Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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Khayn’s private chambers, also known as the ‘Captain’s Lodge,’ was the largest of all quarters throughout The Greywall, but it was by no means a luxurious accommodation. There were no aesthetically appealing elements, nothing to immediately catch the assassin’s eye as he entered, save one: a wide alcove straightaway from the doorway, housing two crimson sofas that offered anyone who might sit in them an excellent view over the Southern Courtyard, and the dark woods beyond that bordered the Republic of Joran. Within another wall, immediately to the left of all who entered this room, a massive hearth cackled brightly with a raging fire, filling the expanse with a pulsing, pleasant heat. Above it, an elegant mantle stood empty. It was meant, no doubt, to showcase any awards, medals, or decorations that the Captain of the Greywall might see fit to display. Khayn did not appear to have an interest in doing so.
Raven said nothing as they passed the threshold into the chambers, walking instead to the fireplace to warm himself. After a moment or two, he made his way over to the alcove, stepping up into it with purpose as if he had been waiting for the opportunity. Moving so close to the high, lead paned window that his nose almost touched the glass, Raven remained quiet, and there was nothing uncomfortable about the silence. These men knew each other too well. Khayn merely watched Raven standing in the alcove, and waited for the assassin to speak.
​“Can you imagine what it must have been like?” he finally said. “Imagine Barlow … or Syllica, standing right here, staring out this very same window.” The assassin turned briefly to face Khayn, the pattern of the window superimposed across his features, projected by the moonlight streaming in from the night. Then, as Raven looked back to overlook the courtyard, his eyes went distant. “Waves of Joranese troops storming the gate,” the assassin’s line of vision shifted as if he were describing live action unfolding before his eyes. “Enchanted flames blazing across the sky… pyrotechnical magic exploding from all directions.” Raven could indeed see it all, as clearly as if it were being reenacted before him: A host of enemy torches, matching the stars in both candescence and number, flickered in the inky blackness of the trees as the first ranks of Imperial foot soldiers broke the wood line. The brave and legendary Vanguard stood their ground in formations amidst the courtyard, their Agaron brethren lined along the Greywall Tower ramparts, arrows ready. “What that must have been like,” Raven said, almost longingly. “What that must have sounded like.”
Khayn cleared his throat, and Raven’s ancient imaginations faded away, dissolving into the calm dead of present and a scene that was far less remarkable. To the detail, every aspect of the Southern Courtyard was identical to that of the Northern, from which Raven had entered the Greywall less than half an hour earlier. Only the state of the world dictated the differences. The white marble fountain was neglected, its elegant flow absent. If not for the murky remnants of rainwater, it would have been dry. The stone arch was likewise untended. The torch sconces were dormant; no guards manned its flanks. The trees beyond were dark.
​“There’s something about those woods, isn’t there?” Raven said.
​Khayn, despite the four years since he had seen his childhood friend, was not surprised by this first encounter. It was hardly a conventional reunion, but Raven was not a conventional person. And so, as he stared at the back that could have just as easily had a sword in it minutes earlier, the Captain simply asked a question.
​“How do you mean?”
​“It’s like the trees are grinning at me,” Raven answered quickly. “Like they’re amused that I don’t know their secrets. Like they’re daring me to enter and pass into the chaos beyond.” Raven crossed his arms, breathing deeply. “They’re the skin concealing the disease,” he went on, “and I get that feeling every time.”
​Unconventional person or not, there was something disturbing about the seriousness in which Raven talked about the trees’ personality. Even for him.
“I’d settle just for knowing the situation beyond fragmented news of a plague,” Khayn said. “It can’t be worse than what my ignorance has caused me to imagine.”
​Raven remained motionless, just staring. “It absolutely can,” he said. “And it absolutely is.”
​Khayn was growing impatient. A year and a half of foreboding, and wondering what was truly going on in Joran, was quite enough. But he didn’t have the feeling that Raven was consciously delaying the sharing of his information, and so he was able to stave off annoyance. For the moment.
​“I was hoping you were here to tell me,” he pressed. “Unless, that is, your orders were to attack my iconic First Marshal and to stare reflectively out my window. In which case, let me be the first to congratulate you on a perfectly executed mission.”
​Raven smiled, though Khayn couldn’t see.
​“Iconic. Tove is nothing more than a glorified politician. And he attacked me first, I want that on record.” There was a certain normalcy to Raven’s tone for the first time. “Still, I probably could’ve handled it better. The King will want an explanation, I assure you.” Raven turned towards Khayn as if the window had released him from its trance. “Lucky for me, I don’t expect to survive this mission.”
​“You realize that by rights I could have you executed for it,” Khayn said, responding to what he assumed was a joke with one of his own.
​Raven rolled his eyes.
​“It’s good to see you again, brother,” said the assassin, and he stepped down to clasp wrists with Khayn, initiating the proper greeting at last.
​“You too, Raven.”
​As the embrace released, Khayn gestured to a solid oak table that stood in the center of the room. Upon it, a bottle of blackberry brandy sat just about three quarters full, and a half-eaten meal of stew and bread lay next to a cheaply made, oddly warped bowl too shallow for anything but the ash from tobacco sticks. Four chairs were spread evenly about it, made from the same hard wood as the table. Even with the lack of cushioning, however, they were far more comfortable than the assassin would have guessed, and he slouched, sighing and crossing his arms as he looked across the table to his friend.
​“Long day?” Khayn asked, leaning forward in his chair to refill an empty glass with the brandy. When he was finished, he motioned with the bottle towards Raven.
