Chapter 20

  Lotus

  "He won't talk to anyone but you." Mirrald said plainly. It had proven rather frustrating trying to get the man to speak. He had said few words ever since his capture, but at the very least he'd been cooperative. Now, he simply stood in the center of the cell and stared upward into the ceiling like a madman. When Mirrald asked why he kept doing it, he simply said 'I'm speaking to my father.' and gave no further context. It made Mirralds blood boil. How could such an Ethereal thing be so unhelpful?

  "Do we need him to talk? He does as we say. Perhaps we should be counting our blessings." The king responded drearily. After the operation of eradicating the Ruiners was successful, Orieth was quick to inform the public of their victory. He also assured the people of Tavernkeep that something like it would never happen again. It was a hefty promise to make, and one Mirrald had insisted he reconsider. But as he had noticed, the king was scrambling for the people's approval.

  "If we intend for him to be a soldier, then yes. Otherwise he's useless." Mirrald frowned, taking a seat on the red couch pointed toward the hearth.

  "Fine. I'll come speak to him. Perhaps he can instill me with some much needed wisdom." The king mocked, before rising to his feet. The Eye rose as well, bowing to the king before leading him down toward the dungeons. Inexplicably, the Ruiners that had been in their care had seemingly vanished as of the night before. It was later explained to the king what exactly happened, and though it made very little sense to him he pressed upon it no further. He had other matters to attend to after all.

  Making their way through the dungeons they stopped at the furthest cell in the back. Here, the room had a window on the wall, hugging the ceiling. The bars were thick, casting the corrlights shadow along the floor. In the center of the room, bathing in the striped light, was a tall, muscular mylian. He wore only the thin ragged pants he was provided, his dark blue skin absorbing the light. His hair was long and full, the tuffs smooth despite his time in the dungeons, away from any bath.

  His eyes were gentle and his face handsome and relaxed. By all means, the mylian was a perfect specimen. Most notably though, and concerningly, the man had holes the size of cannonballs punched through his torso. Completely through and through. One could fit their entire hand through and reach up to his neck. Two of the holes lay directly on his breasts, while two more, closer to his center, lay on his abs. This had been why he was captured.

  “Lotus.” As they had been calling him. “The king, as you requested.” Mirrald announced, before standing aside to make way for Orierh. The king didn’t move for a moment, uneased by Lotus' appearance, as any normal person would be.

  “Does this not ail you?” Orieth finally spoke, stepping up the cell door gingerly. The mylian smiled gently, then finally lowered his head to look straight at the wall. His muscles shifted as they relaxed, his shoulders dropping.

  “It is not an ailment. It is a blessing.” Lotus spoke quietly. Though the acoustics of the dungeons were enough to hear the man just fine. His answer, however, did little to quell Orieths curiosity. Or was it fear?

  “Of course. Now, what is it you wish to say? To demand my time, it must be important." Orieth said firmly, setting his jaw. Who was he to talk to this being in such a manner? He was not simply a man. No man could live with holes where his vital organs should be. Still, he couldn't let him think he was above him, not even for a second. Lotus' smile slowly faded as he turned to look at the king.

  "I've allowed you to hold me for some time now. I've done what you asked. Now I shall tell you what I get in return." Lotus spoke, his expression neutral. Chillingly so. As if he was looking straight through Orieth and into his soul. It wasn't a question either, nor was it a demand, he was simply telling the king what would be given to him. Before the king could speak, the mylian interjected. "Hemm Hensin."

  “Some ale, for those bruises and cuts.” Hemm said with an awkward smile. He placed down the frothing drinks in front of the three men and stepped back. “Oh, and Arethor! Your sister is upstairs resting. Been trying my best to take care of her but cha’know how she is.” He added with a shrug. Arethor was in the middle of chewing off a chunk of his lamb leg, but nodded happily.

  His wound given by Kimer had luckily not been severe. That is, compared to the arrow holes from before. What plagued his mind now was not the physical wounds so much as the mental. The things that he and the entire Oak had learned, had witnessed. Even T’var and Myis were shaken by the vision. And while some denied it was real, those who knew the power of a Conduit knew a vision such as that could not be faked. Only, it left many questions for Arethor as to how Kimer had come across such knowledge.

