Prelude
The Ring Of Ardhath
THEY PITCHED CAMP near the site of an ancient stone circle above the Jankayla River along the eastern border of Rhangoria, and on the third morning the dark sisters came. Young Elandon half-expected the priestesses cloaked in black to simply materialize from the hovering mists―like the brooding witches of superstition―even though he knew better. The Rhangorian Horsemen, their steeds fitful in warning, let the sisters through but remained on the perimeter of the camp and were content to do so since, like most unbelievers of the Church, they regarded the Adelphi as a menace best avoided.
The dark sisters were a curious lot. Not all of them were evil but none could be trusted; at least this was the word of the Cathonian Prophet, Davada Cruz, who arrived without fanfare later in the day. Clad in a tunic of white silk with his travel cloak slung across one shoulder and his haunting eyes quick to acknowledge Elandon and his father, he was accompanied by his two infant sons and their caretakers, along with an entourage of Sorers. The white witches were robed in blanched raiment that revealed only a mild soiling of dust and mud from their long journey. As the two factions of priestesses tentatively shared greetings, Elandon exchanged looks with his father and was reminded that even the bravest of men hold fear in their hearts. The moment of truth was nearly at hand, and the future hinged upon an unprecedented rite of passage invoked by the rogue prophet.
Elandon was at the center of it.
When the day’s hazed over sun was near to set, Davada Cruz signaled that it was time. Somewhat awkwardly, the parties made the long climb up the tor and assembled inside the massive circle of stones, a monolith of renowned force from the distant time of the Sea Kings of Ein, when great focus points of Spirit were constructed across the realm of Moirai.
At summer solstice the setting sun brilliantly illuminated the immense stone circle, which was called the Ring of Ardhath, but it was long past midsummer and the festive pilgrimages the clans still made to this place. Now, filled with the long, deep shadows of twilight and emanating an air if imponderable mystery, the sacred ruin seemed a world unto itself.
In the middle stood a smaller stone circle. The moment Elandon stepped inside the monolith he felt the ancient power encircling the tor, a flowing whirlwind of shifting energy and coursing current. The sense of being surrounded by these forces, the threat of being swept away in the afflux of this uncanny storm of frequency and vibration, drew the breath from his lungs. With ears ringing and skin tingling, he had to concentrate to maintain his balance.
It was impossible to imagine the others did not feel it in the same way, yet they did not appear to be unduly influenced by the power issuing around and over them. Of course, the confluence of elemental energy that existed here, the force of Spirit that could be summoned and focused, was the reason this site had been chosen.
Davada Cruz took his place on the simple seat at the center of the inner circle, a flat stone slab supported by two smaller stones of evenly matched height. There, as he waited for the others to take their places, he inscribed a series of sigils and cyphers on the ground and laid his marking stick over them. Then the caretakers holding his curiously subdued sons―whose names were Crystian and Dayfid, came and stood next to him. The dark sisters assembled into a ring around the seat and sacred ground, greeting the prophet coolly while the white witches formed an outer ring around them. As Elandon intuitively recognized the inner and outer spheres of black and white robed priestesses as a symbolic representation of light and dark energy―the old magic of creation―an aisle opened and he was invited into the center of the circle.
Once more, the inkling came into his mind that much more was about to transpire here than he had been told. His father, who stood off to the side, a severe yet resigned expression on his face, had curiously given over the quarterstaff wielded for generations by the Paladins of the di Brehon family. The infamous talisman mounted at the crest now issued an iridescent light into the twilight sky, illuminating the ring as the prophet raised it in the air.
“My sisters,” began Davada Cruz. “I greet you in the name of divine birth, and the coming into this hallowed circle of one long known to me.” At these words, many of the dark sisters bristled and shuffled uneasily, a reaction that did not go unnoticed by the prophet. He lowered the quarterstaff and spoke.
