Ficool

Chapter 48 - Book 3 Chapter 11: The Cycle

The day dawns bright and clear, with the rays of the sun reflecting off the street and sending rays of warm light through the thin curtains of the window of the room in which the companions rest. Whenever they emerge from the inn and step forth into the daytime air, it is apparent that the short autumn is already passing into an early winter. The whole city appears encased in ice after a hard freeze the night before, a freeze following upon blowing sleet and flurries of snow that had been teasing the onset of winter for the previous days. Despite the cold, and the difficulty of walking on streets whose surface is a glistening sheen, they cannot but acknowledge the beauty of the city in this state: like a massive pavilion of crystal, bluish white in the radiant light of the early morning sun.

Cautiously and yet with eyes continually captured by the beauty of their surroundings, they weave their way through the narrow streets of the city, upward toward the height and the center, where the mound of land upon which Onylandun is built crests at the great citadel of her ancient rulers, surrounded itself by the oldest and most weathered buildings, centuries old, in which live the wealthiest family lines and the officials of government. Here too are most of the temples of the city, with the exception of the shrines of Telmoth and Melengthar, which are lower and further out, toward the poorer and younger sectors of the city. The companions approach the temple of Niraniel first of all, its stone face peeking out at the end of a narrow street of cobbled stone with the fronts of houses overshadowing it from either side, north and south, while the sun itself is just at this moment cresting over the roof of the temple and crowning it with a halo of golden light.

They pass through the heavy wooden doors, which creak as they swing open, and find themselves almost immediately in the sanctuary of the temple, looking toward the altar raised at the center of the apse with light falling upon it from the windows situated at the meeting of wall and ceiling high above. Though the sanctuary itself is comparable in size to that of the temple in Ristfand, the temple complex is considerably smaller, with only one hallway off to the right, with a few rooms. Cirien explains to them that, unlike in Ristfand, there is no large community gathered here—monastic in nature—but rather only a few clerics, all men, who tend to the needs of the temple and to the ailments of those in the city toward which the gifts and attention of the devotees of Niraniel are particularly directed.

After a moment's pause for prayer in the sanctuary, the companions pass into the hallway and soon find themselves face to face with the man who is the object of their visit: Rûmdil Fyrrum, the leader of the Onylandun temple. He extends his arms wide and raises his eyebrows in surprise when he sees them, and says, "Cirien Lorjies? Is it truly Cirien Lorjies? It has been years, my old friend."

"Yes, Rûmdil, it is I," replies Cirien, clasping the man for a moment in an embrace. He then introduces him to each of his companions, and they to him.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, all of you," Rûmdil says. "But tell me: why are you here, and in such number? I have heard rumors of trouble in the east, but things are also going ill here just as they are there. In fact, the whole of Telmerion seems aflame with strife, conflict, and death."

"Your guess is accurate," answers Cirien. "We come from Ristfand, where we were present for a siege in which much life was lost, though word has also come to us that the conflict has spread far beyond the confines of Ristfand now, and touches people all across the lands of Rhovas. Is this true?"

"It is indeed, unfortunately," Rûmdil says. "We hear much of the horrors occurring across the mountains—both east and north—but are so occupied here at home that we can give hardly a thought to it."

"Both east and north," Eldarien remarks. "What do you mean?"

"The Empire has begun to turn the tides of battle, not only in Rhovas, but in the lands in which the rebellion first arose. Or at least that is what we hear."

"You have then heard of the beasts that fight at the side of the Empire?" Rorlain asks.

"The beasts? Yes. I know not if such creatures have yet appeared west of the Teldrens, but many of those who have fled hence from the east bring word of creatures like the living dead, arising as an army from the very darkness and wielding weapons and armor from they know not where. But that is not all," Rûmdil sighs and shakes his head sorrowfully. "We have a beast of our own to deal with, and it is more than enough to worry all the inhabitants of our city."

"You speak of the—" Cirien begins, but Rûmdil finishes before he is able to say more.

"Dragon. I speak of the dragon. I do not know what has changed such that now, after ages with not even a rumor of such creatures, they have now emerged from ancient myth and become present as living flesh and flame. But it is doubtless true. We have beheld it, and the marks of its attacks still scar our city."

"How recently did this dragon appear?" asks Eldarien. "And does it still besiege the city?"

