The Evermen Saga 01 - Enchantress (59 page)

Killian looked about him, at the ordered streets and the hordes of the poor queuing outside the bread shops. He’d been gone for what seemed like an age, and now he couldn’t believe he’d once called Salvation home.

His first mission for the Primate had been to Halaran, when he’d stolen the animators’ Lexicon. He’d journeyed through Torakon and Loua Louna before reaching Halaran, and he’d seen sights that had opened his eyes to how huge the world really was. Famed throughout the world, Stonewater was still an incredible place — a great temple, carved into a mountain! But cities like Seranthia and Ralanast were also incredible in their own way.

Killian tried to define it in his mind. Stonewater was a place of worship of the Evermen. Essence was created here. But somehow it didn’t feel as real as cities like Sarostar.

The Evermen lived in Stonewater. Whereas in Sarostar — well, people lived there.

Killian had been lifted up by the Primate, higher than he’d ever thought possible, but he now knew that it wasn’t hard when you had such simple goals — a soft bed. A full stomach. Wealth. Safety.

People like Ella had values that seemed strange to Killian, but were just as heartfelt to them, just as great a driving force as hunger, or pain.

It didn’t require much of a debate to know when you’re hungry. When you had people you cared about, the caring came just as naturally.

Killian looked around him. The streets of Salvation seemed so much smaller now.

The buildings were all of the same uniform grey stone — squat, ugly structures of one or two levels. He had forgotten how many people there were in Salvation, hordes of them, all fighting for space.

There were no soldiers in Aynar. No lords or loremasters. In Aynar everything was run by the Assembly of Templars. The priests took care of the souls of the people. The templars took care of the more secular aspects of life.

There seemed to be more templars than ever before. The white uniforms with black trim were everywhere. Killian caught the eyes of a solidly built templar, his hand on his sword, and quickly looked away. Those yellow eyes looked menacing.

He stopped in the street and looked up at the solitary mountain that was the destination of so many pilgrims. Stonewater. The resting place of the Evermen’s greatest relics. Home of the Assembly. Residence of Primate Melovar Aspen.

He’d only ever entered Stonewater at a summons from the Primate. Now, with the Primate leading the Black Army, he had to find another way to get inside.

Killian only hoped he wasn’t too late.

He’d returned the Alturan Lexicon to Ella. Moments later the High Enchantress would have held it in her hands.

But the Halrana Lexicon had been in the Primate’s possession for many weeks. If the Primate destroyed it, the Halrana animators would be no more. They would cease to exist as people, and would be absorbed by the Primate’s motley forces.

And it would be Killian’s fault.

He cursed his strange ability. He felt dirty, used, lied to. What did the Primate really know about his abilities? Who was he? Where were his parents? Were they even still alive?

He remembered Ella’s words. "Have you ever tried any other runes?"

It was clear to him now. The Primate had kept him in the dark. He’d wanted a thief and nothing more. What was he capable of?

With a heavy heart he rounded a corner and crashed into a templar.

"What are you doing?" the man turned strangely yellow eyes on Killian. "Stop right there."

Without quite knowing why, Killian ran.

He felt the pattern of the streets come back to him, and quickly lost the templar. He dashed through an alley and entered an area of taverns and eating houses. Picking one at random, he walked in, casting a final look over his shoulder.

Some things never change, he thought to himself. Still being chased by templars around the streets of Salvation.

People threw stern glances at the commotion when Killian burst into the open tavern room. Wooden benches and tables were filled with townsfolk, all intently looking at the raised dais.

A man sat on a high-backed wooden chair, his arms gesturing wildly. He looked at Killian but continued to speak. Killian found himself a seat — he would blend in here — and ordered a tankard of beer.

He was an interesting looking man. He wore a faded white priest’s cassock, the sun of the Assembly barely visible. His hair was white, but it must once have had colour as there were flecks of ginger in his scraggly beard. His eyes were his most noticeable feature, piercing blue, like Killian’s own.