  They hadn’t seen Hyvale so much as they had felt her distress, a wordless exchange of the disaster unfolding. A curse on death. And how long had it been going on? Since the end of the Purger War itself? That would mean both his mother and possibly father were suffering on Coreterra too. Alone, wandering an infinite desert of blazing red sand and destroyed ruins. Perhaps a callous, cold man could let such a thing be, or perhaps act alone out of fear of their own end. But Arethor was no such man, nor did he fear his death.

  “Properly messed up, that was.” Myis suddenly said. His hair was messy and his leather coat had been skimmed by Splinters numerous times. He was lucky he hadn’t been hit directly, perhaps too lucky. And T’var didn’t have a scratch on him, though he still looked exhausted. They saved over a dozen men and for that alone they would be rewarded. Perhaps even offered a position in the Oak.

  “The service is next week, I hear.” Hemm added. For a brief moment Arethor hadn’t a clue what his friend was referring to. Then it hit him. The funeral, of course. They hadn’t even had a funeral for Tolo yet. In his head she wasn’t even really dead, yet. Just…gone.

  “I suppose I should go to the tailor.” Arethor muttered emptily, his eyes fixated on a particular spot on the floor. New and polished. One would think someone who had attended so many funerals would have the proper attire. But Arethor needed something new for Tolo, something only she got to say was at her funeral.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.” T’var said unexpectedly. And he looked sincere, his eyes closed as he nodded. The man had always struck Arethor as odd. Though not in a particularly bad way. The elf smiled in a good gesture.

  “Thank you. I can only be happy that Amber survived. And that Kimer is suffering on the Red Sands where he sent her.” Arethor clenched his teeth, anger flickering through him like the passing reflection of light.

  “It’s not right, what you’re saying. Everyone is damned? Everyone?” Hemm asked timidly, hiding partially behind a wooden beam. The mylian had heard the threes telling of the events and hardly could believe it. Besides trying to wrap his head around the concept of a Matter Conduit, the idea of death itself being broken was beyond frightening. It wasn’t like news of a war encroaching in Riverden, but something horrifyingly more cosmic and rotten.

  “From what it looked like, it was indeed everyone.” Myis grunted before taking a long swig of the ale. Wiping the froth from his lips he then thrusted a finger at Hemm. “Serves us right too.” Hemm blinked in confusion and looked to Arethor for direction. He simply shook his head dismissively.

  “I’m sorry for leaving you again, Hemm. I’m afraid it won’t be too long until it happens again.” Arethor said bitterly, a twang in his head pulling him back to the floor boards.

  “Why do ya say that?” Hemm asked, concerned. Wordless, Arethor stood and walked over to the spot on the floor. The Connection screamed like cold water on a searing pan. Taking out his sword he slid it between the thin cracks of the boards, and pried. The leverage popped the floorboard out, the nails rolling out across the ground. Everyone else simply watched in shock as he grabbed the surrounding boards and pulled them up effortlessly.

  “What’s the matter with ya! I just got that fixed for you!” Hemm finally spoke out, running over to the hole now left in the floor. He stopped though as something caught his eye. Something he hadn’t seen before. Arethor noticed it too, and couldn’t move out of fear it would vanish. That whatever vision he was being given now would unravel.

  “Did Tadpole forget to mention that?” Arethor muttered as he looked down into the hole. Laying inside was what could only be the Celspawn. The real one. Inside his tavern, under the floor. That boy, he had brought it here, hadn’t he? He’d never gotten a good look at him but he remembered at the very least his dark blue skin. He thought he’d seen the boy crouch down, but he figured he’d only lost him amongst the crowd. The tavern was particularly busy that evening, and the boy had been out of mind rather quickly. Only now did he note that he’d never ordered a drink, or even approached the bar.

  But why his tavern? Was it at random? Or did Arethor know the boy from somewhere? He had forgotten many faces over the years, some he ought to have remembered. Only now his face seemed like nothing but a shadow among shadows. Damn his rotten memory! What’s the point of living hundreds of years if you forgot the most important moments of them?

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Erm. To be fair to him, I told him to leave everything as it was beside those floorboards. Y’know now he likes to take initiative on some things.” Hemm scratched the back of his head, squinting as he tried to make out the object. Of course to him it was nothing but a slab of stone, but to Arethor it was a terrible omen. An invitation to death.

  “You’re kidding me. That’s it, isn’t it? Ha!” Myis laughed as he pat Arethor on the shoulder. The elf swayed gently but didn't break away from his trance. It looked a bit different from Heathgrims rendition. Of course, then they had been going solely off of word-of-mouth. But clearly Kimer had seen an illustration of the relic as he had called the bluff immediately. But there it was, no question about it.

