Author’s Note #1: Today, the podcast Featured Fantasy Reads released Part 2 (of 2) of my short story, “The Aquamancer’s Secret”! Listen to it narrated by Karyne Norton on FindingFantasyReads.com, on Apple Podcasts, on Spotify, on Pandora, or on YouTube.
Author’s Note #2: My friend and fellow author of clean, epic, wholesome fantasy, C. Ryan Crockett, just launched a Kickstarter for his first two books!
I met Ryan last month because I knew his brother in high school, and Ryan reached out to get advice on running a Kickstarter. Turns out we had quite a bit in common—we were both known to neighbors as the ‘singing lawnmower man’ in high school!
Last week I read Ryan’s free novella, Champion of the Condemned, and got sucked into the story of a warrior who lost everything and how he rediscovers the will to stand against evil. If you (or your son) enjoys Ranger’s Apprentice or any of Jeff Wheeler’s books, I think you’ll love Ryan’s Bestowed series.
Back to our regular programming . . .
Durrin was partway down the ridgeline when he felt the shadow.
He sensed it, rather than saw it—a menace behind him, making the hair of his neck stand on end.
He turned with a start, raking his vision across the foliage behind him, flaring the flame in his hand to dispel the shadows of the night.
Nothing.
Nothing he could see, anyway.
He hesitantly turned forward and kept picking his way down the ridge.
He bent his thoughts to Kymar’s sixth scroll. This had to be the shrine where it was held. If it was like the first five, the scroll would contain diagrams and figures for a new routine. Notes in the margins would explain how the movements unlocked a new power or energy. What would it be? He had heard tales of Kymar using the routine to generate massive explosive energy. But how—
He whirled around again, certain this time that he had seen something move in the corner of his vision. But again, nothing.
Descending the ridge took forever. The night was nearly completely dark now, with the Near Moon and Far Moon veiled behind clouds. A chill autumn wind blew from the northeast, likely bringing rain in a couple hours. As Durrin drew closer to the shrine, he dared not risk a light, lest it betray his approach. So he pushed cautiously through the dark underbrush, wincing at every rustle he made. The night was chilly, but he found himself sweating, as an irrational sense of haste ate at his gut.
At last he came to the complex. An outer wall, twenty feet high, surrounded a series of buildings inside. He saw no guards. Without bothering to look for a gate, he broke into a run, accelerating over the open ground between the forest and the shrine, then propelled himself up the wall in a surge of pyromancy.
He perched at the top, scanning the complex for guards or sentries. Nothing. Lights shone in several windows, but nobody seemed to be about in the gardens and courtyards. He studied the layout, guessing the purpose of each building. There were the stables, there a kitchen and dining hall, there a set of dorms. One large structure, perfectly circular with a dome for a room, dominated the exact center of the compound. The archives?
Only one way to find out. Durrin leapt off the wall, channeling a blast of heat beneath him to slow his fall, until he landed in an expertly executed tumble. He then stole through the gardens and patios, alert for any sound.
Something dark moved in a portico to his right.
Durrin froze, his hand on the handle of his sword, eyes combing the portico for more movement. After an eternity, he edged forward, then darted into the portico to catch anyone hiding in its shadows.
Nothing.
He shook his head. Keep moving.
If he found the scroll, what then? He could return to Salidar, complete the mission, win guild mastership. He would have a secret that no other guild master would have. He would be unstoppable. He could have his revenge.
Was that what he wanted?
Durrin reached a door to the large central structure. Picking the lock in pitch darkness proved nearly impossible, especially since it required two hands so he couldn’t summon a flame to light what he was doing. Finally, recalling an old trick, he generated a flame with his breath, crouching so that his fiery exhale illuminated the lock. He had almost run out of patience—and lung support—when the stubborn lock clicked open.
Durrin crept inside, summoning a flame in his hand. Soon he reached a large, circular chamber. The walls were lined with shelves and alcoves, the perfect sizes for scrolls and codices. He stoked the flame in his hand, scattering firelight from his fingers, illuminating . . . nothing.
