rathinel openly oppose us, then they are the enemy. I don’t see that happening, though. They need him too much. Right, Cal?”  

But Cal didn’t answer. The old man was in his own world, and some time would pass before he returned from it. Knowing this, his two friends steered their conversation towards brighter places and left him alone. 

*** 

An hour had come and gone, and Cal remained enraptured. He sat in the soft grass puffing on his pipe, all the while hearing nothing but the muffled voices of his companions as they talked.    

When he finally did speak, his voice was a hoarse rumble. “Everything we fought for has all been for nothing.” His eyes were focused on the single blade of grass he held in his hand. “It is my fault, and no one else’s. I had hoped to protect the boy by keeping him from the world. I should have known better. Wise indeed!” He turned to Lang with a sorrowful look on his old face. “The boy there is wiser than I am. Trahm was a second chance for me, and I have failed him, too.” 

Lang did not reply, but his indignant expression said that he most certainly didn’t agree. Beyd, however, did speak—and sternly. “Kilk. Stop feeling sorry for yerself.” Cal threw him a sharp glare. “This isn’t the time or place for it. Another mistake may cost Trahm his life, but he’s still alive. Self-pity won’t save him, and it won’t restore life to Calgiss Renwall, either.” He grew quieter and, somehow, even more stern. “There’s worse things than the Seirvith Nulne in this world.” His eyes darted from Malank to Cal as he said this. “Those black rats better hope we get there first, for their sake as much as the lad’s.”

***

Trahm was exhausted, hungry, and dirty. His captors had stopped only twice during the day. With his body ready to succumb to tiredness and hope having long since left him, he fell into a pit of despair. A sense of foreboding shrouded his mind from the possibility that help was coming. Only darkness loomed where he was now. The thudding hooves and constant movement of the horse had numbed his entire body and his mind, so he barely noticed when they came to a gradual stop. Now his body ached. Everywhere. 

The Seirvith Nulne that he had been riding with got down from his horse and savagely pushed Trahm, who was still tied up, out of the saddle. As feeling returned to his limbs, the deep gashes where the rope had cut into his skin, the bruises all over his body, and the emptiness in the pit of his stomach made him wish they hadn’t stopped at all.  

He was surprised when he felt the ropes around his hands being loosened. When the chill night air hit the skin where the ropes had worn him raw, the stinging made his eyes water. Pulling his blindfold off, he lifted himself up a bit to look around. Night’s darkness seemed deeper in this place, wherever it was, and the silence all around cast an eerie spell on the surroundings.  

Someone pulled him to his feet from behind and he staggered as he remembered how it felt to walk. A sudden slight push in the back nearly knocked him down again, and as he slowly turned to see who had done it, he was shoved another time. Taking the hint, Trahm moved forward cautiously until he ran into something solid. 

The sound of footsteps behind him slowed and only the horses’ breathing could be heard. A dark, barely visible figure appeared in front of him and then vanished. Silence loomed around him and, after some time had passed, he began to wonder if this was his resting place for the night. He was about to try his luck at running when a door banged open. Light flooded into the empty blackness around him, stealing his vision.  

When his eyes came into focus, he quickly realized that the solid object he had run into was a small shack. The black clad figure that had disappeared was now standing before him in the doorway. 

Helmet off, the Seirvith Nulne looked far less menacing. Perhaps even beautiful, Trahm mused. She was not smiling, though, when she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over the threshold. After making sure to close and lock the door, she made her way to the other side of the room and sat down. 

Trahm sauntered off to the opposite corner of the room from where she sat, slumping to the floor. He watched the young woman who rested not more than fifteen feet away.  

The Seirvith Nulne worked quietly and with a confident deftness at pulling things out of her saddlebags that she needed and arranging them neatly before her. Her eyes never left her task, but Trahm knew instinctively that catching her unawares was unlikely if not impossible. Still, he could not have willed himself to attack her right now. It was not exhaustion, pain, or anything of the sort that held him back. He simply lacked the will to fight. Part of him had given up, and he allowed his eyes to be mesmerized by his captor’s movements. Even though the light was low, her beauty commanded attention. 

A loud knock at the door sent Trahm’s heart racing and his female kidnapper scurrying across the room. Her counterpart slid inside the shack. He removed his helmet, revealing a full head of graying hair peppered black in places where age had yet to take hold. When he had locked the door, he spoke to the woman. 