​“Long year,” Raven corrected, and in response to Khayn’s offer, he nodded and said: “Please.”
​Khayn bent down a bit, reaching beneath the table’s flat surface to the mount on which it stood. He unfastened a small latch with a click, opening a built-in cabinet with a creak. Inside, several glasses were kept, and the Captain withdrew one, closing the door with the back of his hand as he did so.
​“Been a long time,” he said, sliding the glass over to Raven.
​Raven picked it up, and with his other hand he took hold of the bottleneck. “Four years,” he said.
​Khayn nodded, taking a sip of his brandy before reaching down to his belt. Raven watched him intently, unconsciously ready to react. It was nothing more than a force of habit. “Has it really been that long?” Khayn asked, opening a thin cinder box, and placing a pre-rolled tobacco stick in his mouth. “Time flies,” he added, and lit it with a metallic apparatus attached to the box.
​“It does. And you’ve done well for yourself. Captain of the Greywall, no less.”
​Khayn smiled, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the air.
“Careful not to give me too much credit. If there were a further, more secluded place than The Greywall, I would be Captain of that, I assure you.”
​The joke passed without any reaction from Raven.
​“Do you really believe that?” he asked. The question sounded sincere.
​Khayn paused a moment, offended by what he perceived to be a condescending tone.​
“Yes, Raven,” he said, matching the assassin’s stare. It was rare to see someone who did. “That’s exactly what I believe.”
Raven downed the rest of his brandy, reached across the table and snatched the bottle again, its clear contents reflecting the fire.
​“You’re very wrong, Khayn,” he said.
​If Raven was challenging Khayn in any way, he was completely unaware of it, although it was at least possible. So often in his profession, it was necessary to establish a dominant position in conversations. Usually, with others who were not destined to live much longer. The other possibility was that Khayn still held some resentment towards Raven, and that it was resurfacing now after a four-year hibernation. Whatever it was, Khayn’s demeanor changed completely.
​“Let me guess, Raven. You’re here to tell me just how wrong I am. Do me a favor and spare me. I’m in no mood for it. Right now I find myself far more interested in discovering how you’ve come in response to my letter. I’m perfectly aware of how long it takes to travel to the Capital and back. You’ve made it nearly two days faster than should be possible. Without a horse.”
​Raven smirked at this. He said nothing, which seemed to agitate Khayn further.
​“Well?” the Captain asked.
​“Well what?” Raven said. “I thought you weren’t in the mood for it.”
​“Raven, I swear …”
​But the assassin went on before Khayn could complete whatever threat he had on the tip his tongue.
​“I plan on showing you tomorrow,” he said. Khayn raised his eyebrows, leading Raven to be more specific. “How I travel the way I do.” Raven rose to his feet, taking the glass of brandy with him. “As for the rest of it, listen to me very carefully, and stop letting your anger over our past cloud the issue.”
​Khayn took a drag of his smoke. Raven moved over to the hearth, leaning against the empty mantle and placing his drink on it.
​“The Greywall is not a place of honorable banishment. Not anymore.” Raven stopped. He was staring deeply into the fire, listening to the wood pop and watching the hypnotic flow of hot ash dancing up the flew. “And whatever infractions you’ve committed, as impressive as they may be, are not at the top of His Majesty’s priority list these days.”
​“No?” Khayn asked, careful in sounding entirely unimpressed. “Then what is?”
​“Joran,” Raven said simply, and it was as if he were speaking to himself. “It’s all about Joran.”
​Khayn no longer had the sense that his old friend was attempting to be dramatic. There was emotional weight to his words, and he really seemed tired. Still, he couldn’t help but be hesitant. He had spent the last year and a half believing Arkelais just wanted him out of the way.
​“If that’s true,” he said. “Why haven’t I heard anything?”
​Raven turned to face him as Khayn went on.
​“You say I’m wrong, that I haven’t been put on the shelf and forgotten about. Then tell me why I’ve sat here for the last eighteen months feeling like I’m trapped in a ghost story. Tell me why my only information comes from dying Joranese noblemen who emerge like zombies from the woods and threaten to sacrifice me on their altars.”
​Raven nodded as he replied.
“Yeah, they all say that. The infected. Personally, I’m more partial to ‘the Dark Fire cometh to Agaron.’ Sounds scarier,” Raven said.
​Khayn frowned, annoyed that his questions were continuing to go unanswered. “I’m glad you find my depression amusing.”
​Raven shook his head, turning his gaze back to the fire.
“You resort to negativity whenever you’re uncertain about something, Khayn Like you always have.”
​Now it was Khayn’s turn to stay silent, if for nothing else than the sense he was finally about to hear something worthwhile.
​“This place has returned to its original function, and you were posted here for a reason. The Greywall is the first and foremost defense against any attack from Joran.”
Raven was looking back towards the table again.
“You’re sitting there feeling sorry for yourself and you were given the greatest honor of anyone in the Kingdom.”
​Khayn rolled his eyes and looked away. Raven caught it.
​“Hey!” he yelled, snapping Khayn’s stare back to him. “The King trusted you more than anyone else for this task, that’s the truth. Why do you think you’re the first legitimate officer to be stationed here in all these years?”
​“I told you why,” Khayn said, dousing the cigarette in the warped, wooden bowl.
​Raven sighed in disgust. “No, Khayn, you’re right,” he said, his sarcasm thick and mocking. “In the midst of the Joran crisis, in which his nation’s most powerful neighbor seemingly died overnight, the King thought it wise to concentrate on more pressing matters. Like banishing Khayn Ahara for running around with the nobility’s daughters and drinking too much brandy on occasion.”