“It is no surprise that you would scorn such a greeting? Tell me of it, then. Let us invite the clarity of discourse.” His words were calm and entreating, offered with quiet yet unmistakable authority.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, an old Adelphi priestess with the slits of her eyes sewn shut and a sister holding one arm, cocked her head in the uncanny way of the blind and pointed her cane. “We were given to understand this ceremony would be an initiation of your sons in the Spirit,” she replied, “a tradition of your Rhangorian heritage. It seems more than heretical to evoke that most sacred doctrine of the Church to also include an idolater―an unbeliever whom your prophecy casts as our adversary. Perhaps there are even some among the Sorers who feel the same way?”
“If so, Reverend Mother,” Davada Cruz replied matter of factly, “let them speak.”
Several of the Sorers voiced careful agreement with the dark sisters and more nodded in silent assent. Nonetheless, the tension of the prophet’s challenge had raised the stakes somehow and everyone wondered at his motives. What did he intend by this ritual?
“How long have we waited for this moment?” The radiant quarterstaff held before him highlighted the vexing gleam of his crimson eyes―all seeing and deeper than wisdom itself―as he swept the faces of those gathered inside the Ring of Ardhath. “Apparently too long, for some of you have forgotten why we gather here.”
“We have not forgotten,” refuted the old blind priestess. “We merely grow weary of the castigations riddled in your preachings and foretellings.”
“Yet I am your prophet. Is divination not my purpose and duty?”
“Divine for us, then, Wise One,” implored a white witch standing at the outer edge of the circle, a look of sly amusement on her face. “We would hear you!”
The prophet raised the quarterstaff to the heavens and began the mesmerizing tongue-chanting for which he was known. The strange sounds ricocheted off the standing stones and drifted into the hushed silence of the tor.
“Through the ages we have sought knowledge of the enchantments of Moirai, that we may know the Spirit of this wondrous realm and understand the greater truths it signifies for all the Domains of the Archaeus. Is this not so?”
“It is so,” rejoined the priestesses.
“How can we be remiss in grasping one such truth that stands before us now?”
“Whose truth is it,” demanded the Reverend Mother, “that we should embrace one who will stand against us?”
“It has long been shown to me that part of understanding the greater truths lies in upholding the inherent wisdom of Kings’ Law. This is critical to the prophecy. It is why we assemble here in the ruins of a Fairie temple. Are you frightened, sisters?”
“We are not frightened!”
“It is his birthright to be here,” continued the prophet. “He is the last of the Paladins who valiantly served the Sea Kings, heir to the talismanic staff I hold in my hands, final wielder and keeper of the Sky Pentacle mounted in its crest and forged long ago by the Mages of Awen.”
“The Awen turned against the Church,” the Reverend Mother retorted, “and made the allies of the Sea Kings our enemies.”
“Because your vile Mischanter Priest betrayed the Sea Kings to the Shadowkind.”
“It was never proven,” cried the blind priestess, a denial that was echoed through the ranks of the dark sisters.
“I am the proof,” said the prophet. “Yet ask yourselves, why did the Paladins choose to remain neutral through this conflict and the Crusades that followed? And why, after all the generations that have passed since that troubled period in the history of the Church, have so many of them pledged their noble bloodline to the Sisterhood.”
“Allow me to answer that question.” The voice took everyone by surprise, for by this time Elandon’s father, looking on from beyond the circle, had been all but forgotten. “It is ours to uphold Kings’ Law,” he asserted, moving carefully now through the priestesses as he spoke, “no matter the circumstance, until death. The Second Sight is innate to our kind and informs us. We share the vision of Davada Cruz, which is why the bonded warders, the Aegis, shall continue our charge from within the Cathonian Sisterhood. Yet one Paladin, the last of us, must stand alone in the old way. The prophet speaks soothe.”
“And this one is your son?” the old Adelphi crone asked, once again pointing her cane. She tilted her head and through sightless eyes, took the measure of young Elandon.
“I am Garrick di Brehon,” he replied, stepping into the inner circle, “and this is my son, Elandon. He is the last Paladin.”