“I think Nevri and Chana are dead. And if Sheldan doesn’t arrive within the hour, we can assume that we’re on our own. Just between you and me, I hope he doesn’t show. The man gives me the creeps. Either way, we’ve got some traveling ahead of us. I took care of the beasts as best I could in this darkness, so we’re set that way.” He paused, handing something to the woman. “You should get some rest. If Sheldan’s dead, we’ll have to move quickly if we hope to survive.” Nodding, the female Seirvith Nulne returned to her duties. 

Turning away from her, the man faced Trahm. “Arinza’s son, eh? I don’t buy it. You’re not much to look at, that’s for certain.” He threw something at Trahm, but the young man hesitated to pick it up. “Don’t worry. We ain’t gonna hurt you. Not yet, at least.” He barked a laugh and sat down. Not as neat or tidy as his companion, he unrolled a small bedroll, laid down, and instantly began snoring. 

Trahm searched the area around where he sat, looking for what the man had thrown. It was a piece of dried meat. He ate without thinking, tasting, or chewing. The repulsed look on his female captor’s face fully escaped his notice. 

Hunger abated, he finally gained the wherewithal to ask what he was feasting on. Thinking better of it, he decided to sleep instead and turned the cleanest part of wood floor he could find into a bed. As he did, he realized that the man had suggested he was “Arinza’s son.” The idea was absurd. Zahdeke Arinza had been dead for thirty years or more. Dulled by weariness, the thought slid off his brain, and he had a hard time bringing it back. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, his mind would have been spinning with wild tales of his supposedly strange parentage. But things as they were, he fell asleep the moment his head touched his arm. 

***

Selrhed ran swiftly and effortlessly across the rolling plains of the Province of Ank’nor. Malank had left his companions in their sleep three hours before, with instructions for Cal to have them moving within another two. That gave him until dawn to track down his quarry. Then he could decide whether to kill them or follow them to their leader. He weighed the options in his mind. If he were to do away with them and rescue the boy, he could end this little game the Seirvith Nulne were playing. On the other hand, if he cut this head off the hydra, he might be able to pick its brain for what path to follow next. 

But it would all be for nought—nothing else would matter—if the boy was dead.   

When he dropped down from the saddle to let his horse drink and to refresh himself, he finally came to a decision. Taking an old coin from his pocket, he left the choice to fate, flinging it in the air. As it fell back into his hand, he could feel every rough edge and blemish on the worn surface of the molded silver. Luck was his passion. It kept him alive, carrying him from one place to the next on a whim. Like the wind wisped leaf stolen by an evening gust, his life was uncertain, and that was how he liked it. So, when he opened his hand to the fading moonlight, it didn’t really matter which side he saw glinting back up at him. He would make it work no matter the toss’s outcome. A quick glance was all he needed before he returned the coin to its proper place. Now that he knew his path, he would see it through until he arrived at the next fork in the road. Taking his place atop Selrhed, he smiled and raced onward. Risk weighed, hand played. 

*** 

Something had awakened Trahm that night as he lay on the floor of the shack. When he sat up to listen and heard nothing, he thought he must have been imagining things and laid back down. Finding sleep elusive, he eventually sat himself up again and leaned against the wall as he had done earlier.  

He could just make out two large mounds where his captors slept. They lay still and appeared undisturbed. Nothing seemed amiss that he could see. He had just convinced himself it was all in his mind when he looked at the door. The bolt had been neatly undone and looked as though it had been opened from the inside. This mystified him, because he was certain his abductors had been sound asleep. 

Trying to make certain, he edged stealthily across the floor and first peered at the young woman. Her steady breathing assured him that she was indeed asleep. When he turned around to look at the man, Trahm nearly toppled backwards. He was stone dead, his bedroll soaked with blood.  

Trahm hurriedly moved to check the door. He tremulously fumbled it open to look outside and saw nothing but blackness. When it was pulled shut and locked, he stood still for a moment collecting his thoughts. The decision made firmly in his mind, he went to wake up the woman. Of course, he found her awake, sword drawn.  

Her eyes retained that dark, draining feeling that they had held in Ren. Even in the darkness, Trahm could make out every hard edge of her steely expression. She moved nearer and held the glowing crimson blade to his throat. He tried to explain, but she silenced him. 

“I thought that you would try to escape. I suppose I should wake up Kenner so he can decide what to do with you.” She faced her partner and kicked at his feet. When this attempt failed, she bent down to pull away the blanket he had draped around him. 