​Suddenly, strangely, Raven’s tone changed, and he took on the persona of someone in the middle of a far different conversation.
​“Speaking of that,” he began, breaking into a brief side note. “Is it true that you and the Duchess of Ebilen-“
​“Twice,” Khayn said nonchalantly. He took his glass again and waved towards Raven with the other. “Go on.”
​“This was no punishment,” Raven said as if his previous question had never been asked. “You’re here in command of some of Arkelais’ best men. You’re at the head of his Vanguard. I was there when his advisors argued their case for Tove to take the position. Against their protests, the King hand-selected you.”
​“And yet you still haven’t answered my question.”
​Raven stood up straight, spreading his arms to display his confusion.
​“Why haven’t I heard anything until now?”
​Raven walked back to the table. His glass was empty again and made almost no sound as he put it down. “Because until now, there was no reason to tell you,” he said, sitting down. “If it wasn’t for Vigrath’s visit, you’d still be waiting for the next phase of all this. Whatever that proves to be.”
​“What are you talking about?”
​Raven leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table.​
“‘Sacrificial altars,’ ‘the Dark Fire cometh;’ that’s all smoke and mirrors. What you should have been paying attention to is what he said about your blood.”
​The Captain’s facial expression changed just slightly as he thought back to that night. And then it just popped into his head as clearly as if Galad Vigrath had repeated himself from beyond the grave.
“Thine blood shalt not protect thee forever, o anointed solider,” he remembered aloud.
Raven nodded. “You’re one of us,” he said.
Khayn may not have understood where all of this was going, but he almost expected Raven’s next words before he spoke them.
​“The symbol on your right wrist. It appeared after you were exposed to the plague, right?”
​Khayn pulled up his sleeve, showing Raven without question.
​“How did you know?” he asked, completely fixated on Raven’s words now.
​“They’re rune symbols. They appear in the stead of symptoms. All of us have them.”
​“All of who, Raven?” Khayn asked. He was feeling better. The strange design had caused him a significant amount of stress. At first, he had thought it an early symptom of the plague. A rash, perhaps, and then even after it took the form of a symbol, the anxiety didn’t exactly subside. It was comforting to be talking to someone who knew about it, and it invoked an unexpected wave of reverence.
​“The immune,” Raven said, “the ‘anointed soldiers’ or whatever. I was sent here to make sure you were still alive, to confirm you were free of all symptoms, and to see your new tattoo for myself.”
Raven looked down to Khayn’s right wrist, leaning just a little bit closer and squinting though it didn’t seem necessary. Before commenting further, he reached across the table and ran his thumb over the raised skin. The symbol was a cross, but the horizontal line was slanted.
“Need,” said the assassin. “This is the symbol for ‘Need.’”
Khayn was frozen, staring at Raven who was staring at his rune symbol. “Need?” he asked like a child, then asked for what felt like the millionth time: “What does that mean?”
Raven took a moment as if preparing for a dramatic reveal. But after awhile he let go of his friend’s wrist and smiled. “I have no idea,” he said, standing up once more. It appeared he was having a difficult time staying in one place for too long.
“Well let me see your symbol then,” Khayn said.
“Don’t have one,” Raven answered.
“But you just said … how is that possible?”
Raven shrugged, nearly breaking out into empathetic laughter at the look on Khayn’s face. “I don’t know,” he was forced to repeat through a chuckle.
Khayn remained sitting. Still leaning forward, his shoulders sagged and he folded his hands.
“You’re really starting to piss me off, Raven,” he said in a defeated tone. “Do you know that?”
Raven nodded, loosening the black onyx broach that fastened his heavy cloak around his shoulders. The Captain’s Lodge was not quite warm enough to make wearing it uncomfortable, but called for a bit of ventilation. “Listen to me,” he said. “I know all of this is sudden, and I will explain as much as I can, but you need to begin your preparations.”
​“Preparations to …?”
​Raven was back in the alcove again, but he wasn’t looking out the window. Rather, the cushioned sofas seemed the source of his attraction to it this time.
​“To depart The Greywall. Your orders are to come with me.”
​Khayn let go of his sleeve, and it draped back down past his wrist so that the rune mark was once again concealed. He held both hands up, patting the air in front of him.
​“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Leave the Greywall?”
​Khayn’s tone was like an indictment of absurdity, but when Raven’s expression did not change, it sounded more like submissive acceptance. “Just like that?” he asked.
​“Just like that,” Raven said, snapping his fingers.
​Khayn sighed, hanging his head and running a hand back through his hair. He was still looking down at the table when he spoke again.
​“And where is it that we’re meant to be going?”
​“A port city called Lehdar,” Raven said. “One of Joran’s most prominent.”
​Raven’s calm demeanor seemed absolutely ludicrous to Khayn, who was doing all he could to keep from getting a headache. Still, the name rang a bell.
“I know it,” he said, then looked up and added: “As a matter of fact, I may have been there. Something about a grain shortage. We were lieutenants then, I think.”
“Close,” Raven said. “That was Landara, though, Lehdar’s sister city. A little bit east of where we’re going. Arkelais sent dozens of humanitarian convoys there during that drought they had. I was never assigned to one myself.”
At first it appeared as if Khayn might be reflecting on those simpler times. But when he spoke, it became clear that he was envisioning a different kind of memory.
“I was,” he said. “It was a beautiful place.” Khayn appeared on the verge of elaborating, but stopped. He paused a moment longer, and then settled on: “Beautiful.”
​“I would forget that,” Raven said. “It’ll make things easier.”