"Two weeks ago it first appeared in the skies above us, though only as if teasing us, as if a hawk scrutinizing its prey—circling overhead but not descending to draw any nearer. Then, four nights past, it attacked, though most of us were asleep when the attack occurred. A few guardsmen were slain, and the marks of flame scored the streets of the city, and perhaps half a dozen houses caught fire and needed to be extinguished. Each night since, some similar attack has occurred, in a different sector of the city."

"By the sounds of it, the attacks are surprisingly restrained," says Cirien, "though I do not understand why. If it could attack during the day, why does it not do so? And if it could raze the entire city, why does it single out only small sectors to be victims to its fire?"

"Perhaps it is indeed teasing us," Rûmdil replies. "After all, if it needed to hunt, it would not leave its prey bloody upon the battlements. Not a single man or woman has been taken in all this time. The slaughter is rather gratuitous. The fire and the death seem ordained to scare us, and to scare us precisely in the night. I do have to admit though that we also carry such fear in the daytime hours, just waiting for the terror of night to become terror of day."

"The dragon can move about during the daytime?" Tilliana asks. "He does not attack only at night because that is all that he can do?"

"Correct. We first saw him in the skies during the daytime. It was nearing twilight, but the sun was still in the sky. If he was inimical to the sun, he would not have been airborne at such a time, the rays of light reflecting off those scales, those spread wings almost like the blackness of night creeping into the midday."

"You saw him with your own eyes?" Rorlain asks. "Your description indicates more than hearsay."

"Indeed I did," Rûmdil replies. "I have seen the dragon himself, and with every passing day I have seen the harm that he has caused. Indeed, I was soon to depart from here to find the scene of the most recent attack, assuming that he has continued his course last night as he has the previous nights."

"Would you allow us to accompany you?" asks Cirien. "There is also much more that we would wish to share with you about this dragon and about what we may be able to surmise of its manner and its motivations."

Rûmdil at first appears surprised, but then he nods and agrees. Without further ado they leave the temple precincts and begin again to navigate the streets of the city. This time Rûmdil leads them—and straight to the great citadel, or rather to the main barracks of the city guard that lies opposite it in a wide courtyard of weathered gray stone, cracked and discolored with ages of contact with centuries of men, massive slabs clearly cut from the mountain long past and carried, by some ingenious means, to be used as the foundation stones and paving stones of a city intended to stand the test of time.

While they walk the companions do all they can to explain to Rûmdil their own encounter with the dragon and its birth—or its emergence—in the depths of the castle of darkness. They also explain why they fear that the "teasing" of the dragon may be precisely that: a preparation, almost like an entree before the full meal, when creatures of darkness in far greater number shall pour forth upon the city, seeking its destruction and its downfall.

"We have already long feared these living dead," Rûmdil says in response, "though we have taken some solace in the thought of them being occupied in the east. I know it is a petty consolation, to find solace that your neighbors are being besieged by evil while you yourself are, at least at present, left untouched. But with word that many more such creatures—and ones of different kinds and more dangerous—emerge from the very bowels of the earth, such consolation is dissolved like dew in the brightest sun. Is the world truly turning inside-out such that the underworld walks above ground and seeks to bury in the earth, in death, those who for so long have called the earth their home, and the light of day their security and their companion?"

"What troubles me is that, provided these fears are true, the creatures of darkness target this city and not another," Eldarien muses. "For it is not a relevant target in the conflict between the Empire and the rebels."

"In that you are entirely correct," agrees Rûmdil. "We are neutral through and through. If any in Telmerion are such, it is we."

"That would confirm a suspicion that we have had from the first day we encountered these creatures," says Rorlain, "namely, that they are only using the Vælirian Empire for their own purposes. And now, if they act independently of the Empire, it would seem confirmed that their goals are much broader, and more complete, than simply the end of the civil war and the subjection of Telmerion to Imperial rule once again."

This conversation is interrupted when they come to the entrance of the barracks and, with an expression that he does not wish to delay any longer, Rûmdil pushes open the doors and leads the companions inside. The bitter cold of the morning follows them inside, though it meets a wave of warmth that washes over them from a large hearth burning in the center of the room in which they find themselves. It is a long hall that seems to function as an antechamber, with many doors lining its walls, and benches surrounding the hearth upon which perhaps a dozen men garbed in light armor sit, the sound of their muffled conversations mingling together with the crackling of the fire. Rûmdil does not stop to greet them, but passes by on his way to an arched door at the far end of the chamber. He knocks and, almost immediately, an eager voice calls from within and bids them to enter.