Trahm took advantage of the opportunity to speak. He had to stop her before she could discover what he already knew. His mind latching onto lies that were too unreal to bother with, he chose to tell the truth. It was all he had. 

“I wasn’t trying to escape.”  

This attracted her attention briefly and her eyes turned to meet him, dangerously amused. 

“When I woke up, the door was open. I got up to close it. See, it’s locked.” He warily shuffled away from her and shook the door to prove what he was saying. “I don’t know who opened it, but it wasn’t me, alright?”  

She didn’t seem very pleased, but his ploy had distracted her from trying to force Kenner awake. Her voice was a soothing breeze wrapped around cold stone. “You expect me to believe that you weren’t trying to get away?” 

“Not really, but I am telling the truth. I woke up and found the door open. I don’t know if… Kenner went out for something and forgot to lock it or what.”  

She seemed to be coming around to his story. “That sounds like something he would do.”  

Then Trahm’s eyes betrayed him. They lingered just a little too long on Kenner’s body before sweeping back to where she stood. The darkness of the room did not hide this from her. She immediately inspected Kenner more closely and then gasped.  

Trahm didn’t know what to do. Should he run? Not a good idea since he didn’t know where he was and she most likely did. Should he stay and plead his case, then? No, she’d probably chop him into pieces and leave him to rot. Fighting her seemed a good choice until he reminded himself that she had a weapon and he didn’t. All ideas exhausted, he stayed quiet and breathed deeply. 

He held his ground, expecting swift retribution. The woman didn’t disappoint. She rammed a gauntleted fist into his unarmored ribs and watched him drop to his knees. He hoped that a single strike would satisfy her need for vengeance, but she continued her punishment without mercy. The toe of her boot came around swiftly to catch Trahm in the same spot as her last strike. He crumpled face down on the floor.  

When he finally managed to lift himself back up, he saw her standing over him menacingly. Her voice was raspy when she spoke. “You slimeball! You killed him in his sleep. You’ll pay for this.” She seemed to be sobbing. “Get up! You murdered him, and you’re going to bury him.” She opened the door to the void and Trahm obediently did as he was told. 

An hour later, the deed had been done. The Seirvith Nulne’s gaze never left him while he worked, and he remained perpetually fearful that she would lash out suddenly and end his life. To his relief, the stroke never came. Still, she wouldn’t let him wash the dirt, sweat, and blood away or give him anything to eat or drink. Even when he had finished stumbling around in the darkness resaddling the horses, she refused him the smallest comfort. 

Emboldened by being alive, Trahm decided to tempt fate. “Hey. You keep treating me like I’m the bad guy. Even if I had killed him—which I didn’t—it was you all who took me prisoner. Aren’t we even?” 

“No! We had no intention of harming you, murderer. Now, get on that horse, if you can. We ride out the way we came. Move!” Trahm hefted himself onto the mare’s back and rode, the Seirvith Nulne not far behind. 

*** 

The sun had not yet risen when Cal prodded Beyd and Lang awake. The three of them drowsily scraped together their things and then woke up the Meran brothers. Cal was surprised that they had not attempted to flee, until he noticed that Malank had taken the time to bind their hands and feet. Unable to move, the brothers were at first startled. Their bewilderment was not unjustified, because Malank had tied them with the power of the aerthili. Kneeling, Cal summoned the blade he had for years been reluctant to wield and sliced through their shimmering bindings. 

Brice and Dylan stiffly climbed to their feet. Still not completely certain of what had just taken place, they both eyed Cal warily. Not caring to console them, he seated himself upon his stallion and, once he had pulled Dylan into the saddle, began to ride.  

Malank’s trail was easy to follow this time. He had made no attempt at concealing his pursuit by winding around the low hills they now crossed. Instead, he had opted for the way of speed. 

As the day progressed, the terrain slowly leveled out, and the lush greenery became sparser. Around midday, they crossed a small branch of the approaching Serath River and paused to rest on its banks. They hurriedly ate a small bit of bread and cheese Beyd had brought along and then pressed on. A little further down the trail, they came upon a deserted shack. It was hidden in a dense cluster of trees that formed a kind of cave. The almost unnatural darkness that loomed in that place caused the horses to spook and they had to proceed on foot. 

When Cal saw a freshly dug grave, his heart sank. 

A gust of wind swirled around them, and Malank’s voice again came to Cal. It said, “The boy is alive. Worry not. Press on.” 