The voice was rich and deep. "Lorelei had killed his enemy, but Suhlan had been grievously wounded. Her body lay crumpled on the stair. Lorelei ran to her, screaming her name.

"He threw away the accursed sword that had caused him so much trouble," the man made a throwing motion. Some children giggled, and then were hushed by their parents.

"Lorelei fell down beside Suhlan’s body, watching the lifeblood flow from her veins. Her eyes fluttered, she opened them, to say her last words." The man paused, looking out over the crowd. They hung on his every word, entranced. "She touched her finger to the blood on the ground. There was so much of it.

"The tears flowed down Lorelei’s face. Suhlan whispered something, but he could not hear. The breath was leaving her body." Killian found himself becoming caught up in the story. He wished he had been here for the beginning.

"‘Please, Suhlan, don’t die!’ Lorelei screamed. Her finger moved, to the wound on her neck. She drew a symbol there, in her own blood. Lorelei’s fists clenched with frustration, he could not understand what she was trying to say."

"What was it?" one of the women said. She was hushed by the other patrons.

"Then he looked at the symbol. It was a rune, a simple rune of mending. Suddenly Lorelei understood.

"He knew she was different. There was only one thing for him to do. He took the crystal bottle and ivory scrill from his pouch and he traced over the rune she had drawn in blood, this time with essence."

"But it would have killed her!" the woman called. She was instantly hushed.

"That’s what Lorelei thought. But as he watched, she spoke the rune with the last of her breath. It lit up with silver, and in front of Lorelei’s eyes the terrible wound sealed itself. Colour returned to her cheeks. Lorelei had saved his love."

"That’s magic," one of the children said.

The old storyteller smiled, "It is indeed. I will continue the story after a short break."

He rose and bowed. The audience clapped, and he left the stage.

Killian couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He looked around him. The people chatted, some hefting large jugs of wine to refill empty glasses. No one seemed to be giving him any special attention. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

Killian stood abruptly, attracting some sideways glances from the other patrons. He left the table and walked to the bar.

"The storyteller, where is he?"

The barman jerked his head towards the back of the room. Killian pushed open a heavy door and entered the kitchen. He was greeted by warm smells of roasting meat, but there was no sign of the old man. There was a second door at the back. He opened it and blinked in the glare of the sun. He was back onto the street, in a dusty alley.

Suddenly he saw the white uniforms of a group of templars on the street, at least three of them. "Woah there," a deep voice said. Killian flattened himself against the wall.

"What is it?" it was the voice of the storyteller.

"We hear you have been peddling blasphemous stories in the taverns."

"Peddling stories? Well, I haven’t asked anyone to pay for them yet. More’s the pity."

"You’d better come with us."

Killian crept forward and poked his head around the corner of the street. He could see four templars. They had started to encircle the storyteller. Killian couldn’t let them catch the old man, he knew what would happen. He knelt down for a moment.

Without dwelling on what he was about to do, he darted forward and grabbed the storyteller by the hand. He thrust out his other hand and threw a handful of dust at the templars, aiming for the eyes.

"Wha—?" the old man said.

Killian pulled him along. "Come with me, old man. You don’t want to know what they have in store for you."

"Argh!" one of the templars cried. "The Evermen curse you, stop right there!"

Killian didn’t turn around.

He led the storyteller back through the door and into the kitchen. He heard the door thud a second time behind him as the chase began. The old man seemed surprisingly spry. Killian pulled down the shelves of pots and pans behind him, ignoring the shrieks and calls that followed him. He grabbed the handle of a huge bubbling pot and pulled it onto the ground behind him, barely avoiding being scalded himself.

He had to find out about the old man’s story — and no one was going to get in his way.

He pushed open the door leading into the dining hall. The patrons were looking at the kitchen with wide eyes. Killian pushed away the clutching hands as he ran, whisking the storyteller through the crowd.

"Stop him!" he heard from behind him.

He pushed open the tavern’s front door. He was back onto the street. The door swung closed behind him. Killian looked left, and then right.