Khayn made eye contact again, and Raven went on.
“There’s nothing beautiful left in that country.” Raven hesitated, shook his head, and then turned his gaze back out the window. “It’s horrible.”
​“This is crazy, Raven,” Khayn said.
​There was no reaction from the assassin.
​“And who will be taking my place?”
​“First Marshal,” said Raven. “But don’t think that shadowy fool won’t be watched.”
​Khayn rose to his feet, once again opening the cinder box and removing a fresh cigarette. He lit it quickly, took in the smoke, and made his way over to the hearth.
​“He has never given me reason to mistrust him,” Khayn said, setting the box on the mantle. “And he is a hallowed negotiator and First Marshal of Arkhelais’ legions.” When Raven did not immediately respond, Khayn glanced over to the alcove and asked: “Am I missing something?”
​Raven looked increasingly distracted, and as he spoke, his hand crept up the sleeve of his other arm to itch where his own rune symbol should have been. “The Marshal’s absence on the night you met Galad...,” Raven paused, apparently searching for the right words. “Disturbs me.” He looked from the window back to Khayn. “My secondary objective was to assess, using subtle means, the validity of those suspicions if possible. Raven crossed his arms and shrugged. “He may have honestly believed I was here to harm you, which led to his attempt to intimidate me. But something about it seems off. And my instincts in these matters are very rarely wrong.”
“Rarely does not mean never, Raven.”
The assassin nodded, his gaze drifting back out the window.
“We are at the beginning of a long journey,” he said. “One that I am not looking forward to making. With that in mind, I suppose it’s possible I could have just lost my temper.”
Khayn found himself eager to change the subject. It was not his intention to cause Raven doubt, and given that he was soon to enter Joran with this man, that prospect seemed even more troubling than if his mistrust of the Marshal proved founded.
​“I thought you had a way of making long journeys short,” Khayn said, staring into the fire just as Raven had earlier. “You mentioned something about showing me tomorrow?”
​“Yes,” Raven started, and again his hand moved up under his sleeve to scratch. “I can show you the Crossroads, but we can’t use them. Not unless you want to become an advocate of ‘the Dark Fires cometh’ or ‘sacrificial altars.’”
​Khayn’s eyes widened. His own rune symbol was beginning to itch, and then a very strange thought fluttered into his mind. Of all the things to be pondering in that moment, with all of the new information he was trying desperately to make some sort of sense of, his focus shifted suddenly to the sensation of a face looking back at him from the flames. Strictly speaking, he saw nothing as he stared into the hearth, but it definitely felt like someone was watching him. And then … something else. A woman, maybe? The distraction took him faraway, and by the time he was absorbing Raven’s words again, it was obvious he had missed something.
​“…infected by the metaphysical side of the plague,” Raven finished.​
Khayn nodded, but he was utterly lost. He added ‘The Crossroads’ and ‘metaphysical side of the plague’ to his long list of questions to ask later. He knew to save them for the road, but at the rate these queries were piling up, Lehdar would need to be on the other side of the world to allow enough to time ask them.
​“Galad had been our informant for over a year,” Raven said, his eyes fixed on the shadows beyond the abandon stone arch and vacant courtyard. “I’m sure I’m not revealing any great secrets by telling you his family descends from the Joranese Empire. History recorded the House of Vigrath as heroes, and critical contributors to the events that overthrew the imperial line. Galad felt it his duty to carry on that tradition.”
Khayn was entranced. “What was he doing at the Greywall?”
“I’m not …” Raven stopped suddenly, sitting up straight on the sofa and leaning forward as if it might give him a better look at the view from the window. There was something he couldn’t place in those cold sylvan depths. Something new. He had no appreciation for the intense interest he had sparked within Khayn. The assassin, instead, was beset on what he perceived to be humanoid silhouettes peering out from the trees. There was nothing there, and yet somehow there was. Some obscure … things teetering on the edge of his senses. Or was it just fatigue?
“…even listening to me, Raven?” he heard a voice say.
Raven didn’t move in the slightest, but he at least spoke. “What?” he asked.
Khayn was obviously annoyed. Staring into the alcove with his back to the fire, he took a deep drag of smoke. “Vigrath,” he said. “What was he doing at the Greywall?”
“We don’t know,” said the assassin, unapologetic for having momentarily neglected his friend. “I would guess that he panicked.”
Raven put both hands against the window now, leaning against it. Obsessed. An unnatural sweat prickled upon his forehead and oozed from his palms.
“The last time we spoke, he had all but lost his composure. The entire Joran High Council, and most of his family along with it, had been completely wiped out. Killed, to the best of his knowledge, by a pre-eminent wizard who had emerged from their very own hermitage.” Raven straightened his body, taking deep, deliberate breaths to sturdy himself. It seemed to help, and after swallowing he continued. “With the plague, the government was crumbling anyway, which makes the timing suspicious. It seems more like a puzzle piece than straightforward political overthrow.”
Khayn glanced down to the cigarette smoldering in his hand.
“And you said something about Galad panicking?” he asked, pleased when Raven answered immediately despite his renewed fascination with the window.
“Yeah. He was going back to Lehdar, using the Crossroads-”
Without turning to look, Raven anticipated the question and he waved his hand dismissively in the air. Indeed, Khayn’s mouth had been open to finally ask. It appeared that his curiosity in this matter at least, would not have to wait for the road to be satisfied.