Wiping tears from his eyes, Cal then rationalized that he should have known Trahm was unharmed. The Seirvith Nulne would no sooner kill him than Vorin would—and any servant of Arinza would have left no trace of the killing. That meant someone else had killed one of Trahm’s attackers. But who? 

Beyd join Cal, seeming to read his mind. “Do ya think Trahm did it?” 

Cal answered him after a fashion. “No. Why would he kill one of them and let the other live? It doesn’t make sense.” 

“Who was it then, do you suppose?” 

“I don’t know—need time to think on it. Got that flask? I’m thirsty.” 

Beyd sighed, pulled out the small bottle, and handed it to Cal.  

When Cal tipped the silver to his lips, the spotlessly polished surface acted as a mirror. At first, he was unsure, but when he turned his eyes upward, Cal knew. What was hiding in the trees seemed to know, too. It flung itself to the ground before them and rose slowly out of a crouch. 

The creature appeared to be a normal human until Cal saw its eyes. They were pale and empty, like those of a long dead corpse. It wore white robes with a red sash tied around its waist. Cal knew he was rusty when he felt himself being lulled into a state of silent tranquility. In truth, the aura that surrounded the figure made it hard to hate. Beautiful was almost too coarse a word to describe this enemy. When it began to speak in a soothing, harmonious voice and the world blurred around him, Cal knew he was in trouble. His legs began to wobble, and he felt himself begin to fall. A flash of pure white light rushed toward him. He yearned for that light to bathe him in its warmth, to caress away his pain and sadness and steal away his worries. To his dismay, the heavenly ray never reached him. All he saw before hitting the ground were shadowy figures racing around him and kneeling at his side. And then he was plunged into darkness. 

*** 

While Cal lay unconscious, he dreamed. The visions were strange, because he was completely aware of all that was around him and could think as though he were awake. None of the haziness of a normal dream shrouded him. He knew he was dreaming. 

He saw the Rathinel and the traitor Zahdeke Arinza. They spoke with hushed voices and he could not hear what was said, but the conversation was not friendly from what he could tell. The scene changed just as Arinza brandished an aerthili. 

Now, Cal was in a dark room. In this room was a pedestal on which sat a pyramidal stone that swirled with colors. He recognized it at once. The Stone of Ahden. One of the last known remnants of the old world—a frail connection to an era long forgotten by most men. The truth of this stone’s power was unknown to any but the Rathinel. In it were placed seven jewels, and from these jewels came the many hues that filled its depths. He had only seen it once before. So many years ago, when he was young and full of spirit. The day the bond between him and the power of Ahden had been forged by the Rathinel. 

A sudden movement broke the trance the stone had snared him in. It vibrated violently for a moment and then lay still. Then it shook again. When a small fissure appeared, Cal could feel his heart pounding throughout his entire body. Then, as the crack widened, the miniature pyramid's contents spilled out, and he was trapped behind a wall of liquid light and darkness. He began to fall. When his feet touched down, he found himself in another familiar setting. 

He had left this town almost a century before, having gained apprenticeship to one of the most learned men of his day. Kilk Branthum had been a young scholar, not a warrior. His parents had been so hopeful that he would be one of the Elect, one of the educated. In that moment when his and their dreams were so near, it all had been snatched away. A year into Kilk’s studies, his teacher was ripped from his home and executed by the townspeople. He had been branded an activist for the eventual losing side in some forgotten civil war. Fearing the same ill fate might befall him, Kilk had been forced to flee to northern Myrna, and quickly became entangled with the Naidan. 

Full of shame in his youth because of his self-described cowardice and disgraced by the blood staining his soul after the war, Kilk Branthum had never returned home. It was better that way, he assured himself. His parents lived the rest of their lives in peace. That guilt was part of the reason Cal had left Kilk Branthum behind and become Cal Linz. But his former self was haunting him now. He had always told Trahm to face his problems with strength, yet in that instant he was confronted by the reality he had never done so himself.  

He now sat in his father’s old chair, pondering life in this waking dream, when his parents appeared before him. They were older than he remembered, but no less familiar to his eyes than the day he left home. Cal stared, more captivated by this vision than the last. 

Then they were gone, and he was in another new world. One unrecognizable to him. 