Not for the first time in his life, his father had seemingly corrected the course of something volatile, something that was about to go wrong. He achieved this with adept timing and the judicious use of words, without force. It was not lost upon Elandon.
“Well said, Sir Garrick.” The prophet placed his hand upon Elandon’s shoulder and raising the staff skyward, proclaimed, “I present to you now the one whose coming we have long awaited, the champion who shall stand unwavering against the taint of the shadow and make certain Kings’ Law is upheld―the one who will rally the warhost and lead them against the dark forces that threaten Moirai.”
Silence greeted this pronouncement. Then one of the Sorers standing nearest to them spoke. A delicately embroidered stole distinguished her vestments, and her face bore a look of consternation. “But what of your progeny, Wise One?” she inquired, her voice clear and commanding. “We have long awaited their births, those whom scripture names the Sarkotha, gods of the flesh that shall deliver Moirai from the bonds of evil?”
“The Book of Light, like the Prophecy of the Sacred Flesh itself, is tainted, Mother Superior,” replied Davada Cruz, solemnly. “This is not news to any of you. The Sisters of the Shadow have sordid plans for Crystian and Dayfid. Prescience shows me both will be blood bonded to an Adelphi priestess at the time of their maturity, and serve as unbounded shapeshifters and preeminent agents of evil. This future may be contravened, however, but only for one of them. Alas, this is my divination.”
Elandon had little time to ingest the prophecy or its grave implications. Instead, his attention was drawn to the stunned and conflicted reactions of the priestesses before him, as the dark sisters had become alarmed at being surrounded by the incensed white witches.
The prophet incited them further. “There are those among both factions of you who belong to the Sisterhood’s secret society or are privy to their dealings, so do not pretend to be surprised at my words. You know the Mischanter Priest’s fabled Black Covenant of evil and the Prophecy of the Sacred Flesh are different sides of the same coin. The confidences of the Cathonian Sisterhood are not mine to keep. The time has come for all to know and be warned of this deception.”
The air then began to tremble and pulsate with the intersecting powers inside the circle, the great stones of the monolith shimmering and vibrating with electromagnetic force. The prophet turned and pressed the quarterstaff into Elandon’s hand, and he was at once compelled to thrust it to the heavens as the old magic came to life in his grasp. Precipitous surges of energy issued from the Sky Pentacle at its crest, drawing forth bolts of lightning from the ether.
“And did you doubt, sisters?” exclaimed Davada Cruz, as he took his infant sons from their caretakers and gently cradled one in each arm, for they had begun to keen and wail amidst the fearsome din, “that Elandon could call down the fireclouds?”
♦♦♦
Thus the strange rite came to pass. There Elandon stood, his father on one side and the prophet and his progeny on the other, surrounded by shocked and confounded priestesses of the Cathonian Sisterhood, channeling the power of the Spirit through the talismanic quarterstaff. Because he was young and inexperienced at such things, perhaps it is not surprising that when the Second Sight came upon him, he was somehow stirred to perform an astonishing act that was beyond his intention, one that he would have occasion to recall and contemplate many times in the years that followed.
Some might describe the Second Sight as dreaming, and they would be correct in a manner of speaking, but those who possess the gift experience it as awakening. Awareness transcends the enigmatic boundaries of time and space, moving forward and backward and defying the conventions of perception in mystifying ways―ways that convey precious insight into the greater truths, which more often than not occur as questions rather than answers.
In those seminal moments within the quaking stone circle, Elandon recognized the elemental tapestry of forces from which reality forms, the polarity of light and dark energy that interrelates with thought, the universal consciousness known as Spirit focused through the geomancy of the Ring of Ardhath. He witnessed frequencies emanating from the vault of the sky, light, sound and resonance, forces which could be harmonized with―or manipulated, amplified and contrived. Moreover, he realized that the ordering principle of all things, the old magic of creation, was being drawn out of balance by the fractious dynamics of power and dominion―seductions of evil as old as the world itself. All of these things and more he saw in one simple question.