"Clearly I am expected," Rûmdil remarks.

As they step through the doorway, the companions find themselves in a rœdra cluttered with books as well as with arms and armor. A man rises from a desk at the back of the room and approaches them, his aged faced lined with worry but also with surprise at seeing that Rûmdil does not come alone. "I have anxiously awaited your arrival, Rûmdil," the man says. "There was another attack, as expected, but this time much worse."

"I am surprised I did not hear it."

"The dragon attacked a low sector of the city, very near the outermost walls. There the buildings are mostly of wood, and many we were unable to save. I have been awake most of the night. But please, tell me who your companions are, and why they are here. There is little time to spare."

Rûmdil introduces them and quickly summarizes what they had shared with him of their own encounter with the dragon and the other creatures of darkness. In turn they learn that the man's name is Senfyr, and that he is the captain-vicar of the city guard.

"You witnessed the emergence of this terrible creature?" Senfyr asks, his face and tone revealing both incredulity and alarm.

"Yes," Eldarien replies, "and we also witnessed the pact made between the leader of the druadach and the Imperial forces, though a tenuous pact we believe it is."

"Why you, of all people?" asks Senfyr. "Surely it is not only fortune—whether good or ill—which led you to be in such places where men do not tread, and at such decisive moments in the history of our people and of our mortal enemies."

"Fortune it was, I believe," Rorlain says, "though neither anonymous nor random. Our path has been marked out before us, and we find ourselves here by no mere chance. If we have witnessed the nature of the evil that threatens our land in the place of its very origin, that is only so that we might bring warning and aid to those whom this darkness would threaten."

"Warning comes a little late, I think," Senfyr retorts, "since we already suffer its attacks."

"We fear much more shall come," Cirien explains. "That is the import of all that Rûmdil has shared with you. If anything, the dragon is a harbinger of a malevolent gaze directed upon your city. He is a vanguard of darkness, and more shall follow in his wake."

"We shall speak more of this later," Senfyr says after a moment's thought. "Indeed, we should bring it directly to the hæras and his counselors."

"That would indeed be our wish," confirms Eldarien.

When Eldarien speaks, Senfyr turns and looks at him for a moment, as if scrutinizing him, and then the captain-vicar says in response, "You look familiar. Have you been to Onylandun before?"

"I have not," replies Eldarien.

"Odd. I could almost swear that I have seen you, or your like, before."

Rorlain chuckles softly and places a hand on Eldarien's shoulder, saying to Senfyr, "There is much also to be said of that, though it too will best be said in the presence of the leaders of the city."

"Very well," Senfyr answers with a puzzled expression, but then, turning to look again at Rûmdil—though his glance and his words take in all of them—he continues, "Before anything, I wish to go to the place of the attack. There is something that I wish for you to see. And a man of religion shall be the best judge of such matters."

"Then Cirien shall be a better judge than me, though I shall not refuse my judgment either," Rûmdil answers. "He is the head of my order."

"What curious travelers you are indeed," Senfyr remarks. "So be it then. Let us all go without further delay."

† † †

It takes over half an hour for them to reach the sector of the city that was the focus of the dragon's latest attack. And when they arrive, it is impossible that what they witness not stir memories of the fire in the ghetto of Ristfand, which touched their hearts and lives so deeply, that of Tilliana in particular. The sector of the city itself is poor in nature, the abode of those with little means, lined with streets more of dirt and mud than of stone, and with buildings of weathered wood and thatched straw that appear, in many cases, inadequate to keep out the elements. And now perhaps two dozen of these houses lie in ruins, no more than empty shells, skeletons of what little remains of their structure after the fire that consumed them was doused. At the far end of a narrow lane, however, a much greater sorrow is evident: threescore bodies lie in a row, wrapped in shrouds of white cloth stained red with blood. Numerous members of the city guard and of other organizations ordained for the assistance of the people mull about, passing to and fro about their business, causing the deathly heaviness of this ruined portion of the city to buzz with anxious activity just as it groans in lament and loss.

