Brothers of the Order

     Menew hunched over his desk, nearly hidden by the stacked books and papers cluttering his desk, his hand buried in his meticulously groomed salt-and-pepper hair. He squinted, scooting a candle closer. Wall sized windows lined the room on three sides, but it still felt dark. Perhaps the ceiling-high mahogany bookshelves were to blame? Or the burgundy velvet curtains? Or, perhaps the room had simply taken on the character of its most frequent occupant?

     Menew took a sip from his nearby glass, wiping the excess wine from his lips with a crisp, white napkin. Every now and again he marked a dot on a map to his right and muttered to himself before returning to the book.

     An hour passed. Then two. Menew set the text aside with a frustrated sigh and pulled a heavy tome from the far top corner of one of the bookshelves. The book was caked in dust and the writing along the spine was worn to the point of illegibility. Menew took another sip of wine and gently opened the cover, muttering the title to himself, “Dethor and Surrounding Lands.” The title page was yellow and brittle from decades- if not centuries- of neglect. Menew leafed through for a second before a folded piece of paper, which had been tucked deep in the crease of the pages, fell loose. Like the book itself, the paper was brittle and thin, so Menew had to unfold it with a gentle, steady hand; he cursed under his breath as, despite his best efforts, it ripped in several places.

     Before him was an ancient map of Dethor, Celtland to the North, and the Outerlands to the south. Based on the unfinished line of the King’s Road, Menew surmised the map to be at least 500 years old. Notes were scribbled in wiggling handwriting all around the edges, the ink faded green with age. Most of it was inconsequential: suggestions for edits, notes about Noble families’ landholdings… They were the sorts of things Chosen had been scribbling in the margins of maps since the Order came into being.

     It wasn’t until Menew examined the southwestern edge of the map that something caught his eye. Amongst the illegible markings and scrawling cursive was a heavy-handed black spot. The ink had bled through the paper, weakening it to the point that, as Menew ran his finger over the place, it poked through.

     Menew didn’t dare believe his suspicions at first. He scrutinized the map, following the curve of the ridge on either side of the hole, searching for some clue, some confirmation to validate his racing heart, his dry mouth, the excitement rising in his breast. Even then, under such close examination, he nearly missed it; he eased the torn sections of paper back together with his forefinger and, as he held it an inch or two from his nose, he saw what he was looking for. Someone, years before, had tried to conceal it, to bury it under a thick layer of ink, but the red letters still managed to show through in the light; ‘U-C.’

    Menew inhaled sharply. ‘U-C’ could mean only one thing. “Uraq-Cuma,” he whispered breathlessly, unable to believe it. After so many years of searching, of reading nearly every book in this library, of scouring every map he could get his hands on, every letter, every diary from centuries past…here it was. Proof.

    He leaned back in his chair, dumbstruck, before a thin smile snaked across his lips. Now, we can begin in earnest.

    The hallways were gloomy and cool; only a sliver of sunlight snuck inside where the curtains did not quite meet. Menew loped up the spiraling staircase, climbing to the very top of the tower. He glanced about, his anxious eyes narrowed, listening intently. A few floors down, a maid scurried out of one of the rooms, whistling a peasant tune to herself as she gathered her linins and headed for the back stairs. Only once her song had drifted out of earshot did Menew fit the key into the lock.

     Menew waved his hand over a nearby torch and flames leapt to life beneath his palm. He let them tickle his skin a moment, too consumed by his own thoughts to pay that common sensation much attention.

     Fat pedestals lined the walls, the gems and orbs placed upon them obscured by velvet cloths. An empty shelf lingered in the corner, its former contents safely hidden amongst the library’s sea of books. Menew gently removed each fragile sphere from its place, setting them in an unpretentious chest just outside the door. He took the opportunity to survey the hallway one final time, and, after the last orb was safely tucked away, he heaved the door closed and turned the handle to the side, locking himself in.

     There was a tenderness to the way Menew removed the cloth coverings from the gems on the pedestals. Something about the ritual of it, the power waiting to be awakened, produced a sense of reverence. The magic he was about to attempt was not only astoundingly powerful, it was also expressly forbidden. A single mistake could mean the loss of his life or worse, the loss of his Gift. Even after everything he’d already done, the magnitude of what he was about to attempt weighed upon his chest.

     For a time, Menew stood motionless in the center of the room, his hands at his sides. He wasn’t meditating. He wasn’t going over the ritual in his head. No, he was summoning the resolve to defy the voice in his heart that whispered- begged- him to turn and leave that room, to have another glass of wine, and do something- anything- other than what he’d come to do. Blood Magic, necromancy… the Oath forbade it. Amus forbade it. The laws of nature forbade it.