How will you serve?
Indeed, the question was innate in the visitations that ensued, for at the openings around the great monolith appeared specters of the ancient guardians of Moirai, whom Elandon recognized from his devoted studies of the old writings. These included the spirit totems of the animal kingdom led by the great wolves and their ravens; the legendary Elven warriors known as wolf-soldiers who tamed and taught the mighty canines language; the giant Gnomes that were heralded both as storytellers and stalwart battlechiefs; the fierce but reclusive Dwarves renowned for superior weaponry and stonework; even the hallowed Fánaí of oral lore―the Shepherd, the Lady of the Meadow, and the Forest Lord―invoked at the blessings of clan feasts and gatherings. Finally, Asmund―favoring his dolorous wound even in this ghostlike state, along with his devoted brother Harek―the shades of the Sea Kings of Ein, appeared with their trusted counsel, the Mages of Awen, to take their rightful place. Thus, the matchless confluence of Spirit infusing the stone circle had summoned a phantom assembly of the Second Sight, a stark and compelling vision of Elandon’s question of greater truth.
How will you serve?
Most astonishing in all of this, however, was that young Elandon unwittingly cast this vision upon those gathered before him. All in attendance save for his father and the initiates of the Church caring for Crystian and Dayfid, were accomplished conjurers and spellbinders, adepts of alchemy and sorcery. Even the progeny of the prophet were clearly precocious and naturally possessed of such powers, which were visible in the startling crimson eyes they had inherited from their father―himself a Shaman of profound and unparalleled ability. The Second Sight is an intuitive gift and by no means a method of conjury, yet somehow Elandon captured them all in his sway, for they were entranced by the surreal specters assembling around the trembling Ring of Ardhath.
“Hold them, Elandon.” It was his father’s voice, familiar and reassuring. “Hold them until I return.”
Garrick di Brehon possessed his own gift of the Second Sight and therefore was not cast into trance; nonetheless, he shared his son’s envisioning, for this was customary at the passing of the quarterstaff from father to son. He also perceived that the prophet was not nearly as enrapt as the others. Gently, he snapped his fingers and aroused Davada Cruz.
“It is just as you have foreseen,” said Garrick. “The focus of convergent forces created a vortex outside of time.”
“My blood bond with the Mother Superior has been suspended,” marveled the prophet, looking around in disbelief. “Otherwise, I would still be caught in the vortex with her. I would not have awakened.”
“For now, the priestesses are unaware of us,” said Garrick, reaching out his arms. “We must be on our way at once. I would carry one of your boys, if you will allow it.”
So it was that for the first time―but not the last, Elandon summoned the elemental forces through the talismanic quarterstaff and leveraged them with his gift of the Second Sight. The telluric currents of the Spirit coursed through him and he held the powerful vision in place as his father and Davada Cruz, each with one of the precious progeny in tow, carefully made their way through the mesmerized gathering. They departed the tumultuous stone circle without incident, leaving its Cathonian witches and spectral visitors behind. And as Elandon watched them go, he realized this was only the beginning, the very first visitation of the greater truths that defined the valor of every Paladin who had wielded this consecrated staff. It would be no different for him.
How will you serve?
♦♦♦
It seemed like only an instant had passed before the new-risen sun flamed across the distant peaks of the Cairn Mountains to the east, and the songs of morning birds―wrens and robins and larks, filled the golden skies above the tor. His father had not returned, and although only one night had passed inside the Ring of Ardhath, the sun calendars of Moirai would show that it was four days later. The witches were all gone and so were the spectral visitors―all except the Fánaí, who no longer appeared to be wraiths. Elandon unwrapped himself from his cloak and sat up.
The Lady of the Meadow, tiny wild flowers weaved into dark flowing braids that reached nearly to her knees, lit candles on the ground around the inner circle surrounding him, and then began walking around the perimeter and chanting softly. Finally, she looked at him and spoke.