"As you see, this attack is much more grievous than the others," Senfyr explains, with a wave of his hand. "But that is not the primary thing I wished to show you. Come here." With this, he leads the group to the center of a courtyard—which during normal days would be a busy market at the heart of the lower city, not far from the attack—and gestures to the ground. Inscribed upon the earth, clearly in blood, are symbols which few of them have ever seen: a circle in the likeness of a serpent devouring its own tail and, in its center, a large runic letter in a language unused by men. Also drawn around the circle of the serpent are other smaller runes.

"Do any of you know what it means?" Senfyr asks, tension in his voice. Even if he does not know its true import, he can sense—along with all of the companions—that the origin and the nature of this symbol is evil and ordained wholly unto evil.

To everyone's surprise, Cirien speaks almost without hesitation, "The Cycle. This is very disturbing indeed."

"What do you mean, 'The Cycle?'" Senfyr asks.

"Well, what we see before us is a symbol used by men to summon the evil spirits and to make a pact with them," Cirien explains, his voice pained. "And it is done by blood sacrifice. It seems that they are calling the dragon here, although I cannot understand their reasons. Nor did I know that such a cult was still practiced in this age of the world."

"Such a cult?"

"Yes. For man has not only the capacity to worship the One who is his Creator and his Origin, nor the other divinities who are messengers of goodness and light, the guardians of our world, but also to turn his gaze, his obeisance, and his worship unto the forces of darkness. In past ages of the world this cult of darkness flourished, to the detriment of many. For if the worship of man toward the powers of goodness is obedience to what is right and just, the cult of the man who makes deals with the demons is more like a dirty transaction aimed toward results favorable to each. But in fact, in the end it may prove favorable only to the evil spirits and bring about the ultimate downfall of the man who presumes to treat with them. That is the lesson of history."

"I knew not that the spirits of evil were more than myth and legend," says Senfyr.

"Oh, they are very real," replies Rûmdil, "as real as the Seven—though they be their opposite as night is the opposite of day or death the opposite of life." He pauses and sighs, and then adds, "Or rather, more so. The days may come in the future when the Seven are forgotten, and when men call divinities myths of their own imaginings, not even believing, with the adherence in the heart, the actual truth of such beings. Yes, the days may come when religion for man is no more than an exercise of the imagination, a reaching out of the heart, without the actual credibility of belief. For we know the Seven because they were revealed unto us, and because they have been active throughout our history, in both more hidden and more evident ways. But they force themselves not against the resistance and forgetfulness of man, and if we continue to deny them, their countenance shall be less visible to us, and their voices harder to hear. In such a day man may descend wholly into the worship of the forces of darkness, who, because their voices are so loud and raucous, and their promises so apparently subservient to the slightest whims of human selfishness, continue to be heard and believed even when the good divinities are forgotten. Woe betide to man on such a day, when good is forgotten and darkness is embraced. Woe betide to man on such a day, when he prefers to believe in the imaginations and wishes of his own heart rather than to base his faith upon encounter, upon reason, and upon revelation."

"What would cause our culture to descend to such a place?" Tilliana asks.

Elmariyë turns to her and, on behalf of the others, answers, "Forgetfulness of the original Song. In that Song lies all meaning and purpose, all truth and beauty, gathered together in abundant fullness in its origin, and all that exists in our world can be traced back to that primal plenitude, that song which is but the fullness of Being. Indeed, even when the human heart forgets the Song it cannot but seek to rediscover it. And such forgetfulness, as long as it continues to desire, to search, to reach out, is filled with hope, for it is still open to the light. But—woe indeed—when a person, and even more when a society, no longer believes that the Song can be heard and discovered, and that its voice can be discerned, for then such a society begins to believe what it wishes to be so rather than what is revealed to be so. A world in which the divine is mute: that is the horror of which we speak. And when the divine—knowable, personal, real—disappears from the stage of history, the only thing that can take its place is the absurdity of a world in which each man believes and acts as he wishes, because there is nothing else left for him but that."

"Or believes and acts as the spirits of darkness suggest to him in the night of his own blindness and insecurity, where he is defenseless before the mysteries of life and grasping for some semblance of safety," concludes Cirien. "Be glad that you have not witnessed such a day, and that the Song has been revealed unto you. And pray that such a day shall never come, or, if it does come, that it may be corrected and healed."

"You spoke of the Cycle," Rorlain asks. "What precisely does that mean? Nothing that has been said until now has exactly answered that question."