Every alcove and shelf lay empty.
“No, no, no!” Durrin strode around the room, almost breaking into a run. He shined his light into each nook. Nothing. Just a few discarded scraps of parchment, clay shards from the occasional broken tablet, or empty ink bottles left on scribal tables.
It looked like the archives had been moved—and moved in a hurry. But moved where? And how long ago?
Durrin did another fruitless pass around the room, ending at an ornately carved door. It was set halfway into the floor, accessed by a handful of descending steps. Something drew Durrin to it—some sense of mystery or anticipation.
This door, too, was locked, but it succumbed almost immediately to Durrin’s lockpick. It swung open, revealing a curving set of steps, descending downward. Cool, dank air blew past him as it escaped its subterranean confines.
This was ridiculous. The archives had obviously been moved. What did he expect to find? He should slip out before he was discovered, return to Salidar, and focus on completing the upcoming mission.
He flared his light and descended.
The stairs made a half-circle turn, then opened to a large but low-ceilinged chamber built directly underneath the archival room. The ceiling was supported by a forest of vaulted arches, sprouting like branches from rows of columns. The sides of the arches formed a series of nooks around the edge of the room. Each nook contained a large stone box. A sarcophagus.
The entryway bore an inscription:
Here lie the fallen of the Everborn House.
May their souls find the light.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He stood in Elandria’s royal crypt.
That same sense of anxious anticipation drove him forward. He crept around the chamber, reading the inscriptions on each tomb. Many names he remembered from his history lessons: Queen Verita, who had expanded Elandria into its western provinces. King Jorman, the longest-reigning king in Elandria’s history, dying at a hundred and seven years old. Other names he didn’t recognize; princes and princesses who had died before their time, many laid to rest in sarcophagi sized for children.
Finally, he came to the last occupied nook. The inscription here was unsullied by time:
King Arvanon Everborn
In peace he reigned.
In flames he perished.
King Arvanon. The king whose blood had stained Durrin’s sword. The king whose piercing blue eyes, devoid of fear, had met Durrin’s gaze before his stroke fell.
The king whose daughter was mere days from joining him in this crypt.
Beneath the epigraph was a longer description. Durrin stooped to read it.
Here lies Arvanon, son of Menan and Tiana. Married Queen Mayia of Lindor in his twenty-fifth year. Sired Adara in his twenty-eighth year. Crowned in his twenty-ninth year.
A bringer of peace. Ended the seasonal wars with the Mitrians. Settled a dispute between Larrisa and Marisau. Forged a personal friendship with Emperor Stoneclaw of Calamar. Negotiated with Calamar the Treaty of Everlasting Alliance, signed by Emperor Stoneclaw but never ratified by the Imperial Council.
A peaceful reign, yet a short life filled with grief. Lost a newborn son in his thirty-first year. Lost Queen Mayia to yellow plague in his thirty-sixth year.
In his days arose the great haeber dearth. Implemented rationing during the Long Famine. Negotiated new trade routes through Mitria to raise the dwindling haeber supply. His final royal act, minutes before his death, was to enact the Guarantee of Trade, ensuring continued peace with Calamar.
Fell to sudden flames in his fortieth year.
May angels guard his soul.
“What have I done?” Durrin whispered.
If this inscription was true, then Arvanon was no enemy of Calamar, intent on denying Durrin’s homeland of needed resources. This was a leader striking the delicate balance between the demands of his neighbors and the needs of his own people—a man who had devoted his whole life to peace.
And the Guarantee of Trade—it hadn’t been signed by co-regents struck with the fear of Calamar in the wake of Durrin’s attack. It had been a gesture of peace by Arvanon himself, signed mere moments before Durrin’s attack.
What had he done? He had spilled innocent blood. He had allowed himself to become a pawn in Salidar’s hand, thrusting their nations closer to devastating war. And he had done it—why? For a seat on the Guild Council? For a mythical scroll?
His thoughts turned to the present. How could he plan to murder a teenager? How could he follow a man who lived a life of intrigue and deception, a man intent on victory in an unjust war? How could Durrin himself have become so cruel, so calloused, so blind?