     But there was no other way. He needed Argnendon to bring those superstitious, barbaric heathens into the fold… the thought of uniting with the Brikaru Highborne made Menew’s righteous skin crawl. But they were a necessary evil.

     At least in this initial phase.

     Menew steadied his trembling hands and took a purposeful breath. He closed his eyes, repeating the reassurances he had crafted when this idea had initially crossed his mind. This isn’t true necromancy. I am bringing a specific energy into the present, not a corpse, not an actual manifestation of the man himself. It isn’t as though I am truly raising the dead…

     Menew stared at the huge object secured to the wall before him, covered in a heavy black sheet. He hesitated, but then pulled the sheet away, exposing the metal platform beneath. He had built this machine (if it could be called such a cold, lifeless word) himself, alone, over the course of five or so years. He had lost himself in his work, in the engineering of it, in the genius of the device, inspired by ancient schematics and lore and the power of his own imagination. It was made of iron and stone, broad enough for three people to stand comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder. He had wrapped a thick, roughly forged iron rail around the front, more for his own safety than any other reason. What he intended to summon onto that platform was… unpredictable.

     Menew slid his hand into his pocket and produced a crystal vial filled nearly to the stopper with a viscus, red liquid. He swirled it against the sides, watching it linger and ooze in deep crimson lines. Their Majesties would certainly call for his head if they ever discovered how he’d obtained it; the unfortunate Highborne had taken hours to bleed, her race’s longevity only serving to prolong her agony. She’d had to die; he couldn’t risk Loth Swithe at his doorstep, not now. But, Amus, if They ever learn the truth…

     Menew closed his eyes and took a slow, steadying breath as he squeezed the vial into his palm. No room for anxious thoughts now. What’s done is done.

    Menew opened his eyes and approached the machine, positioning himself directly in front of the opening. Adrenaline pulsed from his chest to his fingertips, his nerves buzzing as he pulled the cork from the crystal and poured the blood into his palm. The vial tumbled from his fingers as he rubbed the liquid over his skin. He squeezed his hands together, making sure both were coated before he pressed them to the iron rail, marking it.

    He stepped back a pace and spread his blood-streaked fingers, moving his hands parallel to the floor as if he were running them over an invisible table. A ring of sapphires sparked to life below his palms, encircling him in blinding blue light. Seconds later, twin stones on the machine flickered and began to glow. Menew closed his eyes once more, and fervently murmured indistinguishable words. The stones on the machine glowed brighter, their light shooting upward until the center of the platform could no longer be seen.

     A vibration stirred the room, barely noticeable at first, but growing in intensity until the entire chamber shook. The gems along the wall began to glow, one by one, like candles being lit, and floated into the air, the vibration nearly drowning out the crash as their pedestals tipped onto the floor. The shelf in the corner also fell, the wood cracking on impact.

     Menew fought to maintain his focus, thankful that, after years of obsessive practice, the spell flowed from his lips automatically. The vibrations intensified, and the debris scraped across the floor, trapped in the pull of the machine’s blue light. Menew’s rich indigo robes tugged at his back as they too began to inch toward the light. Menew pressed his eyes closed, the spell still flying from his lips as he shrugged the robe off and kicked it to the side.  Sweat dripped from his forehead, his breath catching in his throat as the words struggled to escape his lips, the distraction nearly taking him off course. Menew swallowed, and continued, articulating the incantation with determined accuracy.

     Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the vibrations stopped. The blue light receded into its respective stones. The room sank into an eerie silence, save for Menew’s haggard, relieved breathing.

     Menew opened his eyes apprehensively, running his damp hands over his pants and clearing his throat. The magic had left a sharp pain behind his eyes, and the remaining glow emanating from the machine pierced through like needles. He squinted, resisting the urge to look away. Did it work? Or was my distraction at the end enough to undo everything? Will I have to try again? He had procured plenty of blood, just in case… His eyes slowly adjusted, his tongue pricking like sandpaper against the top of his mouth. The secret voice in his heart prayed that he had failed, but it was soon silenced.

     The light on the machine retained its intensity for a few seconds more before, at last, it dissipated, revealing a sinister figure in the circle, hooded, and cloaked. Crimson armor jutted from the figure’s shoulders in claw-like arches, the sheen of his breastplate glistening in the leftover light. The figure faced the opening, studying Menew with concealed eyes as it stepped through the narrow gap in the iron rail, his metal boots clicking onto the stone.

     Menew’s awe-filled voice was barely a whisper, “Argnendon?” The mysterious figure bowed once. “You come to me as my servant?” Menew’s confidence grew as he spoke. The figure nodded curtly, dark energy flowing from him in a prickling static charge. As Menew breathed, he could sense it dancing into his lungs, tingling through his chest and throat.