"Long has it lain in the darkness, all but forgotten," answers Cirien. "It grieves me greatly to see its symbol appear now in the light of day. It grieves me greatly indeed. For the Cycle refers to a system of belief and practice by which a man seeks to return the world to its pristine state by accelerating the 'cycle'—hence the name—of death and rebirth. Such a viewpoint has been born precisely of that forgetfulness of the Song of which we have been speaking—that Song which reveals the story that is our life, that is the very history of our world, from beginning to end. In this erroneous belief, a story has been replaced by a cycle. The winding trail of a drama, a path through time and space rising and falling as it progresses toward consummation—including in its journey every single human life—has been thus supplanted by an impersonal wheel going ever round and round, until it ceases to go at all, and comes eventually to complete rest, not in fulfillment and fruition, but in nothingness. There is no need to enumerate the details of this philosophy here, for its complexity shall indeed make one's head go round until it almost feels that it is going either to spin off into absurdity or to grind itself into the abyss. That was my experience in studying all the extant texts that we have from this cult, something that I would not wish to relive a second time.

"The simple common sense intuition of each one of us, as threatened as it may be by so many forces, is more accurate and more right: that we are part of a great story, and that this story is, for lack of better words, going somewhere. There is a destination. That is what Elmariyë meant by the Song: it is Origin and Consummation both, the timeless beginning and timeless end that cradles both ends of time, and all the moments of its progress in between. But when the world closes itself off from this, and instead becomes its own origin and end, or rather becomes a never ending cycle that goes on and on, then man finds himself under a shadow of despair both in death and in life, and there is no redemption, no salvation, but only only two options: to call this broken world itself 'god,' or some mysterious 'something' hidden behind its faltering guise, or to escape into nothingness."

"You say that this is what this—what did you call it?—cult of the Cycle believes and practices?" Senfyr asks.

"Yes, though there are different nuances depending on the historical moment in which it has found expression," answers Cirien. "It is, in a sense, the only true alternative to the faith which we profess. What I mean by this is that the underlying choice and goal of such a life is the inverse image of the faith born of the divine revelation and activity within this world. Ours is a faith born in history, a faith which is the very story of history from beginning to end, in which the One who made us also writes our history, and even writes himself into our history; and no matter how broken and lost we may be, we are all a part of this story, the littlest and most ordinary just as much as the great. But the other is a worldview that moves in the opposite direction, and thus also tends to be only for those who can meet its many requirements—the great, the elite—an esoteric flight into the unknown and inaccessible. It is a path not of history, but of the escape from history, liberation from the confines of time and space, and of the mortal body, into a mystical freedom in which subjective experience is given priority over historical life and reciprocal belonging; this view is defined above all by the conviction that nothing truly can be known about the Creator, that he is beyond all words, images, and knowledge, nor is he personal, relatable in a dialogue of love. Rather, the goal is not to know him as he is, to enter into a reciprocal relationship with him as with a partner in dialogue—to hear his voice and his word and to follow the path he marks out, the path of righteousness in love and integrity of being. Rather, it is to dissolve into him, into it, or even to discover that I am it, this divine entity...that we all constitute it. This approach has had a million different shades throughout history, but it is distinguished precisely by its way of relativizing all these distinctions and claiming that they do not ultimately matter. They are thought to be the mere surface of unreal distinctions, whereas under the surface all melds into indistinguishable unity. In this view, all multiplicity is unreal, only apparent, and the goal is the unity of identity, melding into oneness. Whether we call the One it or he or us, and whether it is absorption into 'all' or 'nothing,' it does not matter; what matters is mystical experience, the inner subjective contact with the 'divine' or whatever we may call it, in the hidden depths of my being.

"But, on the other hand, the goal of our religion is different, and in being different it in fact embraces and includes all that is good in the other approach, while correcting its errors and aligning them with the truth: the goal of our faith is not dissolution into a nameless and imageless unity that dissolves all distinction; rather its goal is the full blossoming of interpersonal relationship that establishes a higher and deeper form of unity, a unity of knowledge and love in the mutual belonging of persons. This is a unity that creates oneness without destroying duality, that forges intimacy without absorbing the individuality of persons. Rather, this union, precisely as a communion of love, affirms this individuality as precious, beloved, and desired, consummated in the embrace of Love that unites individuals and fulfills them in the joy, not of an impersonal oneness, but in the joy of intimacy where 'I' and 'You' and 'We' are forever harmonized and united."