“You have done well, Elandon. You held them long enough. When you released the vortex, they fled. Then your Second Sight passed and you slept. You expended a tremendous amount of energy.”
The memories of this slowly ebbed back into his awareness as he got to his feet. “But where is my father?” he said, stretching his limbs and shaking off the fatigue. He reached down and picked up the quarterstaff that lay beside him. “I was to hold the vision until he returned.”
Elandon wasn’t precisely sure how to feel about all that had happened, but even with the serene atmosphere that now filled the monolith, the mood seemed distinctly solemn. A lone bark echoed off the standing stones as the Shepherd called his she-wolf to his side and came to join them. The Forest Lord turned from the herds of roe and fallow deer and their young that had gathered, some of which leaped and chased and postured in the time honored mating ritual through the openings of the monolith. As the mighty tree creature slowly walked across the stone circle toward them, a great raven cawed and glided down to light upon his shoulder. The candle flames sputtered and a hush descended upon the Fairie temple.
“I am Caylix,” said the Lady, her smile effervescent and lovely and yet filled with an abiding sadness.
The morning light revealed the lines of the Shepherd’s weathered face from within the hood of his cloak. “And I am Taoiseach,” he said. “This is Ainjaa.” Again the she-wolf barked.
“Among the world of men, I was once called Borshander,” said the towering Forest Lord, his tree-trunk body and antlered visage at once appearing both fierce and tender. “But among the boughs and branches of the trees and all who dwell there, I am known as Aon Bethadh.”
“It means ‘friend of life,’” said Elandon. “You are all here to tell me Sir Garrick has been slain.” The words came spontaneously, yet he wasn’t sure how he knew to say them.
The she-wolf whined and came across the circle to nuzzle against him.
“Alas,” said the Lady, “it is ours to inform you of the passing of your father into the afterworld. He succeeded, however, in delivering the prophet and his progeny into the Domains of the Archaeus.”
“The Sisterhood will hunt them down,” replied Elandon, the words again arising unbidden. “How did my father die?”
“He created a distraction and then fought valiantly defending their passage through the wormhole,” replied Caylix. “There were too many.”
“But . . .”
“His life force was sundered by the battle axe of a Troll, if you must know. His body was consumed in the ritual immolation of the Shadowkind. I am sorry, Elandon.”
Elandon hung his head. Ainjaa let out another long whine and then put her paws up on the stone seat and licked his face. “How many Horsemen perished?” he asked.
“The escort was sent back at Cyril Pindor. Your father and the prophet carried the infants into the swamp by themselves.”
“He sacrificed himself,” whispered Elandon. Again came the inner knowing. His throat tightened and tears welled up in his eyes.
“The Paladin known as Sir Garrick di Brehon upheld his noble charge,” Taoiseach declared, his voice quiet and steady, “in service of Kings’ Law.”
Silent reflection followed this traditional epitaph of the Paladins. The compassion that shown in the eyes of all those present dressed the moment in respect and dignity. Elandon quietly wept, the moments of sadness and grief venerating the legacy of his father’s life and fortifying its stronghold in his heart.
Slowly turning the talismanic quarterstaff back and forth in his hands, he looked at the mythical beings standing before him in the inner circle of the Ring of Ardhath. He knew they each read his thoughts, even as he spoke. “How will the indoctrination be completed, that I might gain the mastery of the Sky Pentacle my father possessed?”
Caylix let the question hang in the air as the sounds of the wildlife around the tor began to stir once more. “You have seen how the greater truths frequently present themselves as questions,” she replied at last, “questions that elude absolute answers.”
Elandon nodded. “I have seen.”
From the belt she wore at the waist of her flowing golden raiment, she produced a small knife and severed one of her dark flowered braids. “We can only leave you these offerings,” she said, “which may shed light upon such mysteries.” Deftly moving her hands and chanting softly as vectors of prismatic light suddenly appeared connecting the candle flames to the silky plait of hair, she seamlessly interwove and knotted the ends together and then stepped forward, placing the enjoined tress over Elandon’s head.