He saw in that place two people, a man and woman. The man was adorned in regal garb. He strode with a lady of such magnificent elegance that the richest kings would have been filled with envy at the mere sight of them together. Peace filled the tranquil air. They paced casually around a palace square, arms linked and faces aglow. But then something caught his eye. A man approached. His arrogant stride exactly as Cal remembered, Zahdeke Arinza drew close to the couple and once again summoned his aerthili. The three of them left the courtyard together, the man and woman followed by Arinza and his sword.  

Cal followed instinctively. Arinza forced the two down a narrow servant’s path and into a small room where he turned to close the door. Cal quickly slipped inside, not wanting to risk being locked out and missing what the dream would reveal. When he had checked both doors to the chamber and was satisfied no one was listening, Arinza sheathed his sword. 

He spoke in a calm, almost imperceptibly soft voice. “You must be more careful. The Rathinel watch my every move, and that means they at the very least suspect I am connected to you.” He looked over them before going on. “If anyone discovers what we’ve planned, it will be the death of all of us.” 

The woman uttered quiet words that somehow were more pronounced than the sharpest scream. “We know. But… why do you risk all that you are for us? We can’t repay you for what you plan to do—you know that. I am thankful, but why? Why do this?” 

Arinza looked across the room at her and smiled. “In this world, you can do and accomplish many things. Some of them you do because they bring wealth, adoration, and advancement. But there are those things you do which are worth more by themselves than anyone could ever repay with gold or silver.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Sometimes when you do one of those things, you risk upsetting the balance of the world and destroying your life. Of course, the world will tell you that doing something like that is wrong. But after a time, when you’re old like me, you begin to think that maybe it’s the world and not you that’s wrong. That some powerful force or group might be preventing the scales from being tipped. That someone fears the illusion they’ve conjured to mask their deception might be undone. And so, after a time, a man feels the urge to tip the scales simply to see what lies behind the illusory veil. Understand?” 

“Yes, I suppose. Maybe?” answered the woman. 

Arinza chuckled as though he doubted the truth of her statement and maybe his own. “You will one day. Just remember that nothing is ever so simple or complex as it first seems. Many could do well to remember that.” 

His gaze was turned directly at Cal. It was a penetrating and terrifyingly knowing look that made the old man tremble. Arinza’s eyes burned with a fire that caused him fear yet was also familiar and comforting. Cal’s horror was heightened possibly because he was so accustomed to that expression. The truth was, and the old man could hardly stand to bear it, that Arinza’s stare was nearly identical to Trahm’s.

***

When Cal awakened with a gasp, Beyd was hovering over him watchfully and with worry in his eyes. The large man smiled when he saw his friend’s eyes pop open and uttered a quiet thanksgiving.  

Cal ran his hands across the wooden floor. Blinking, he wondered where he was exactly. His memory was foggy at best. It hurt too much to move so he just lay still. After a while, he asked Beyd to help him up and found himself to be in a dark, smelly, wooden building of some sort. Propping himself up against the wall where Trahm had been the night before, he began his inquiry. 

“Beydin, where in blazes am I? And what is going on?” 

“We’re… uh… we’re here. In a shack in the woods. And yeh’d better rest or yeh’ll be out cold again.” 

“There’s no time for rest. We’ve got to keep on Malank’s trail! Oh, damn that hurts.” A piercing pain split Cal’s skull as the memories regrew in his brain. 

He remembered their arrival at the shack, the almost human creature robed in white, the blinding flash of light—everything. And then he knew exactly how serious their situation was. He was fortunate to be alive at all. The Elenmír were deadly by design. Rarely did they appear in quite so obvious a fashion. But how had he survived? Few had ever succumbed to their voice and lived to remember it.  

Beyd had somehow known what was on his mind. “Yer lucky that I still remember how to use this.” He held in his hand a small jewel that beamed brightly despite there being very little light. 

“But I didn’t do all the work, mind ya. Lang came a runnin’ and it fled into the forest heading west. Guess we weren’t important enough to waste time with. Lucky for all of us, that. This little bauble hasn’t got much left in her. Well, now ya know what happened. Bad as the lad with yer questions sometimes, ya are. Yeh’d better get some rest, or we’ll never catch those Seirvith Nulne.” 

Beyd’s smile never relented the entire time he spoke but worry returned to his face the second he stopped. 

“Sleep will bring me no rest, Beydin. Nor will it bring the boy closer to us. We must ride. It will do you no good to try and stop me.”  

Beyd shrugged and helped Cal to his feet. “Ya won’t listen anyway. We’d just waste time arguing.”  