  Reaching down, Arethor pulled it free and held it in his hands. It weighed less than he expected, as if it wasn’t really made of stone but something trying to resemble it. Laying it down on a table the group quickly surrounded it, looking at it from all angles.

  “It would seem to be.” T’var answered. “At least, based on your descriptions. Could it be another fake?” He proposed. And though the idea sounded much more appealing than the alternative, Arethor wasn’t so sure.

  “I have no reason to think such. Someone placed this here, somewhere where they didn’t think someone would look. Perhaps a tavern isn’t such an awful idea.” Arethor said earnestly.

  “I suppose there’s only one way to figure that out.” Myis said bluntly. They all looked at him, the implication clear. “What? You said a living thing right? We can just use a feral rat or something.”

  “I’m guessing it has to be something with a soul. Otherwise there isn’t really an exchange. Matter Conduits have to take apart their own matter to be able to manipulate it into whatever they wish. It’s the sacrifice they must take. I’m guessing the Celspawn has similar requirements.” Arethor deduced. He didn’t really have a clue what he was saying, but it at least sounded right. They were all in unfamiliar territory together. The main question being: what the hell are they supposed to do with it now?

  “Heathgrim. I’ll bring it to him.” Arethor said, almost to himself. “He might know what to do with it.”

  “What would Heathgrim know about this? Wasn’t he in denial about it all?” Hemm asked, looking at the relic from a careful distance.

  “After that vision, there’s no way he can deny what he saw. Besides, he’s friends with someone I think can help, I just don’t know where they could be.” Arethor frowned, looking at the relics inscriptions. It was a nonsense language, none that ever existed on Celearia. Perhaps it was some secret language among the Deadspeakers.

  “What kind of friend?” T’var inquired.

  “The Warlock kind.”

  The park behind The Whine was empty by that time of day. The sun casted purple and gold across the clouds, hidden behind the buildings that surrounded the park. Encapsulated within the awkward space between buildings were pine trees and benches to accompany them. Sitting on one of them was Myis, with T'var close by his side.

  They had slipped away after Arethor had gone off to speak with his sister. He had been kind enough to offer the two rooms while they stayed there, supposedly to make a decision. So far, the elf had been vague on what exactly that meant. But he promised at the very least the two would be compensated. That happened to be the source of their very discussion at that moment.

  “I feel like we’ve stepped into something deeply personal.” T’var said as a breeze pushed his hair behind his shoulders. He had been quick to question the veracity of their supposed vision.

  “I’m not so sure. This couldn’t be more of our business if it tried. It’s everyone’s business for Hyvales sake. You saw the vision.” Myis has grown serious, now that alcohol was in him. Ale often had a reversed effect for him, as he tended to become less social and more self-aware. But with the right people he did make for great conversation. Only, this was not such a conversation.

  “I saw it, and I’m not so sure it’s real.” T’var gripped the edge of the bench, the wood groaning beneath his fingers. “I realize it’s nearly impossible for someone to fake a vision, and to so many people at once. But did you see what he was capable of? He created an entire army, from himself, and it barely took anything away from him. Arethor claimed it was only parts of his chest and leg. Someone that strong might have been able to give us a false vision.” His uncertainty was nothing new. Myis had always taken T’var for a skeptic, even when seemingly there was no way to explain something away with logic. Nothing about what happened was logical, and the mylian was having a fit over it. But he, like everyone else, was just trying to cope with the carnage they’d witnessed. And though they only lost a few men, it was still a night that would be remembered forever.

  “It’s not impossible to fake one, I’m aware. But what could Kilmer possibly have gained by doing so?” Myis argued. And though he didn’t want to be right, he was afraid he was.

  “I’m not sure. But come to think of it, can’t a Conduit only grant a vision of something they themself have witnessed? That is, unless you are a Time Conduit…” T’var brought up a stellar point, and the both fell into a deep thoughtful silence. But they both seemed to arrive at the same conclusion at once.

  “That is, unless the vision was first granted to them.” Myis muttered.

  “The implications of that are mad, though.” T’var said, his hand frozen over his mouth in shock.

  “We know Hyvale has granted visions before. As far as we know, it’s within the laws of the Endless for a Ghost God such as herself. In fact, it is that very law that she granted a vision of.” Myis recalled what was frequently taught in most schools. Long ago, in a time before Magic and visions, the entirety of the world had been granted one. It was of Hyvale herself, explaining that she is of the Order of Ghost Gods.