“This is a labhrais,” she smiled. “It embodies the old magic of creation and will forever remain preserved. You shall wear it beneath your leathers. At the proper time, its enchantments will make themselves known to you. Only one set of hands other than yours will be able to remove it. When you find this individual, your life paths shall entwine like the magical weave of the labhrais itself.”
The heady smells of the wild flowers and the fragrance of the Lady herself, the oils and loams she used for bathing and perfuming, swirled about Elandon in an intoxicating fashion. The shimmering braid roused profound and elemental realizations inside of him that were distinctly feminine, insights into the divine nature of women―of the miracle of bringing souls into life and nurturing them―which up until this moment had been elusive and confounding. It was a curious yet gratifying sensation.
“So then,” declared Borshander, bending down to one knee before Elandon, “on occasion you will have need of this.” The Forest Lord presented him with a warhorn carved of elk antler with a leather strap attached, and etched with runes that Elandon translated to mean ‘bless and protect,’ but which seemed to convey a much deeper message. In a flash of intuition, he perceived more of Borshander than what he knew from the oral lore, his role as chieftain of the glorious and sanctified timberland of Moirai requiring a resolve that was both ferocious and affectionate, beyond the measure depicted in the ancient stories. He was truly Aon Bethadh, friend of life, in ways perhaps greater than mortal men could understand.
“It isn’t just any warhorn,” said the tree creature, “as you shall discover.”
The warhorn felt perfectly balanced in his hands as he raised it to his lips and tilted it to the sky; yet strangely, when he blew into the opening no sound was forthcoming. Still, Ainjaa whined excitedly and an entire flock of ravens, raucous and auspicious, descended upon the stone circle and landed on the ground around them, screeching and cawing. Then Elandon heard words, a voice in his mind.
“The spirit totems hear you, Elandon. And you shall hear us.” Awe and a deep sense of wonder then settled into his awareness, for he realized it was Ainjaa that had spoken to him.
“You will know when to use the warhorn,” advised Borshander. “The animal kingdom is a garden of greater truths nestled in hidden worlds, all bound in a fragile and reckless order―for this is the unfathomable mystery of the old magic. And one such mystery is the spirit totems. These are innocent beings but they are not guileless, for the old magic of creation guides them. Allow them to teach you.”
Finally, Taoiseach stepped into the center of the circle and Ainjaa came to his side. He raised his shepherd’s crook and then thrust it firmly into the ground where the prophet had inscribed the sigils and cyphers, twisting and pushing it downward until the tip was buried in the dirt. A dense fog began rising from the ground and before long the entire monolith was covered in swirling, misty layers. The ravens spread their wings and took flight, forming their flock around the Shepherd as Ainjaa issued a lone howl into the sky. Slowly, the crook began reforming itself into a brilliant, glowing sword―one which seemed to draw the rays of the sun to its blade, even through the thick mists.
Such a sword Elandon had never seen, a weapon of the Spirit wrought by the hands of a Fánaí, stunningly beautiful and yet cold and deadly. Indeed, a realm could be won with such an exalted blade. The grip was formed by two open-winged dragons intertwined in such a way that their heads, encrusted with tiny rubies and emeralds, met at the pommel. And just below the hilt of reddish-hued gold was a small engraving.
“What is the inscription?” he asked.
Taoiseach held the sword across his palms. “This side says, ‘Hold No Blackness.’” He turned it over. “And this side says, ‘In Thy Heart.’” The Shepherd then presented him with the illustrious weapon.
Elandon tested the exquisite weight and balance; it felt uncanny in his grip, powerful in a way unlike his own sword or any other he had ever held. Yet it was a peculiar legend for such a weapon, he thought. By what wisdom had those words been chosen? And what part would the magnificent sword, and the cryptic words inscribed thereon, play in his daunting quest as the last Paladin in service of Kings’ Law.