Although stiff, the old man was soon able to walk on his own and wasted no time in returning to the saddle. Lang made it known he was against departing so quickly after what had happened but found himself helpless in breaking Cal’s stubborn will. 

The five of them left the cavern of trees just as dusk began to fall on the land. 

Some distance from the shack, Cal noticed Malank’s progress had slowed and his chosen path had begun to weave slightly. He could see only two reasons for this. Either Malank was simply avoiding settlements, or he was playing his typical role of acting the heroic fool and trying to carefully track the Seirvith Nulne to their lair. 

If Cal could have reached out to do it, he would have strangled Malank right then and there. Throwing caution to the wind, he spurred his horse mercilessly, forcing the others to do the same. Malank had always been keen to tempt fate, but this time he was going too far. The stakes were too high. 

Chapter 6 | Swiftwater

If Trahm had been saddle sore the night before, he was that and a hundred times more now. Even the numbness had worn off. Now all he felt was pain. Dust filled his mouth, lungs, and every crevice and fold of his dry skin. He couldn’t gather enough saliva to clean the grit off his teeth, and his captor continued to refuse him anything that might ease his suffering. The horse’s constantly thudding footfalls didn’t help his bruised ribs, either. Breathing was a chore even without the wind being continually jarred out of him. When night fell, Trahm hoped desperately that they would soon bed down, but his hopes were denied. They rode long in the darkness. 

Hours after sundown, Trahm drew a wheezing rasp of a breath when he saw the glimmer of lights a few miles away. They crawled closer. His hope of salvation was mixed with a looming dread. A town meant reasonable safety, but what would be waiting for him there? He winced at the thought, then mentally chastised himself for being weak. If escape ever came, that town would be his chance. 

Their pace slowed as they reached the town gates. There, the Seirvith Nulne spoke to a guard through a slit in a small wooden fence. Expressing a combination of admiration and terror, he flashed a toothless grin and scurried to open the gate. 

“Glad ta help ya. If ya be lookin’ for that certain gentleman I know ya are, he’s at the King’s Chair. But I suppose ya already knew that, bein’ who ya are. Some folks’d be sore afraid of… someone like yerself bein’ here, but not old Harvy. Jus’ remember that there are some even at the King’s Chair who would die protectin’ what them Naidan stand for, so be careful. Though I suppose ya already knew that, too. What’s that, Miss? Oh, the gate! My apologies, get to it right away.” He then opened the wooden gate and let them enter, closing it behind them with a bang. 

“The King’s Chair is straight down that street and off to yer right—can’t miss it.”  

The Seirvith Nulne acknowledged him with a nod and a cold stare, then led Trahm to the inn that Harvy had mentioned.  

The muddy street was filled with manure and deep ruts from wagon travel. Pale moonlight and light cast from windows brightened the atmosphere. Even so, the air was chilly and the place gloomy. When they came up to the side of what was unmistakably the King’s Chair, Trahm was left to the horses, and his companion entered the inn alone. Apparently, she felt safe leaving him by himself. Trahm, not wanting to tempt fate or death, decided it best to remain where he was for the time being. 

The woman’s return was long in coming, and when she finally reappeared her anger seemed rekindled and more potent than ever. She grabbed one of Trahm’s arms and twisted it up behind him, manipulating him towards the back entrance where they were met by three men. He expected the worst, but when he saw they were all stablemen he let out a sigh of relief. He watched them closely just to be sure it wasn’t a trick. He could not see their faces clearly, but they had neither the deadly stride nor coldness of the Seirvith Nulne. All three slipped around him and his kidnapper in silence and headed for the horses.  

After she had snapped a few orders at the three men, the woman forced him further on until they reached the back door. They moved inside together and climbed the worn stairs to the second floor. Moving ahead of him, the woman found the door she wanted and opened it. Her commanding look told him he was to enter, and he did so without questioning. 

The room was well lit and extravagantly furnished. Rich carpet padded Trahm’s steps as gravity played a nasty game with his limbs. Glinting artifacts of gold, silver, and ivory were placed in beautiful arrangements. Tapestries were hung on the walls and mirrors set in gold stands filled one entire corner of the chamber. Trahm felt like he had walked into a narcissist’s palace. 

When he looked beyond the rich amenities that filled the luxurious suite to the man who sat before him, though, he could hardly believe his eyes. 