“The Crossroads are caverns,” Raven said, and then hesitated. He may have been trying to plan an elaborate description before realizing the futility. “They have the power to transport anyone to designated areas, instantaneously, around the world. An ancient network devised by the magics of Imperial Joran. A few of them have since been discovered in Agaron as well, revealing the means of several previously unexplained surprise attacks of the ancient wars. After the collapse of the Empire, they became a very profitable and well-kept secret, passed down mainly through generations of Joranese smugglers and wealthy travelers who wished to have their … business kept private.”
“And these Crossroads are how you made it here so quickly?”
“Yes,” Raven said. “After we received word of the High Council’s demise, I was called back to Avaleen. Shortly there after, your messenger arrived.”
Though still preoccupied with the window, Raven turned briefly back to Khayn, his eyes glints of moonlight. “And as I said before, you became a welcome stop on my way to carry out an errand.”
Khayn turned and flicked his cigarette into the fire, and Raven had gone back to staring out the window once more. It was almost as if the assassin were waiting for something to happen. “Right. And what exactly is this errand?” he asked.
“To kill this wizard responsible for destroying the High Council. Possibly responsible for the plague as well.” Raven found himself lightheaded again. He had become lax in his paced breathing and paused to correct the problem. Again, those damned silhouettes tickled the edge of his perception. “A wizard who calls himself Arkhelan.”
Khayn simply could not believe his ears. The thought of a regular human being trying to kill a wizard … one might as well suggest uprooting mountains with their bare hands. Even in an evening where the surreal was the theme, this revelation was absurd.
“You’re serious,” Khayn said, stunned. “A wizard.”
Raven laughed.
Khayn took a seat on the sofa opposite his friend. From the closer proximity, he noticed Raven’s sweating. This, in addition to his intense stare out at nothing, concerned the Captain. But he made no mention of it.
“Raven, my head is spinning with everything you’ve told me tonight, and I’m still aware this is a suicide mission.”
“Well you better hope not,” Raven said. “Because we’re on it together now.”
A long silence followed as Khayn slouched, apparently letting that new and numbing reality wash over him. Raven’s forearm was beginning to burn to the point of serious pain, but he spoke as if he didn’t feel it. “I had to kill two of my people last month after they used the Crossroads. Both were immune to the plague,” Raven said, hanging his head. “It didn’t matter.”
Returning to the original topic served its purpose, as Khayn seemed to come back from his overwhelming and suffocating inner thoughts to engage Raven’s words.
​The one who once saw but was blinded, Raven thought, but the words were not his own, and he continued as if he didn’t hear it.
​“Galad confirmed that the Joranese Crossroads were corrupted by something. Something he could only describe as a ‘presence;’ the sort of metaphysical aspect of the plague that I touched on earlier. With their use no longer an option, he arranged our final meeting by paying much of his family’s remaining fortune to a plague-ridden pirate. It has apparently become quite a popular practice to loot Joran by sea.”
Khayn’s chin was resting on his balled fist. “Pathetic,” he said.
Raven nodded in agreement and continued. “Anyway, this guy refuses to evacuate anyone but Galad, demanding equal payment for the others, which of course he could not provide.”
“Others?” asked Khayn.
“The rest of those who escaped Arkhelan’s massacre of the High Council. They had been hiding out in Lehdar, in an apothecary to my understanding, when word came that Arkhelan was heading there. So he bought passage for himself aboard this criminal’s rickety ship to bring us this information. Everything we know, everything I have told you tonight, is owed to the actions of this one man.”
“He truly was from a House of Heroes, then,” Khayn said.
Raven’s burning forearm began spreading throughout his body, reaching up to his shoulders. But it was not the pain that changed his tone; it was the somberness in which Galad Vigrath’s story ended.
“After speaking with me, he thought he would have enough time to return to Lehdar on the same ship, and evacuate the others to Agaron through conventional means.” Raven paused, his eyes looking down for a moment. “I regret that I didn’t stop him. I should have brought him back with me to Avaleen.”
​“How do you figure?” Khayn asked.
​Raven’s eyes rose up to stare through the glass once more. “Like I said, he was losing his composure. The stress was getting to him, and understandably so. My instincts told me there wouldn’t be enough time. And they’re ve-”
​“Very rarely wrong,” Khayn finished. “So I’ve heard.”
​Raven tried to smirk, but it was all he could do not to fall and grab his arm. This had happened before, the burning, but it never took this long to subside. That he hid the pain so convincingly was amazing to even himself. “Plague immunity is only one of the things your encounter with Galad established,” he said. “The second is that he ran out of time and tried to escape with his people through the Crossroads. So far, none of the other escapees are accounted for. We can only assume that they’re dead, judging by the effect it had on Galad. Such reckless action can only mean one thing: That Arkhelan has arrived in Lehdar, and that Galad used the Crossroads regardless of the danger because he-”
​“Panicked,” Khayn said, finishing Raven’s sentence for the second time in as many minutes.
​“Ah,” the assassin said. “You get it now.”
​“Get it?” Khayn was dumbfounded. “Get it? Raven, I’ve never been more confused in my life. You’re talking about assassinating wizards, a metaphysical side of the plague, and having men in Joran! And somehow, even that barely scratches the surf-”
​Khayn’s words were cut short by an intense burn sparking to life within his arm, and it spread like a slow motion shockwave throughout his entire body. He saw the glow emanating from beneath his sleeve even before he pulled it back to see his rune symbol shining a bright, glittering gold. Gritting his teeth, the Captain mustered enough composure to attempt speech, and only then did he notice Raven’s condition. The assassin had fallen to all fours beside the sofa, suffering the same symptoms.