“What you hold is a revenant,” proclaimed Taoiseach, “of the sword Harek used to slay the Draaguls on that fateful day when the betrayal of the Sea Kings was realized, and the realm of Moirai changed forever.”
Turning the blade crosswise now, Elandon lightly tapped the stone seat in the center of the circle. The blade rang like a bell and echoed off the standing stones of the monolith.
“As you can see,” smiled Taoiseach, “it is real enough. It was forged of strengthened steel by the Dwarves.”
“I am not ready for this,” Elandon exclaimed, suddenly overcome by the realization. He laid the sword down on the seat, “at least not yet. Perhaps someday I shall require such a weapon.”
“No son,” Taoiseach replied, “you are not ready. But the day will come. You will know it in your heart, just as you know that today is not that day.”
The Shepherd gently raised his hands to the heavens. Slowly, the layers of mist vanished into the skies above and the gleaming blade faded, until once more it was merely a crook for herding sheep. “It is yours,” said Taoiseach, picking it up and handing it to Elandon. “In the destiny that awaits you, the revenant of King Harek’s sword shall oblige your need.”
It felt strange to hold this shepherd’s crook that would become an elegant length of cold steel. Despite being unready, Elandon wanted to feel the sword’s splendid weight filling his hand once more, and the power surging through him as the light danced from its gleaming blade. He wondered about the time the sword would again come alive in his grasp, the fateful future that required such a supernal force.
The Lady of the Meadow, her beauty illuminated in the glow of the tiny flames, bent down and blew out each candle. “Worry not, Sir Elandon,” she said, once again reading his thoughts. “The Ring of Ardhath is not the only place where the Spirit shall flow through you with strength and conviction.
“Lie back down and sleep now,” she smiled, touching his brow with her finger, “until the Horsemen come for you.”
♦♦♦
Elandon awoke feeling remarkably rejuvenated. It was midmorning and the piquant smells of the labhrais around his neck filled his awareness, affirming that he had not merely dreamed the encounter with the Fánaí. Still, there was a surreal sense about the experience that lingered in his thoughts, as a dream might. He spied the warhorn and shepherd’s crook on the stone seat; and the quarterstaff, with its enigmatic Sky Pentacle at the crest, lay on the ground beside him.
When he again heard the faint whistle, the bird call that served as their signal, he realized what had awakened him. Vinsynn, the warchief of the Rhangorian escort, stood just outside the stone circle; the leader of the Horsemen was clearly reluctant to enter the Ring of Ardhath, perhaps because the Cathonian witches and their prophet had used it as part of their strange ritual. Elandon gathered the mysterious implements that heralded his rite of passage as the last Paladin―a rite that was ominously inchoate and fraught with uncertainty―and followed Vinsynn down the tor to the encampment where the rest of the escort awaited.
The two Rhanghorns his father and Davada Cruz had ridden into the Nah Kenna Swamp, but which had escaped the fatal encounter with the Shadowkind, had just trotted into the camp, saddles empty and reins dangling. The Horsemen had a way of communicating with their numinous steeds and soon all those present learned the fate of the prophet and his progeny, and of Sir Garrick’s tragic passing. The two clan midwives who carried the infants across the Borderlands in seal skins strapped to their chests were thankful the boys and their father had escaped, yet it fell upon them to tell Elandon the news; they were both surprised and relieved to discover that somehow he already knew.
They broke camp at once and rode for the western shores of Rhangoria. The journey was solemn and Elandon was stricken by moments of grief and sadness; he also worried for his mother and how she would take the ill-tidings. Three days later they sat upon their mounts on a high hill overlooking Rimlock and Stonehaven and watched the sun set upon the waters of Dragon Bay, beyond the fiord upon which the twin castles and the great bridge between them had been constructed. Wind sighed through the high grasses and whistled across the rocky outcroppings of the upland plateaus as they gazed at the fiery horizon and beheld the sweeping vista of their homeland.
