Belythna opened her eyes and rolled over onto her back. For a moment she lay there, staring up at the pitted grey stone ceiling of her chamber, her mind still fogged with sleep. Then, the thought – the same one that plagued her every morning these days – returned.
I don’t want to open my eyes.
It was a bleak thought to wake to every day, and the one that swiftly followed it was no better.
Why can’t I just go to sleep one night and never awake?
She lay upon her narrow bed, letting the desolation wash over her for a moment longer, before doing what she always did. She shoved the thoughts back into the recesses of her mind, sat up, threw aside the covers and rose from her bed.
Irritated by the self-pity that stole upon her every morning, in that vulnerable moment between waking and sleeping, Belythna splashed icy water on her face. Despair hung upon her like a heavy mantle these days, dragging at her steps and taking the warmth out of the sun; the joy out of the things she had once enjoyed. She had tried to fight it but it had grown slowly, insidiously, and before she had fully recognised it for what it was, the sadness had taken root in her soul and refused to let go.
Belythna opened the wooden shutters of her chamber’s window, letting in the dank winter air. It was a heavy, sunless day outside. The grey dawn matched her mood. She turned from the window and dressed, in ceremonial robes, for today was the day of the ‘audience’. For centuries, the Sentorân had opened their doors twice a year to common folk, allowing them to come before their leader and council and ask for assistance or vent their grievances.
Belythna snapped on the gold circlet around her neck and reached for her heavy black cloak. She left her chamber, her boots whispering on the damp flagstones, and made her way down to the dining hall to break her fast. The hall was enormous, the largest inside the fortress, with rows of long tables to accommodate the one-hundred and fifty Sentorân who supped here three times a day.
Belythna was one of the last to arrive, and took a seat next to Floriana, as she always did. Her friend acknowledged her with a tired smile. Grey-robed apprentices moved around the hall, carrying jugs of milk, baskets of fresh bread and trays with dishes of butter and pots of honey. As part of their training, all Sentorân apprentices had to serve the meals and assist the cooks in the fortress’s kitchens. Apprentices had to assist the common folk working as servants within the fortress. Belythna remembered those days well: scrubbing floors, kneading bread and running errands. Sometimes she looked back upon them wistfully, for her world had been simpler then.
Although she was not hungry, Belythna helped herself to a piece of bread and smeared it with butter and honey. She felt as if she was wading through porridge these days, but she could not let the others, even Floriana, know that she was not happy.
The murmur of conversation in the dining hall was subdued this morning. Most of the older Sentorân looked fatigued. Belythna knew that they often met with Serina in the evenings to discuss the deteriorating situation. The younger Sentorân, Belythna included, were never invited.
“Kern’s looking sour this morning,” Belythna murmured to Floriana as she poured herself a cup of water. “His face could curdle milk. What’s wrong with him?”
“Serina’s furious with him,” Floriana whispered back. “He has just returned from the Citadel of Lies and informed her that he gave the last Blood Stone to the Guardian of the Citadel for safe-keeping.”
Belythna went still at this news. “He did?”
Floriana nodded, her gaze travelling to where the aging Sentorân sat brooding into his cup.
“I was taking books back to the library when I overheard them arguing,” Floriana continued. “Serina was livid. She’s threatened Kern with expulsion from the order.”
Belythna took a sip of water, absorbing this news. The Blood Stone was a precious, and highly dangerous object. It was linked to a past that the current rulers of Palâdnith would rather forget. Many legends surrounded the stones, yet all the Sentorân knew of their real history – how they had been used to transport enemies of the warlocks and kings of old to an underworld prison named Moden. Throwing the stone at the feet of the condemned and uttering the word that unlocked the stone’s power, would open a portal between this world and Moden, and suck the hapless individual into a timeless prison warded by immortal creatures known as the Keepers of Moden.
Legend had it that the Blood Stones had been created from the heart of a live volcano by the long dead order of warlocks who built the Citadel of Lies – a mysterious fortress that lay deep in the heart of the forests of Westhealm. Whatever their origin, the Blood Stones were precious, and if one got into the wrong hands it would be catastrophic.
“That was a foolish move on Kern’s part,” Belythna said finally, meeting her friend’s gaze. “Yet, if the Guardian hides it away in the Great Bibliotheca, it’s safer there than most places.”
“True,” Floriana admitted. “Although Serina liked knowing that she had possession of the remaining stone.”
Belythna held her friend’s gaze a moment, wondering what Floriana really thought of Kern’s behaviour. Like Belythna, she had just reached her thirtieth winter. However, unlike Belythna, Floriana, appeared serene in the life she had chosen.
The women finished their meals in silence before following the other Sentorân out of the dining hall and up three levels to the Council Chamber. They spoke little during the way up, each immersed in their own thoughts, and arrived at the chamber to find Lady Serina awaiting them.
The large oval table that usually dominated the huge chamber had been carried away this morning, in preparation for the audience. Its absence made the Council Chamber seem even larger and more imposing that usual. Grey light filtered in from the arched windows, highlighting the severe contours of Serina’s face. She sat waiting upon a dais at the end of the chamber, upon an ornately carved wooden chair. The Sentorân silently climbed up on to the dais, flanking her on both sides.