  She elaborated that a God must choose between being a Shepherd or a Ghost, and that as she had chosen Ghost she was very limited in how she could interact with her people. It was a strange, vague vision that gave very little insight as to what the Orders truly were. But one thing had been clear, she could at the very least grant visions to her people.

  From that point on, religion had all but been entirely surrounding Hyvale. As her existence was a definite fact rather than something of faith.

  “But why grant one to…him? Someone so clearly unstable.” T’var wondered.

  “Could’ve been a daisy-chain. Who knows who got the original vision. But somehow it made its way to Kimer, and he snapped. The weight of death being broken, it’s maddening to truly think about.” Myis shivered, rolling his shoulders as he leaned back against the bench.

  “Okay. Fine. Assuming it’s real, what can we really do? This is far beyond anything we could ever begin to understand. No less, make some sort of impact.” The mylian strained, watching the darkened sky bring in a wave of cold air. The trees swayed above them, pine needles dropping down between them.

  “We help Arethor. If he thinks he knows someone, I say we trust him. If I’m dying it’s going to be fighting for my salvation, at least.” Myis pointed a thumb at himself with his dumb smile. T’var couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “We both know we’re going to the Red Sands regardless.”

  I hate you. Amber wrote, her lips flat and her eyes stern. Arethor frowned.

  “If you’d seen what I had, you’d understand.” The elf helped his sister to her feet. Having been bed bound for days, her legs felt like wet noodles. Begrudgingly she accepted the help, but pushed off her brother and stumbled toward her desk. Leaning against it, she flattened her notebook and began to write. Her hair fell in front of her, to which she quickly batted it away.

  It had to have been fake. It doesn't make any sense. She wrote, her tearful eyes glaring down at her paper.

  "It wasn't. Amber," Arethor walked over gingerly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Mom and Tolo, they are both suffering right now. Alone. Scared. But more importantly, confused. Wondering what they could've done to deserve such punishment. It isn't their fault, but they'll never know it. Not until we correct this." Arethor set his jaw, his own words motivating him. But it only seemed to upset his sister more, who quickly scribbled a response.

  And what are you going to do? Waving your sword around won't fix anything this time! She pressed the notebook against his chest before storming back off to her bed. For a moment, Arethor didn't follow. He didn't really know what to say in response.

  "For whatever reason, that relic ended up here. I keep feeling this…pull toward it. It attached itself to me. And if what Kimer says is true, then we might have a chance of using its power against whatever it is that broke death." Ripping the notebook away, Amber wrote in heated fashion.

  The same Kimer who murdered Tolo? That nearly killed me? You would trust his words, his visions? Did you stop to think that maybe this is what Kimer really wanted? To scare you, to make you question everything? To bring the world to its knees in fear? By the time Arethor finished reading Amber had sat back down on her bed, her face in her hands.

  “I know someone. Well, I know someone who knows someone. They can show me if this is real. And they might know how to use this relic for good.” Arethor said as he handed back the notebook. It was rather inconvenient, especially during a heated argument, but they hadn’t really had the time for lessons from the hand linguist.

  Do you really feel the Connection with it? Amber wrote, half in defeat, half with skepticism.

  “Something like it…I can’t deny its pull. And whether it ended up here by coincidence or not, it’s my responsibility now.” Arethor omitted the part where he saw a man bring it in, as it would only lead her to more questions he couldn’t answer. For now he could only hope it was someone of good will.

  How exactly is it your responsibility? Give it to the Oak, they already know of this vision, are they not working out a solution themselves? Amber made a good point, only Arethor unfortunately already knew the answer.

  “They’re sticking their heads in the sand. They figure it was just a false vision just to cause panic, such as you said. They think they’re being noble by ignoring it. Not giving into fear mongering.” The elf frowned. Despite trying to convince Heathgrim and Scarv on their way back, they weren’t in the mood for hearing him out. As far as they were concerned they’d accomplished what they’d come for.

  But this was far from over, and Arethor was far from finished. His rest would have to wait. Moving into the Green, would have to wait. He couldn’t allow himself to rest knowing those he loved were suffering. He didn’t know exactly how he could hope to oppose the Endless itself. But he’d be damned either way if he didn’t try.

  His sister nodded gently, blinking away tears. She knew what she had to do too. If her brother was going to do this, she couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. She had wasted precious years with the Mission, but she had at least learned one thing: how to wield a sword.

  She’d certainly lost her voice, but not her courage.