"Your words are deeply illuminating, Cirien," says Eldarien. "I see the lines traced on the page of history, and I feel the tension between the two. But what you say of the former way seems to be not merely darkness, but aspiration, even good aspiration, of hearts within this world, albeit not yet illumined by the historical revelation of the One who made the world, and of his Anaion who speak and act in his name. What then is the connection between this longing, as incomplete and even erroneous as its expressions may be, and the worship of the Draion and alignment with the forces of darkness?"

"Forgive me if I gave the impression of aligning the two," replies Cirien. "That, I did not intend. Granted, whenever the human heart opens itself blindly to unknown forces, there is no telling what powers may influence it, whether light or dark. But you are right: there is another step beyond this aspiration and this path, which need not occur, nor has always done so. Whether the world is conceived as a straight line or as a cycle, and whatever other perspectives their may be, a spiritual life that is aspiration and longing, even for the imageless and unknowable, is much closer to our own faith—and thus can find fulfillment in the revelation granted unto the world—than what has come to happen among certain practitioners of this way. For it is open to the gift that will come from the outside, the gift of truth and relationship, unexpected but desired. But as we witness here today, among certain men there has come to be an alliance with the powers of darkness, the Draion. The hearts that have unmoored themselves both from reason and from revelation find themselves standing defenseless before creatures—of much greater intelligence and spiritual power—that would lead them astray. And the danger is then that the innocent longing of the heart to return to the origin of meaning and to escape from suffering—estranged from the song at the origin of the world, and blind to the radical incompatibility of light and darkness, of good and evil, of a personal or impersonal conception of being—collapses into the search for and worship of self, and the grasping for power and for the security that it gives. For here, as said earlier, the Draion love to present themselves as eminently pragmatic. They 'get things done,' as it were. Being nearer to us because of their fall from the light, they are more than willing, I think, to interfere in the affairs of our world and to portray themselves as our immediate allies, even though in truth they are our greatest enemies."

"I think I understand that," says Eldarien with a nod. "These realizations, in the current context, are disturbing indeed. But your words also give me hope, and they stir compassion in my heart, for it is almost as if I see opening out before me a vast panorama of desire and longing, of search and aspiration, in which all the children of this world are reaching out for the One whom they have lost, yet seeing not his face. And we cannot find our way back to him unless he himself intervenes, entering into our history, to bring us back to himself. I want to serve that meeting, to witness to that light, in whatever way I may. I wish to be a custodian of this mystery, as weak and little, as broken and frail as I may be."

"After what we encountered in the Velasi forest, I do not think it could be otherwise for any of us," says Tilliana, looking intently at Eldarien with a depth of meaning glistening in her eyes.

"But come, let us speak no more of any of this here and now," says Cirien at last. "The discovery of these symbols bodes ill for the city and for Telmerion itself. We need to act as soon as we can."

"There is one question that I still have," Rûmdil says. "What do the runes say, Cirien? I too know something of the dark cults that have emerged throughout our history, as part of our training in the temple included learning of the darkness that stands over and against the light that we have chosen to protect and to promulgate. But these runes mean nothing to me, nor have I ever seen their like before."

"Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, they mean nothing to me either," Cirien replies. "I can read the runes of darkness and even understand the language, but this is only a summary of sorts. The runes here do not make words, but only symbolize them—perhaps the first letters. But I do not think it important, and I have no wish to pursue their meaning further. We know all that we need to know."

"And that," proffers Senfyr, "is that there are forces within the city that would seek our downfall, making pacts with the very creatures who would destroy us?"

"Precisely," says Cirien.

"Then let us leave it at that and make it a point to speak with the hæras as soon as possible," Senfyr adds.

"I agree," Rûmdil says, "however, I may have some leads as to the identity of the members of this cult. I did not know it had progressed to this degree, but I have been well aware of similar currents in the city for a long time. Perhaps we should discuss what I know first, before bringing it to the attention of the hæras?"

"I say that we do it all at once," Senfyr recommends. "It will be easier and swifter that way."

"Swifter perhaps, but not necessarily easier," says Rûmdil. "Indeed, preparation beforehand oft makes the act swifter in execution, for it is less subject to the delays caused by confusion."