    There was no turning back now.

* * *

     Aelfric dismounted, releasing his horse to graze in the lush grass on the hillside. He reclined against a boulder as he unwrapped his chicken sandwich, savoring the warm caress of the early autumn sunshine on his tan cheeks.

     Aelfric sighed contentedly, relishing this rare moment of quiet. It seemed to make no difference whether he was in Gilleth or at Acair; everyone looked to him for answers, for solutions, and the Oath required he provide them if he could.

      It wasn’t that he resented Acair or Gilleth; bearing the Gift came with certain obligations… in his youth, Lord Ermir had told him that people responded to the responsibility in one of two ways: the weight either crushed them into cynicism or they learned to bear it with reverence. Aelfric had never been one to be crushed by a little adversity; his whole life had been a test of character, a show of people pushing to see how far he might bend. He hadn’t broken yet… well, not in ways others could see, at least.

     He had spent so many years rising, so many years learning and studying and earning the trust of important men that, somewhere along the way, he’d become an important man himself. He had acclimated to the burden of leadership so that he only felt its load in moments like this, moments of rest where ‘Aelfric Stormcaster’ allowed ‘Aelfric, son of Gilldenith’ back into the sunlight.

     He instinctively gazed eastward toward the green smudge of tree line separating the looming peaks of the Bessia and Brikaru Mountain ranges. A familiar yearning took hold, a rush of memory and longing that stole his breath. He could practically smell the forest; the earthy scents of moss, decaying leaves, and damp wood. He could feel the humid air, eternally warm and temperate, caressing moisture into his wind-kissed cheeks. He could see the way the sun wisped through the lush foliage, casting lacy shadows as songbirds flitted between the massive, rusty tree trunks. An all-too common pain bit into his core; he longed to go back the way a salmon longs to spawn in the river of its birth.

     And beyond the trees, in the hills, the cottage…

     Aelfric took a bite of his sandwich, forcing his thoughts to more temporal things, even as his eyes continued to wander toward the green line on the horizon, quivering in the unseasonable heat.

Preface:

The 3rd of Dryswell, 1211

     “Where the hell is the High Priest?” 

     “He’s fled, it seems. No one’s been able to find him.” 

     Graysen Findley tugged the hood from his head, adjusting the scarf he’d been hiding his face with so he could take a real, filling breath. He ran a hand over his sweat stained brow, his eyes flicking up and down the hallway. The Temple Complex was chaotic; priests were fleeing this way and that while citizens with torches chanted and shouted, their shadows blending with the night so that they became a faceless mass. In the distance, they heard the crisp crash of shattering glass followed by a muffled cheer. “Where are the others?” 

     “Coming.” 

     “They’d better hurry; the people are out for blood.” 

     “They have every right to be, don’t you think?” 

     Findley shot his companion a warning look, “Eden, you’d best keep your head where it belongs. This isn’t about vengeance; it’s about freeing the prisoners.” 

     Eden’s icy eyes flashed at him in the torchlight, her hood and scarf obscuring her other features, “Maybe for you…” 

     Before they could argue further, another man ran up, his eyes wide behind his scarf, “We’ve got to do it! Now! They’ve stormed the Palace!” 

     “Shit,” Findley replaced his hood and tucked his scarf back around his ears, “It’s through this door on the left.” He looked over the newcomer’s shoulder to a slight figure standing in the shadow of the pillar and called, “Remember, Nieve; contain the priests; don’t let Huxley’s men kill them unless they force his hand. We need them alive for trial.” Nieve nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

     The sound of splintering wood drew Findley’s attention back to the door. Eden had wedged a crowbar against the frame and two hooded men were taking turns throwing their weight against it. Finally, the door creaked open and Eden tossed the crowbar aside, drawing her sword instead. Before Findley could speak, she vanished inside the hallway, a group of hooded conspirators following like a flock of crows. 

     Findley looked back to the newcomer, who warned grimly, “She’s going to kill them all.” 

     Findley swore through his teeth, the oppressive humidity forcing salty sweat into his eyes, “Come on, Nole, we’ve got to keep her on point.” 

     There was a crash and they both looked over their shoulders; the gate was down! The angry citizens flooded into the Temple Complex, their outraged shouts echoing across the wide plaza. Findley’s eyes widened, and he grabbed Nole’s shoulder, “Let’s go! If we don’t start sending prisoners up soon, Eden will be the least of our problems.” 

     They hurried through the broken door and down the hallway, descending the stairs into the Temple Dungeons, leaving the commotion and chaos of the square behind them. Smoke filled the air, followed by a heavy thud of collapsing stone. A cheer resounded from the other side of the Palace Wall, the terrified screams of the priests drowned out in the din.