Even in that splendid region of soaring peaks, forested vales and open grasslands where the herds of Rhanghorns roamed and the fortress-like castles protected the clans, the threat of the dark sisters haunted the firelight at night, the tales that had served as warnings for more than a hundred generations: their Mischanter priest risen from the dead to level his death curse upon the Mages of Awen and those who followed them; the Berserkers of their sordid blood magic who stalked the windwalls of the western shores and upheld that curse; their covert alliance with the bornless and soulless beings, the ruthless Shadowkind that terrorized Moirai throughout the ages.
The Paladins, however, had forged and maintained a long-standing relationship with the Sisterhood’s white witches over the centuries, which allowed them to keep a close watch on the volatile Sisterhood and its factions of priestesses―the Adelphi and the Sorers―and the secret society that controlled the Church, the Sisters of the Shadow. The prevailing belief, one that Elandon wasn’t certain he shared, was that the Sorers were truly virtuous in their aspirations to deliver Moirai from evil through divine birth, and that this virtue, leveraged by their alchemic mastery of quartz crystal and white magic, held the taint of the Adelphi priestesses in check.
In the eventful time that followed, Elandon would come to some excruciating realizations about how the white witches, despite their dazzling crystals and benevolent theurgies, relied on their bond with the Paladins to help maintain this delicate balance of power. A fortnight after the ritual inside the Ring of Ardhath, the dark sisters revolted and took control of the city of Old Cathonia. The prophet’s daring escape with his progeny to the Domains of the Archaeus had contravened the Prophecy of the Sacred Flesh and split the Sisterhood―as he undoubtedly knew it would. Only Elandon, untrained in channeling the talismanic powers of the quarterstaff and thus wielding it precariously, could counter the black sorcery of the Adelphi priestesses and save the Sorers and others trapped inside the once holy city.
“I will come,” was his response to the urgent plea of the Sorers when their messengers arrived at Rimlock. Of course, Elandon would go in his late father’s stead; it was the only way.
Wearing just the labhrais, for the other offerings of the Fánaí did not call to him, and accompanied by a patrol of warders sent by the Church, he journeyed across Saorsa to the eastern lowlands of Cathonia. Well aware of his inexperience in the face of such a dire circumstance, Elandon di Brehon nonetheless answered his call to uphold Kings’ Law.
Guided by both the warders and his Second Sight, he summoned the fireclouds and thundered down mass destruction upon the sections of the city occupied by the dark sisters and their minions, decisively quelling the insurrection and delivering the white witches and many others to freedom. Yet Elandon saw abhorrent and unforgettable things, including certain dark and anguished secrets of the Sisterhood that dwelled in the caverns beneath Old Cathonia. Countless innocents perished in the fray―some inadvertently in the flashes of devastation he called down from the sky, others that couldn’t be saved from the bloodlust of the Horks, Trolls and Berserkers. Elandon prevailed despite suffering critical injuries; his face and body were severely burned and his skull fractured by falling debris. Left blind by his injuries and falling in and out of consciousness, he lost the quarterstaff with its powerful talisman in the aftermath and survived only because a brave warder and a Sorer, the Mother Superior herself, risked their lives and pulled him to safety.
In the fleeting but lucid moments of his rescue, he heard something compelling and familiar in the clarity of the Mother Superior’s commands to those around her for assistance. As she cradled his head in her arms, tending his wounds and carefully applying unguents to his charred face, he managed to utter the words, “I recognize your voice, Sorer.”
“I was there, child,” she said, “inside the Ring of Ardhath.”
“The Spirit vision . . .”
“Don’t try to speak,” she shushed. “We all witnessed it. The Sisterhood must accept your revelation of greater truth. It is prophecy that you shall guide us, even in resistance.”
At that telling instant, as his reality splintered into darkness and his body retreated into a state of deep shock, Elandon knew two things: he wasn’t going to die, and the Mother Superior was an ally.
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Copyright © Shawn Quinlivan, 2018. Shawn Quinlivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All original images used by permission. Digital artistry by Shawn Quinlivan.