The man was disgustingly obese and days old food was spilled across his front, left to rot upon his massive belly. He had more chins than could be counted and wore a paranoid expression. Trahm thought he must be the human embodiment of suspicion and avarice. 

He spoke in a gasping, thick voice. “Ah, the prize of this endeavor. I am Rictas Missar. There’s no need to introduce yourself, because I probably know more of you than you do. Your father and I were quite close at one time.” He paused to draw in a heavy and hard-won breath. “Believe it or not, we were very much alike. Some say too much. But you must know that the man we call your father is no more interested in holding that title than I. Zahdeke Arinza was a truly great man, but a son was not, I believe, something that would be of much worth to him. For men like your father, worth is found in those things and people they can use. And at the time of your birth, you were of little use to him. Right now, however, you are of great use to me. Do you know why?”  

Trahm’s mouth and throat were too parched for him to speak, so he shook his head no. Had he been more awake and his senses less dull, he might have felt the wave of curiosity that once again washed over him. Missar’s words continued. They fell on deaf ears.  

Gradually, the lights in the room began to diminish. As though a curtain of darkness were being lowered over his field of vision, Trahm’s eyes ceased to see. He felt himself crumple to the ground from far away and heard angry words uttered as he left the realm of consciousness. 

*** 

It was nearly dawn on the third day when Cal, Lang, Beyd, and the Meran brothers hit trail’s end. A slight fog floated upon the thick, damp air and settled into a firm whiteness across the grassy plains. Malank was waiting for them patiently no more than a half mile from Swiftwater. His deep hazel eyes glinted merrily in the night gloom. 

“It’s about time. I thought you’d never get here. Did you stop to play a game of dice or cards, perhaps? Or maybe have a warm meal and mug of ale at a tavern along the way?” 

Cal’s piercing glare silenced him. “You utterly dumb man. If anyone has been playing games, it’s you. How can you toy with something this important? Just last night you spoke of ‘the frayed and battered rope,’ and now you play cat and mouse with the one group of people who might be better served to cut that last thread! Where is your mind, Malank? Have you nothing but that ridiculous coin to make decisions with?”  

Malank’s hand went immediately to the small leather pouch at his waist, and he responded angrily. “You know as well as I that the Seirvith Nulne are no real threat to us. Not yet at least. Besides, if you were half the man that your words and advice make you out to be, the boy wouldn’t even be in their hands right now! You’ve always been all talk and no action. All the knowledge in the world means nothing if you haven’t got the strength or guts to use it, Cal. That name is a perfect example. All you’ve ever done is run away and mope!” 

“And you have not? All you’ve done since Senna died is run from her memory! Don’t pretend for one moment that she isn’t what drives you to wander. All you’ve done is hidden your fears under the guise of a fatebound wayfarer. You have no right to call me weak!”  

The argument was close to violence when something that stunned them all happened. Stepping apart from Brice and Lang, Dylan wedged his wiry frame between the two. “Shut up, both of you! Neither of you are better than the other! Both of you are acting like little kids.” His blue eyes burned with the intensity of his words. “Is this how the Naidan are supposed to be? I thought you were all-knowing and powerful. If we don’t move now, won’t the Sendrene die?” 

Brice stood up to join his brother. “He’s right, and you both know it. Why don’t you get it together?” 

The two brothers were an odd sight. While Brice had dark brown hair and was stocky, Dylan was thin and dirty blonde. But they were notoriously inseparable, and their personalities magnified each other’s. Together, there was not a fiercer or more determined being. 

Cal and Malank glowered at each other, neither of them knowing quite what to do.  

Malank spoke first. “What were we thinking, Kilk? They’re right. Even the dark-haired bastard. We’re both old fools.” 

“Yes, but you more than I.” Cal chuckled. “Still, fools or not, we’re Trahm’s only hope. We should get moving like they said.” And then he turned to Dylan. “Thank you. If not for you, we may have forgotten ourselves completely. Both of you...” 

Malank’s smile faded when his eyes met Brice’s. “I thank you also. But remember that there is a large debt yet to be paid, and that I mean to see it set aright. Decades of bigotry and stupidity. Eagerness to end a life that dwarfs the importance of your own. Idiots.” He spat. “If you wish, you can help yourselves and us by helping Trahm. What do you say?” 

Dylan hesitantly stepped forward, but when Brice lingered, he stopped completely. 