“Rave… Raven,” Khayn managed, but there would be no answers to this, and then he was interrupted by yet another strange and disturbing event. A blinding flash of light poured in through the window, as if the sun had risen a moment in error before falling again to correct its mistake in an instant.
And the abnormal heat, blazing through both sons of Agaron, dissipated.
The phenomenon left Khayn disoriented and his rune symbol alight. It was slower to fade than the flash from outside, but it too was gone quickly, and when he looked back to the alcove, he saw Raven drawing himself up to full height.
​“Raven,” Khayn said, but he could think of nothing else to say.
​The assassin gave no indication that he had heard Khayn’s words, and an extended pause passed. Raven did not appear to process anything outwardly. Instead, his gaze had turned inward, to a place no one else could see. And then a sudden burst of urgency.
​“Make your preparations,” he said, pointing at Khayn as he strode on a beeline towards the door. “We leave tomorrow. Before noon. I’ll meet you in the Mess Hall.”
​Just then, one of the guards that had earlier restrained Raven, burst into the room, just a fraction of a second after the assassin had opened the door. He stopped abruptly, delaying in the delivery of his message by the surprise of seeing the assassin standing there. He did not cross the threshold, but addressed his Captain from the hallway.
​“Mad business, Captain! The Marshal has ordered a call to arms and sent me to find your condition.”
​“Report to the Marshal that my condition is sound,” Khayn said. From beyond the doorway, a disciplined commotion had swept throughout The Greywall. “Tell the men that I will be addressing them shortly, if you would.”
​“As you say, sir,” the guard said, but before turning to carry out the order, he took another glance at Raven. Perhaps it was the man’s training that still identified the assassin as a threat. He had attacked the First Marshal, after all. It was unnatural to see him here, unpunished.
​“What’s the matter, Roland?” Raven asked, remembering the man’s name from when Khayn had yelled for him to sheathe his sword. “Never seen a moment of day in the middle of night before?”
​The assassin slapped the man’s shoulder with a wink, rattling his armor. And then without another word, not even so much as a look back to Khayn, he exited. The sound of Raven’s footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the sound of his voice reminding: “Tomorrow morning, Mess Hall.” And then he was gone completely.​
“Whenever it’s convenient, soldier,” Khayn said, watching Roland still standing there.
​“Yes, sir,” Roland said, snapping from his thoughts with an embarrassed salute. “Sorry, sir.” He left, closing the door behind him.
​At first, all Khayn could do is remain motionless beside the table, staring out into space. It was enough to make him feel lightheaded, as if his mind forbade him from analyzing all that had happened in an attempt to protect itself from the shock. It hurt to think.
And yet … there was something else.
A feeling the Captain hadn’t had in as far back as he could remember. There was a sense of anticipation, the excitement of being on the brink of something new. The chapter of open-ended monotony had ended. This was progression. Looking around the Captain’s Lodge, his quarters, it was easy to imagine that none of this had happened. All appeared as it had been every day and endless night of the last eighteen months. He, however, was undeniably different. He had no urge to touch the brandy that still sat on the center room table. No desire to collapse into the bed on the other side of the chamber. He was energetic and alert. He had a purpose.
​Khayn looked briefly back to the fire, still blazing in its hearth, contemplating the images it had earlier conjured. Then something caught his eye as he stepped up into the alcove. He saw it immediately upon looking out the window.
The Captain’s initial instinct was to sound the alarm, but he stopped himself to consider, aware that his enthusiastic mindset eclipsed reason at the moment. The Southern Courtyard was unmanned, but it was certainly surveyed, and the man strutting through it would have been stopped if he were unknown. Khayn realized all at once why he wasn’t. The man was Raven Lale, and Khayn watched as he walked to the woods, raising the hood of his voluminous cloak to shadow his face in the moonlight.
The assassin disappeared into the shadows. The Captain of the Greywall sighed.

Isabelle remembered this look in Jace’s eyes like it was yesterday. It was like being in that same moment all over again. That same moment when he and Relic had come out of the Fairlawn Woods. It was exactly the same kind of look. He wasn’t lucid, it was like he recognized nothing. No one. His breath was in short spurts.

But he was looking at something. His eyes were focused. It was like he was looking at Malcolm who was still be detained, horrified, his eyes welling up with tears as he stood as a captive. Then she realized he wasn’t looking at him, but beyond him.

Isabelle couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t even think. She grabbed his hands and bowed her head instead.

She couldn’t move. Paralyzed by grief.

Then crossed his arms looking to Thean and Foy.

“Well, it looks like we know the reason for that edict, after all.” He glanced back over to Isabelle. “She certainly looks like she’s lost her military bearing, can’t stay objective in the field. And look at you, Constable,” he said. “What a proud moment this should be for you. Proven right. Your staunch edict proven right all along.” He walked around a little. “You know, I have an easier time forgiving you, Fenlow. I can almost even understand what you did.” But he looked back to Foy. “But you. You were there. There’s no excuse for you.”
“I am not the one who needs excuses, Artemus. I am not the one who will need to answer for sins. I am not the one who betrayed oaths.”

“No, you’re just the crazy one who runs off in isolation and hides from the real world.”

“Was I hiding? Or was I simply not ignoring Fate, not disrespecting it, not succumbing to the lures of a promise and the promises made by Arkhelan. You were her Illumanar. You had a duty to this continent. Long after we were betrayed, your betrayal was worse. You’re a disgrace to that emblem on your palm. You betrayed destiny.”