Senfyr pauses for a moment and looks at Rûmdil, reflecting on his words, though it is obvious that he does not wish to delay. He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but just as soon closes it again. When he does at last speak, he says simply, "No. Let us go to the chambers of the hæras and his counselors now, with haste, come what may."

In response to this, Rûmdil nods regretfully, having no choice but to accept. Cirien too regrets not being able to discuss matters beforehand, but he understands that Senfyr alone can get them an audience with the hæras at such short notice, and that this boon is not one to be passed up lightly.

And so they proceed back in the direction from which they only recently came, climbing the slope toward the center of the city. In the full light of the sun the ice on the streets and on the roofs of the houses has now melted, though it still lingers upon walls facing north and west and in places bathed in deep shadow. The air is clearly still below the temperature of freezing, and all of the companions look forward to returning inside where they can warm their bodies by a fire and escape from the chill wind—soft though it is—that descends upon them from the mountains to the north. But even deeper than the cold that grips their bodies, and which is so easily remedied, they feel a bitter cold grip their hearts at the dawning awareness of the great evil that lies under the surface of the city of Onylandun—not unlike what had existed in Ristfand, only immeasurably worse—and also of the threat of violence and death that stands before the inhabitants of the city like a driving storm-cloud rolling in closer and closer with every passing moment.

They enter the citadel and follow Senfyr through a long vaulted hallway and up a flight of stairs until coming to the council chambers of the rulers of the city of Onylandun and of all the people in the clan-lands of Onylandis. They halt at the entrance to the room, immediately after stepping inside, while Senfyr speaks with one of the guards on duty, and they learn that the council is currently in session meeting with someone—they are not told whom—but shall be available to receive them afterward. And so they seat themselves on a low wooden bench that lines the wall, looking about at the massive chamber that is hundreds of years old, perhaps even a millennium, light streaming in from colored windows high above them and the sound of voices, indistinct but audible, echoing widely through the breadth of the chamber. They make no effort to distinguish words in the sounds of conversation, but it is evident that numerous different voices rise and fall in succession, as if exploring some matter in deliberation or debate.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour the voices return to silence and the company is summoned to approach the council that sits on the other side of the chamber, hidden from sight by barriers that have been erected partway across the room. For Eldarien in particular the experience is radically different from his visit to the palace of the hæras in Ristfand, even ignoring the fact that the one that he then thought was Glendas Medora was in fact one of the Draion, who called himself Maggot. What is most immediately different about the court in Ristfand and that in Onylandun is the sense of community, for here the hæras, a man by the name of Bryma Kaldvek, sits with three others on either side of him, three men to his right and three women to his left. Thus is constituted the council of the leaders of Onylandis.

"Hail to you, jarl Bryma," Senfyr says, raising his hand in greeting. "Hail to you, counselors. I bring in my company travelers from Ristfand, though these are unlike the other refugees who have poured into our city in months past. With me also, as you see, is the good cleric of the temple of Niraniel, Rûmdil. In fact, this man here," he gestures as he speaks, "is the grandmaster of their order all across the lands of Telmerion, a man by the name of Cirien Lorjies. And these are those who travel with him, warriors and persons of integrity who have stood both against the violence of the Empire and against the creatures of darkness. They have known directly, in the flesh, conflict about which we have only heard distant rumors."

"Hail to you, and welcome," says Bryma in response, with a nod of his head. "Today is a sorrowful day indeed on many accounts, and we are not much disposed at present to prolonged speech. But let me ask you: what word or aid do you bring to us in this time of strife?"

Cirien takes a step forward and says, "There is much that we bring in words, which perhaps another more fitting time shall allow expression. But what we bring first of all is hope for victory over the forces of darkness that assail you, and which may well assail you in much greater measure ere many days or weeks have passed."

"And what hope could this be?" asks a woman to the hæras' side. "A dragon has attacked us now for five nights, and none of our weapons, whether lance, arrow, or harpoon, seem able to slay the beast. And we hear that those creature which are called druadach, active in the east, are incapable of being slain by any means, and that they return with the coming of darkness each night, no matter what one may do to resist them."

"Sadly, to our knowledge your words are true, though only to a degree," says Eldarien, emerging from the group, and all eyes fall upon him. "These creatures are born of darkness, and they are but phantoms gathered from the wickedness of men and woven into some guise by the fallen divinities. Thus no iron or steel, no fire or ice, can truly harm them. But we bring word of a power that can dispel them and prevent their regeneration."