“I will not give life to one who does not deserve it,” said Brice coldly. “The Sendrene and all of his kin deserve nothing but what they gave our soldiers in the Isles of Luhnrahn. I don’t care what you all say. Trahm Linz or whatever his barbarian parents called him before they died—or abandoned him, more likely—is no more than what he was born: a savage.” 

“But Brice, Trahm has done nothing to—” 

“I’ve told you before, Dylan. It doesn’t matter. The Sendrene are all the same. I will not help him.” 

For a moment, all was quiet. Malank seemed to be waiting for a more favorable answer, Cal returned to his thoughtful shell, and Lang was revolted by the blatant lack of respect and formality in Brice’s words. Beyd, at last over the struggle of deciding what to say, broke the spell. 

“Lad, why do yeh hate the Sendrene so? No one in Ren ever got near the war. When Cal and I came to Ren yeh'd just been born, so I know it isn’t a personal grudge. How can yeh hate something yeh've never known? That’s all I want to know. On top of that, yeh don’t even know if Trahm is a Sendrene. Have yeh ever seen one? How can yeh tell?” 

Brice stammered around some replies before he uttered one successfully. “My pop said he saw the woman who was with Trahm on the boat. He said she was a Sendrene. Laike Elna’s dad said the same thing. Almost everyone in Ren can see it but you. We all know what Trahm Linz is. You can’t trust his kind.” 

Beyd snorted in irritation. “I just said that no one in Ren ever got near the war, yeh rockheaded idiot! Did yer dad ever see a Sendrene. Did Laike Elna’s dad? No! But let me tell yeh, laddy. I have. And unless he’s an unusually odd looking one, Trahm Linz is no Sendrene.” He paused for effect before putting the finishing touches on his lecture. “And let me tell ya this while I’m at it. If ya don’t lose that great big block on yer shoulders, life will be long and hard for yeh, Brice. If ya survive it at all.” 

Malank added quietly, “Well, boys. Are you in or out?” 

“Out,” responded Brice. 

Eyeing his brother cautiously, Dylan answered the same. 

“Very well. You will stay in the rear with Beydin. Come, we must hurry.” Oh, how I wish there was a way around this town business. “But it must be done,” he uttered softly as he thought to himself. 

“What is it, Master Linwell?” 

“Nothing, Lang. It’s nothing. Let’s go.” And he and his companions mounted their horses and moved at a slow trot into Swiftwater.

***

Trahm woke to a body that wouldn’t listen to its mind’s commands. He couldn’t move anything but his head, and even that shot sparks of pain through him. Warming his muscles one by one, he sorted out the fog that was his memory. He focused solely on what he knew. Curiosity was still a luxury at this point. If he didn’t survive, what good would answers do him? 

As he slowly sat up, every tendon and ligament in his body cracked and groaned. His joints ground on each other like those of a poorly oiled machine as he flexed and rotated them. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he lifted himself off the floor and looked around. 

There wasn’t much to see, really. He was in a small room. The door had a slit that opened from the outside. No furnishings adorned the simple cabin except for a single pail, the foul odor making its purpose unmistakable. Checking the door, he was surprised that it had been left unlocked. Poking his head out, he saw no one and slid into the narrow, poorly lit hallway. 

Walking felt strange. The floor felt like it was rocking. At first, he chalked it up to fatigue, but when it didn’t stop that idea was quickly dispelled from his mind. Looking to the right and left he noticed small, round windows. He looked through and then discovered the source of the shifting floor. 

Overpowering sparkles blinded him as he peered outside. He was on a boat! Although he had been a fisherman for almost his entire life, Trahm had never been on a vessel quite as large as this one. When his eyes adjusted to the dazzle of the sunlight hitting the water, he began to make out shapes. The edge of a town. A pier where another river boat rested. The north bank of the river far in the distance. He had not left Swiftwater yet, and he wondered why.         

Pondering his circumstances, he quietly padded across the floor to the narrow stairway leading to the upper deck. The first step was difficult, the second more so, but he slowly and softly edged up the pathway and peered out. At first, he saw nothing, and then horror met his eyes. 

Several men lay before him, cut and bloodied. At first, all Trahm could do was stare in bewilderment. 

Once on the deck, the sticky blood beneath his feet and the terrible stench of death made him nauseous. Covering his nose and mouth with his own bloodied sleeve, he bent closer to inspect their wounds. All had been killed by neat punctures to the neck and chest. Whoever had done this was very skilled. Looking around, he also noticed that the killer was very thorough. He was the sole survivor.