“Destiny!” he yelled, and while it looked like he might attack Gabriel right then, the old outrider never flinched. “Destiny is being betrayed, watching my soul mate stay young while I grow old, watching my daughter grow sicker and sicker because of the ignorance poisoning the mind of this world. Take a look at destiny!” he pointed to Jace, lying on the ground. “It’s dying in the dirt!”
Relic was hardly listening, he was standing like Malcolm staring at Jace, Isabelle hovering over him. Like she had seen him do with him that night in Fairlawn after they had ridden out of the woods. Like she had seen her to with Cedwyn. But it wasn’t until he saw Thean, a man who had been the epitome of an emotional rock his entire life with a look of utter horror on his face, this powerful and sure man usually so strong and sure, now at a loss, eyes welling up with tears, that he too knew everything was lost.

Artemus caught it, too, but now, strangely, even he appeared to be getting a little choked up. As if the whole world was coming together, overlapping and intersecting. All had come to this, or like he was coming to grips with what he had done, and his voice cracked.
“Look at it!” he yelled and pointed his crossbow straight at Gabriel’s face.
“No, artemus,” Gabriel said calmly. “You look.”
As they looked over they saw Jace lying there, and he seemed like he was talking nonsense.
To Jace there was that blinding white light again, a phenomenon of which he had become all too familiar in the last year of his life. And he was back on the Fairlawn plains that night after the Fairlawn mission. He saw himself back in that moment (take exact scenage from that part of Outriders and incorporate.) Then there was another flash and he was back in Bryce Valley, moments after his last vision had ended. And he knew immediately, it was right after where he had last left it with the young Artemus. Right after the airships weapons started firing and he had left. His ears were ringing loudly as if he had been standing next to some incredibly loud noise. Then, it too faded and there was Jaden’s voice. He was standing the way her daughter, Hazel Lien, Hazel Lien Ward, had been standing in Zarponda (more appropriate because it’s her mother), with the sun over her shoulder shining down into Jace’s eyes, blinding him. Only the vague silhouette of her figure could be seen.
“The shamans, are they all right? It’s over. (same line as above)” Jace said and it felt natural. Like he should.
Jaden crouched down beside him, her forearms resting on his knees and he nodded up in the direction on the other side of Jace. With great effort, the outrider looked over. All around the brush was on fire, rocks were blasted up out of the wall. And he knew this was the aftermath of what he had begun to see unfold in his vision in Lornda Manor. After the airships had begun to strafe the place.
He felt hurt, but not like arrows, like something else, like he couldn’t move, next to the body of Ailmar Ducheyne. There were no sign of any of their horses, but Gabriel Foy was hovering over both men, his head bowed. Then there was some disturbed rocks up above on the ridge and Gabriel turned up and looked back. He saw Thean come up, still on his horse.
“Are there any survivors!” Foy yelled, but Thean did not respond, just stared down at the valley floor and all the carnage there and his two mortally injured friends. “Fenlow!” he yelled again, and now Thean shook his head violently and snapped back to his senses.
“No!” he yelled back down. “They’re all dead! All of the safety areas caved in! It’s like they knew exactly where to strike!”
As Jace continued watching the scene he listened to Calloway’s voice.
“Bryce Valley,” he said. “The crossroads of destiny.”
Now he watched as up above in the cave he had walked out of in his vision in Lornda Manor, Jaden walked out of the darkness, she walked out of it and to the high scaffolding giant wooden stairs leading up past the ledge and even higher to the controls of the Sky Gate. Slowly, she walked down to him, and Foy froze watching as she crouched down next to Artemus the same way Calloway was crouched down next to him. He couldn’t hear what she was saying to him, but Calloway was narrating behind him again.
“In a time of war or great peril to the Tears, the Illumanar rise up to defend them as they have since the beginning of time as it is currently defined and you know it. Sleeper cells of this order, who appear to be normal people in peace time, rise up to assume their sacred responsibility and oaths. Within them, whenever they are called upon, their captain rises up.
Now Jace watched as Jaden stood full up to her feet, staring down at Artemus who was flat out on his back. She was standing now at his feet, looking down at him. And now, Jace heard a difference in Calloway’s voice and he looked straight up and found that Calloway had done the same. He was now standing up at his feet in an almost mirror image with Artemus Ward and Jaden. Now Calloway was looking down at him, talking again.
“Artemus Ward has failed in that responsibility, and a great man has fallen. In which case those responsibilities fall to his successor.”
Jace just stared, he couldn’t talk. He could say nothing at all, just kept listening to Calloway talk, as down the way, Jaden did the same to Artemus in the past.
“No more trippy visions, Jace. No more riddles or half truths. Here, at the crossroads, the circle is now complete. Regret is a luxury you can no longer afford. And while my role is ending.” He reached down as if to help him up. “Yours is just beginning.”
Behind him down the way, Jaden reached down to Artemus in perfect sync with Calloway, and in perfect sync as well Artemus and Jace reached up, simultaneously grabbing the hands reaching up to help them. (TAKES JADEN’S HAND)
Now, though he hadn’t started to be pulled up yet, he looked over Calloway’s shoulder and saw Thean there, looking down with confusion at the Tear, Jaden, who would soon leave him there behind in that valley, walk back into the passage he came from and go back to Lornda Manor with Foy and Artemus. The look on his face was horrified.
And then there was a bright white flash. And he was back in the present.