The shadow—the darkness that had haunted him since sunset—arrived.
It slammed into him, driving him to his knees before King Arvanon’s tomb. Overwhelming despair flooded over him, followed by terror and dread and terrible darkness.
What have I done? What have I become?
Memories flashed before his eyes. Meetings, seven years past, with Lord Salidar: missions of an ever more dubious nature, taking him into dark alleyways and secret chambers in far-off lands.
Durrin tried to stand. The world around him tipped. He caught hold of the edge of the sarcophagus to steady himself. Then his arms gave out and he fell flat, prostrate on its cold surface.
How could I have been so blind? He had known. A part of him—the rational, thoughtful part—knew all along that what he was doing was wrong. But another part of him—the part that thought only of himself, that loved to see just how much he could do—saw only the action, the fame, the power.
For years he had waged an unacknowledged war inside himself, until the victory was won, the defeat complete, and the wisest part of his being locked into the deepest recesses of his heart.
But the recent weeks of seeking had given it strength, and now it struggled for dominion.
“I struck before dusk!” he breathed, grasping for something to justify his act. The words were empty. Dusk, dawn, day, night—what did those mean in the face of eternal finalities like good and evil, life and death, justice and fate?
He shivered uncontrollably. Cold? Why did he feel cold? He had not felt this cold since Irongate Isle. He reached inside himself, but where his flame normally burned bright, he found only fear and darkness.
What awaits me?
Strange visions came and went, each lasting only a moment yet seeming to span an eternity. He saw Lord Salidar mocking him in a darkened forest. He saw an avir maiden curled into a ball in a swirling snowstorm, her hair the deep black of utter sadness. He saw a korrik warrior, his face contorted in wrath, his blade raised high.
Durrin gasped and pushed himself upright. He had to get moving—he had to do something! He stepped away from the tomb, stumbling in the pitch darkness. He collapsed, shielding his head with his arms.
You are doomed . . .
“I wish I could die,” he whispered.
Death . . . In an instant he saw what death would mean. He saw his soul stepping into another dimension, the shell of his body left behind. The Sun shone high; angels filled the sky. One stopped before him. It asked his name. He gave it. The angel unrolled a scroll.
But Durrin already knew what it contained. Dark letters scrawled before his vision, recounting every foul deed, every injustice, every crime. And standing out above them all, the crimson stain of innocent blood.
Doomed.
He saw the angel shudder in horror and fly away. The Sun sank into the undying flames. Night fell. Then he heard the laugh, mocking in triumph; he saw the horns, dipped in blood; the eyes, black as the Void; the claws, stretched out to claim him . . .
You are mine.
“No!” Durrin yelled. He staggered to his feet, but his legs locked up and he fell. A wicked laugh rang in his ears, echoing off the cold walls of the crypt. A shadow seemed to grow before him, stretching from wall to wall, cutting out all light.
He could not move. His tongue was bound. His fingers became talons of stone, rigidly stretched out in unnatural directions. His mind filled with terror and utter despair.
All that remained was a corner of his heart, the portion that he had locked away for most of his life.
Please, he cried, clinging to the brink of utter annihilation. O Sky Father! Have mercy!
Darkness closed round him.
A voice pierced the darkness. “Et ene avara!”
Light flooded the room. For a moment, Durrin thought he saw a dark shape before him, its foul wings and twisted horns caught in the sudden light. Then it was gone.
“Et ene avara, al Abeam!” The command in the Numinous Tongue came from behind him, from the source of the light. Durrin rolled over, shielding his eyes from the glare.
In the entrance to the vault stood a figure, bathed in light, hands stretched high. The figure’s robes shone as if on fire, and power radiated from his being.
Then the figure dropped his hands, and the light faded until Durrin could clearly see his face.
It was Cymer.
Next chapter:
This story has 57 chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. I’m releasing a chapter every Tuesday through mid May.
The whole story is now available for sale! Get the ebook, audiobook, paperback, and hardcover on Amazon or through my website.
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