"Truly? How is that possible?"

"Only the light can purge them from existence, dispersing the very darkness that gives them form," explains Eldarien. "And yet even so, their fashioner can create more as long as he is free to gather this darkness again and to mold it into tools against us. I am sorry, I probably sound like I am speaking folly. Such things are difficult to express in human speech, for we must use but figures and images for things that are more real, more vivid, and more expansive than our language is accustomed to express."

"You say that even if dispelled, they can be made anew?" Bryma asks.

"Yes."

"Then what good is this new weapon of which you speak?"

"It is, I hope, an aid in the struggle until the more definitive solution is able to be put into effect."

"I am not following your reasoning," complains Bryma, turning to those who sit at his side and shrugging his shoulders in frustration.

With this, Rorlain speaks and says, "Eldarien has been entrusted with the light by the goddess Hiliana herself, and called by her the 'Lightborn,' scourge of the creatures of darkness. Indeed, he—and this woman who stands by his side, his sister—is the sole remaining remnant of the ancient kings of Telmerion before her division into the seven clans. He is the heir of the great king Sera Galaptes. And in his veins also flows the blood of the deathless Velasi people. Chosen, therefore, has he been, to guide us through these times of darkness to a new dawn."

"That is enough, Rorlain," whispers Eldarien, raising his hand to restrain his friend.

There is a dense moment in which the rulers of Onylandun, with surprise in their expressions, turn and speak to one another. The travelers wait expectantly, unable to discern the specifics of their converse or even to distinguish the astonishment in some faces from the indignation in others. At last Bryma rises to his feet and silences his council with a wave of his hand. "We know not what to make of these claims," he says, "and many have long begun to doubt, even some of us to forget, the ancient prophecies. When a man comes and claims to be their fulfillment, we can hardly be anything but cautious."

"Of what prophecies do you speak?" Eldarien asks. "I am not aware of any prophecies in this regard. Or, at least, all the prophecies of which I know point forward to the true Dawnbringer, whom I am not. I do not come claiming anything for myself, and yet I also cannot deny that what Rorlain, my friend and companion, says, is the truth."

"So you do not deny being the heir of the king, Galaptes, nor bearer of the blood of the blessed ones whom in our land we call the 'Veiled'?"

"I do not deny that."

"And what of this 'light' of which you speak?" Bryma asks. "How do we know that you bear this, beyond mere trust in your word?"

Reluctantly, but knowing that it shall be much more simple than to continue the conversation merely with words, Eldarien draws the lightbringer from its scabbard on his back and holds it before him. Closing his eyes, he sinks back into the place of poverty and silence, of receptivity and trust, at the center of his being, and allows the light to flow in him and through him. And he knows even through his closed eyelids that the blade of his sword has begun to shine with brilliant light. He allows it for a few seconds to linger, and then, with a simple sigh, he lets it go and return to its proper home, where it holds him and all things in intangible fullness.

He opens his eyes and looks at his interlocutors, who for a moment are silent. The woman at the hæras' side who had earlier spoken is the first to break the silence, "I had seen something from the beginning—in your eyes, and in the scars upon your face—but even seeing this, the light pouring through you, the claims you bring with you almost beggar belief."

"I ask only to be allowed to aid your people in their fight against the forces of darkness," replies Eldarien softly.

"And one blade shall do that?" Bryma replies, disbelief in his voice.

"Two blades, for Rorlain has been granted a share in this light, and he too can channel it at need," answers Eldarien. "But no, that is not all the aid we offer. Meager indeed would that be. We also intend to strike at the root of this darkness—to return to the import of our earlier converse—in order to bring an end to this war once and for all. No matter how many of the druadach and the other creatures of darkness that we dispel, it shall not truly hinder the plans of our enemy."

"What then?"

"We do not know the exact path yet, nor how to achieve the end toward which our journey is directed," Rorlain says. "But we come from the dwelling of the Velasi themselves, and it is they who have sent us forth, directing us first to come to your city. Where we shall be led hence we do not know, nor do we know how we shall come unto the final confrontation with the darkness. As Eldarien said, all that we ask is to be allowed to aid you in whatever way we may, trusting that in this, whether sooner or later, our path shall be made clear before us, and we may put a stop to the evil assailing our people once and for all."

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