The hand he had been holding, Calloway’s hand, had been replaced with the jadeite necklace, the stone named after Jaden, as it was on the necklace hanging down from Isabelle’s neck who was hovering over him. It was glowing extremely bright, and it felt as if someone had taken a branding iron to Jace’s hand and he screamed at the top of his lungs. As he did so, the arrows that were in his chest began to evaporate, in the exact same magic glowing fashion from which they were manifested in the crossbows after each shot, only reverse manifestation and they evaporated into green mist. And while Isabelle was shocked still, not moving a single muscle, it wasn’t her face he was looking at throughout the entire process anyway. It was Thean, looking down at him with that same horrified expression.
Then he heard Artemus scream in rage and Jace looked over at him just in time to see Artemus pointing down at him.
“Kill him! Kill him now!” he yelled.
Now Isabelle finally did react.
“No!” she screamed in a mix of panic and fear, and she laid down over his body just before they were both lost to sight with a gang of several golden riders swarming all around them to do as they were ordered.
But then, with no explanation, they stopped and froze. They weren’t moving.
“Now!” Artemus screamed again.
Beside him, Relic, Thean, and Foy just stood, restrained, in shock and staring and confused.
Then the golden riders began to dissipate and step away. When they did, they revealed Jace was now standing up behind them. With Isabelle standing next t him. Her necklace was no longer glowing, but in that same pulsating green energy, Jace’s hand was. It was glowing bright green the rune symbol in his palm.
Now Artemus, seeing this, froze as well. And slowly he looked down to his own palm, and the symbol was gone.
In shock, slowly, he looked back up to Jace into his eyes.
“How….” Relic managed to get out, but he was in a fog and barely whispered it out.
Fenlow Thean was tone.
Foy, too, amazingly, looked shocked, or as if witnessing an ethereal miracle.
“It’s the crossroads. Crossroads of History. Destiny intersecting. Cyclic circles.”
And then, all together, they became aware, and it became evident like something that had been right in front of their faces. The point team that had gone to Bryce Valley thirty years ago, the original point team was all there, Artemus, Foy, Thean, without Ailmar Ducheyne who had died. And the new point team. Jace, Relic, Isabelle without Cedwyn who had died.
“Let them go,” Jace said, but his eyes never left Artemus. At once, and without hesitation, the golden riders let go of Relic, Foy and Thean. “And bring Malcolm down.”
The golden riders went up to go do that, and while they did look a little confused, they never hesitated, knowing that rune symbol meant everything.
Artemus and Jace were still locked in on each other. And while they didn’t say anything, Foy did.
“We’re at the crossroads,” he said, and then closed his eyes. “We’re there.”
Relic, stunned still, slowly looked over to Foy.
“Where?”
Gabriel Foy opened his eyes again.
“Full Circle.”

***


“Where is your record book, Artemus?”
Somewhat resigned, Artemus just looked back, but he still seemed formidable and in control.
“Really, Jace? You’re gonna ask me that. Don’t you know the bad guy never gives the details?”
“You’re not the bad guy,” Jace said. “You’re just wrong. When people have all the answers, they stop asking why. Heaven and Earth are meant to be separate. When they were joined, in what you call the Sun Kingdom, it didn’t fall because of some cosmic tragedy, it fell as a part of evolution of existence. Not having all the answers is what gives Faith its power, what gives meaning to Faith, to believing in something. You think merging heaven and earth will provide the meaning of life. But the meaning of life is just to live. You’ve become a slave to your emotions, Artemus. Your daughter, Jaden. You ceased being yourself long ago. But you’re doing the same thing you claim to hate about the Veil’driel government. Not trusting humanity. You’ve become the very thing you hated and stood against.”
“Touching,” Artemus said. “But save your pity.”
At this, Jace looked a little distracted.
“Where is your record book?” he asked again with more sternness.
Artemus dropped his crossbows, as they were useless against Jace or because he was giving up was unable to tell.
“And what if I don’t tell you? You’ll kill me?” He rolled up his sleeves, the scars were still there. “I’m dead already, remember? As are you. As will the entire world be when this sickness, this manifestation of the universal ignorance continues to spread.”
​He looked over to Isabelle who had really been through the ringer.
​“Oh, he didn’t tell you? He has the plague.”
​She looked like she might be about to respond, but Jace cut it off.
​“Don’t look at her, look at me!” he yelled, and there was a sure fire authority there, it reminded Isabelle of when they were on the balcony together in Lornda Manor right before the ships came. “Where is your record book!”
​Artemus sighed, he looked around one last time all over the place, then he went down as if he were going to go for the record book. But in a flash, surprising everyone, he withdrew his short swords in a fury and charged at Jace. Jace took a single step back, but the golden riders didn’t even move, but not even hesitating and with his hands free because he was no longer a prisoner, Artemus withdrew his own swords and in a super lighting quick exchange that went back and forth back and forth with clings and sliding, Thean smashed him in the face and then dug his blades straight down into his shoulders and let go of the blades, he fell to his knees just sitting there on his knees staring at nothing and panting.
​Then Thean and Jace caught a glimpse of each other and Jace nodded at him, very thankful.
​Thean looked at him and Thean looked like he was listing ever so slightly to the side and he limped away a bit.
​Artemus just standing there, smiled a little bit. And he held up a hand signal in front of his chest, shaking and hard to do it. It was the Outrider hand gesture an unmarked outrider would throw up to proclaim himself an Outrider of Veil’driel, but his eyes were vacant.
​Jace, looking down at him, was the first to send it back. Then one by one all the others present did. And while it took her the longest and she almost didn’t do it, finally Isabelle sighed and held it up to him as well, giving in to her pity of the man and not because she felt she had to.
​Then, Artemus, the legend, fell forward down into onto his stomach into the dirt.

Chapter Twenty  (E) Ursinus #2190685 by Dan Hiestand