"What are you doing?" the old man panted.

"Saving your hide!"

He looked Killian up and down. "Head left, I know a safe place."

Without pausing to question the old man, Killian started to run, the storyteller beside him. A large crash from inside the tavern spurred his steps.

"Turn left here!" said the storyteller.

They dashed into a side street. It was a plush quarter, where visiting nobles lodged and spent their leisure.

Killian felt resistance and turned to see the old man had stopped outside an ornate wooden door, unmarked and unsigned.

"What is this place?"

"The finest guesthouse in Salvation."

"We can’t go in there! Look at you..."

Then Killian looked at the old man. Gone was the faded white priest’s cassock, it had been replaced with a flowing red coat. He wore a ruby earring with a matching ring. Below the waist he wore leggings of a rich brown material. His boots were high, with a steel buckle. He looked every inch the wealthy merchant.

"How did you do that?"

"Illusion," the man grinned.

"Illusion?"

"It’s a long story. Wait a moment." He took out a white kerchief and dusted off Killian’s coat. "That will have to do. They will think you’re my servant. My badly treated servant," he chuckled. "Come."

He pushed open the door.

Killian’s jaw dropped at the opulence of the entry hall. A thin man in black silk strode up to them, bowing low. "Welcome. Welcome to the Wrenly."

"Thank you," said the storyteller in a pompous voice.

"Do you require lodging, or will you be enjoying your lunch with us today?"

"Lunch for a start, and as for enjoying it, my stomach will be the judge of that," the old man chuckled.

The thin man smiled politely. He looked at Killian, but quickly disregarded him. "Please, come this way." He cleared his throat. "How many should I set the table for?"

"For two, I am in a generous mood. My servant will be joining me."

"Very good."

Killian stayed silent. There were too many mysteries here. He had thought only to prevent the templars from taking the old man away before he could find out about the story. Now the initiative seemed to have been taken from him. He had lost his control of events.

The thin man handed them to a stately woman. They were seated at a glass table and given two elegant cards to read. Killian couldn’t understand the strange descriptions of food.

"Would you like me to order for you?" the old man said.

Killian nodded.
The old man waved and the woman came to their table. "My servant will have the braised wood hen. I will have the rare fillet. Please choose a suitable wine, I trust your judgement."

The woman left. "I always find it best to let them choose the wine," the man whispered.

"What is happening?" Killian said. "What are we doing here?"

The old man gestured around the empty room. "Isn’t it obvious? Privacy and security. The templars would never look in here."

"That’s not what I..."

"I know what you meant," he said. He was silent as two glasses were placed beside them and filled with a rose coloured wine. Killian could smell the rich aroma from where he was sitting. The woman withdrew.

"Try it," the old man said.

Killian took a sip. "It’s delicious. Your story..."

"Yes, my story," he put the glass to his lips. "Ah, Louan wine." He looked up at Killian’s frown. "Do you have any idea how many times I have told that story?"

"No."

"Think of how many times you have blinked. In your entire life. That’s how many times I have told that story. With absolutely no sign of success."

"I don’t understand."

"First, I need to know. Why did you come to me?"

"The story."

"What about the story?"

Killian took a deep breath. He had to know. "The part about the essence, drawn on the woman’s skin."

A glow came to the old man’s face. He took a long, drawn out breath. A smile rose, to become a broad grin. "You? It’s you?"

"I don’t understand."

"What is your name?"

"Killian."

"Killian. I am Evrin Alistair. Once I was called Evrin Evenstar. This meeting hasn’t come a moment too soon. I need your help."

56

Essence is the embodiment of life. A mighty tree grows from a seed. The tree gives shelter to birds and shade to animals. It grows old, withers and dies. As it decays, the life force of the tree sinks into the earth. The life force of a thousand trees comes together to form lignite. The relics of the Evermen process the lignite, forming essence. Understanding of the holy relics is beyond us, but one thing is clear — the power of magic is the power of life itself.

— Sermons of Primate Melovar Aspen, 535 Y.E.