Lady Serina acknowledged many of the sorcerers with a curt nod. She appeared fatigued this morning. Deep grooves had formed either-side of her mouth and thick streaks of grey now laced her dark hair. It was as if the weight of the world rested upon her shoulders.
In a way it did – for ever since Belythna, Floriana and Jedin’s return from Darkness two years earlier, events had taken a downward spiral.
After delivering the news that Riadamor had indeed re-emerged, and was gathering followers to her, a party of fifty Sentorân had returned to the foothills of the Sables. However, they had found Riadamor’s hideaway deserted.
Six months later, word had reached Deep-Spire of a new order, led by Riadamor herself. They called themselves the ‘Esquill’, which meant ‘free’ in Ancient Goranthian. Sightings of green-robed sorcerers had come from throughout the realms: Omagen, Cathernis, Sude, and even those on the edges of Palâdnith: Farindell, Westhealm and Marl. Worse still, these sorcerers were trouble-makers. The Esquill travelled through the realms, abducting young men and women and stealing whatever they needed as they went. They terrorised, or killed, those who stood in their way.
The common folk had turned to the Sentorân for help against this new threat, and the realmlords demanded to know from where these ‘Esquill’ had come. Rumours began to circulate that the sorceress leading this new order had once been a Sentorân. This rumour caused folk to turn against the order they had once loved and trusted.
The order had become ever more isolated. The Sentorân had done their best to aid the folk of Palâdnith, sending out as many patrols as they could spare across the land. In the months that followed, the Sentorân and the Esquill clashed often. Over that time, a dozen Sentorân had died, and nearly twice that number of Esquill. However, they had not been able to take any of the Esquill alive. As such, the Sentorân were no closer to offering answers, or solutions, to the people of Palâdnith.
Belythna pondered this as she moved into place at Serina’s right. Patrols were not enough. Something had to be done no
w, before the situation spiralled out of control.
If it is not already too late.
The last of the Sentorân had just stepped into place on the dais when the massive oaken doors at the end of the Council Chamber opened. The first of the folk wanting audience with the leader of the Sentorân had entered.
A short, balding man with a pugnacious expression strutted into the chamber. He was expensively dressed in chamois breeches, a velvet tunic and a fine wool cloak. Two burly men in creaking boiled leather armour followed him. A few steps behind them were four apprentice Sentorân, who had been charged with escorting those seeking an audience.
“Marshal Horne,” Serina appeared to recognise the man and inclined her head in greeting.
“Lady Serina,” the Marshal stopped around ten feet back from the dais, his heavy-lidded gaze resting on Serina’s face.
Silence echoed through the chamber before Serina broke it. “To what do we owe this visit, Marshal? Are there problems in Tarras?”
Marshal Horne’s mouth compressed. “No more than usual.”
“I sent two Sentorân patrols to you,” Serina reminded him. “Have they not served you well?”
The marshal shrugged. “They engaged the Esquill, who had been causing trouble in Tarras, and chased them off. No more have been sighted since. Still, they have not been able to retrieve the three boys who went missing in the spring.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Marshal Horne held her gaze, his expression stony.
“How kind of you. However, I’m not here for that. I have come to take my daughter back.”
Murmurs of surprise rippled through the chamber.
Serina’s mouth compressed into a thin line. She stared at the marshal, a deep groove forming between her eyebrows. “That is impossible. Once someone joins us, they cannot leave.”
“Yes they can,” the Marshal countered. “If you expel them from the order, they can leave.”
“I will not expel Emilia,” Serina replied coldly. “She is a promising and able apprentice. She will remain here.”
“My daughter has no place in this fortress!” Marshal Horne snarled. “I’ve heard that the leader of these ‘Esquill’ was once a Sentorân. I will not have my daughter remain in a place that fosters such individuals; I am her father, and I demand her back.”
Lady Serina stared at the marshal, her face set in stern lines. Belythna glanced at their leader, wondering what she would do. It was not true that Emilia was a promising apprentice; the girl had never been happy here in Deep-Spire. Ironic really since she had begged her father to let her come here.
Marshal Horne had not wanted to give his only daughter to the Sentorân.
How different to my father, Belythna thought, not without a trace of bitterness.
“Emilia remains here,” Serina announced. “That is the end of the matter.”
“You have no right,” Marshal Horne shouted, his face flushing. “She is my daughter. I will not let you drag her down with you!”
“This audience has ended,” the Sentorân leader replied. “Jedin, Valon – see this man and his guards out.”
The two male Sentorân, tall and threatening, with swords at their sides, stepped down from the dais and strode towards the marshal.
One of the guards behind the marshal started to draw his sword.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Jedin rumbled, fixing the man with a hard stare. The man glared back at him but let his hand drop away from the hilt of sword.
“This doesn’t end here witch,” Marshal Horne growled. “Night is coming for you and this archaic sect. Everyone knows it. I will have my daughter back, I promise you.”
With that, the marshal turned and marched, stiff-backed with fury, out of the Council Chamber.
An uneasy silence hung in the chamber after he had gone. Belythna and Floriana exchanged glances.
“Who comes next?” Serina turned to the apprentice hovering at the door. He was a thin, sallow-faced boy, who was due to be initiated into the order in the spring.
“Another marshal, Lady Serina,” he replied hesitantly, cowed by her fierce stare. “The Marshal of Barrowthorne requests as audience.”
Belythna watched Serina clench her jaw and narrow her gaze. Then, she leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath, swallowing the anger the Marshal of Tarras had just provoked in her.
“Another one,” she spoke between clenched teeth. “Very well, bring him in.”
Moments later, a man strode into the chamber, unescorted, and walked towards the dais.
Belythna’s breath caught at the sight of him, and her gaze tracked him across the floor.
This man was very different to the one who had just left the Council Chamber. He was much younger than Marshal Horne, at around thirty winters. Tall and built like a hunter, he moved with supple, long-limbed grace. He was dressed in worn, calf-length hunting boots, leather breeches and jerkin, and wore a travel-stained cloak about his shoulders. He had a handsome face with chiselled features, and a mop of light brown hair. As he drew closer, Belythna saw that his eyes were the colour of iron.
There was something about this man, a charisma that drew, and held, her attention. She was entranced.
He never once looked her way. Instead, his steady gaze was focused on Lady Serina.
“So you are the Marshal of Barrowthorne?” Serina spoke, her tone dismissive as she dispensed with pleasantries. “A bit young aren’t you?”
The man inclined his head slightly, wry amusement sparking in his grey eyes. Unlike their previous guest, this man did not exude aggression. “Old enough to earn the Realmlord of Omagen’s respect,” he replied. “Greetings Lady Serina. My name is Marshal Hath Falkyn of Barrowthorne.”
“Greetings then,” Serina sighed. Belythna could see that this encounter already wearied her. “Why do seek audience?”
Marshal Falkyn’s face grew serious. Watching him, Belythna found herself hoping he would glance her way. She gazed at him, willing him to feel the weight of her stare. She even stretched her talent towards him in an attempt to draw his attention.
Yet, this man was immune to her abilities.
Belythna withdrew, confusion warring with disappointment. Hath Falkyn was no sorcerer, but an invisible barrier surrounded him. He was strong, and exuded a self-contained power. This realisation merely increased her attraction to him.
“I come to ask for assistance,” Hath Falkyn told Lady Serina.
The leader of the Sentorân frowned at that. “We already have Sentorân patrols throughout Central Omagen, including Barrowthorne,” Lady Serina reminded him, “but if we can assist further, we will.”
“Patrols are not enough,” the marshal replied, his words mirroring Belythna’s earlier thoughts. “We’ve had four young women and two youths go missing in the last month. Three days ago, Barrowthorne’s weaponsmith was found dead in his workshop with a hole burned in his chest. The collection of swords he had been working on were all taken.”
“I am sorry to hear of this,” Lady Serina shook her head, her face softening, “but we are doing all we can.”
“Your patrols are never in the right place,” Marshal Falkyn countered. “Most of the time, the Esquill slip right by you like shadows. To my knowledge you have not apprehended one of them.”
“I assure you, we are doing our utmost to stop them,” Lady Serina’s expression hardened once more. “We have chased them from many settlements, and although we have not apprehended any, we have killed a number of them. Our presence in Barrowthorne has reduced the attacks, as it has elsewhere, but for now I can make no other promises.”
Hath Falkyn folded his arms across his chest and regarded Serina coldly. “The man they killed was my cousin – but we were as close as brothers. I’m not leaving here without a better explanation, and some assurance that you will track down those responsible.”
“You are not in a position to make demands,” Serina replied, her voice clipped. “
I tire of marshals striding into my domain and issuing orders.”
“So, you will do nothing?”
“You have my answer. I will say nothing more.”
Silence stretched out in the Council Chamber. Marshal Falkyn stared at Lady Serina for a few moments, before his gaze flicked to The Pact of the Realms on the wall. “So the rumours are true,” he said finally. “The Sentorân are no longer our protectors. Sorcery can only be fought with sorcery – yet you refuse to do what is necessary.”
Listening to the marshal, Belythna felt her skin prickle. He was right. Lady Serina was not doing enough. Yet, of late, she had become obstinate when anyone dared question her.
“We are peacekeepers,” Serina countered, her cheeks reddening as she sought to control her temper. The marshal’s accusation had hit a raw nerve. “Not warmongers.”
“That is a weak excuse,” the marshal replied. “A few Esquill deaths are not enough. You have not frightened them off, as you seem to think. You won’t be able to hide behind these walls forever. The Esquill are gathering their strength; and when they have, they will come for you. Let’s see how you answer then.”
With that, Hath Falkyn turned and strode from the Council Chamber without a backwards glance.
Chapter Nine
Winter Falls
The Rock and Pillar Range, Central Omagen