The Hawk and Quill

Hungry flames licked the walls of a crumbling manor house. The cries of running servants sounded in the blurry blend of shadow and blaze, accompanied by the furor of shouting soldiers. A small group departed from the ruined house, furtively moving away from the immediate brightness, carrying two tightly wrapped swaddles. Rushing behind the archers waiting in line, the group climbed into a carriage and took off with haste.

The soldiers then proceeded to nail the sturdy main doors shut, trapping the remaining people inside. The fire spread quickly; screams carried from the house, now completely veiled in smoke. A window shattered up on the second floor and a panicky maid jumped down to the cobblestones, coughing. She tried to stand, but one of her legs had broken in the fall. The order sounded in the air as the archers launched a barrage at her. The woman made one last attempt to get up, but her sorry fate was to succumb, never earning a second glance from the ruthless invaders.

They continued guarding the entrances, until the screams died out and only the roar of the fire remained.

He flinched awake, cracking his itching eyes.

“Sarakin?” he heard someone speaking softly. “Sarakin? You were restless in your sleep. Did you have nightmares?”

“Celenth...” he mumbled a foggy response, still one foot in the dream. “Celenth,” he repeated, sharper this time. “I— I saw the same dream again.”

A young female, barely a woman, crouched next to him and reached for his sweaty forehead. Her hand felt pleasantly cool against the burning skin.

“My dear brother,” she whispered. “It’s still dark outside, so try to get some more sleep. We have a long day ahead.”

Sarakin’s response was a barely noticeable nod as he laid his head back down, sinking into the calming softness of the pillow. His sister spoke the truth— a harsh one at that. It would be another dull day in the confines of the library. He would be studying the glyphs of magic while his sister dedicated her time to ages old tomes telling tales of the Immortals, trying to create a connection through prayers. Although it was forbidden to even possess such writings, their father, Count Gilbrent Melgor, was rich and ambitious enough to try, for such power in the family would secure their standing as one of the strongest houses in Valdor. To achieve such stature, he was ready to risk his own life, as well as the lives of everyone living on his estate.

With a quiet sigh, Sarakin closed his eyes. Celenth stayed with him for a while longer, stroking his dark hair until sleep finally conquered and calmed his stirred mind.

#

Absolute silence prevailed in the library as both, at least seemingly, concentrated on their studies. Celenth was reading an old text from the first century, depicting how the hallows of the time had reached their concord with the Immortals. It was not really what she wanted to do, for she would have much rather delved into the secrets of blood sacrifice, another book she was working on, stored in the safety of her chamber. She had yet to make a connection— yet to have a prayer answered, although in the quiet hours of the night, she often felt the presence of her deity. But she was not ready— not yet.

Sarakin had a thick tome opened as well, but he paid very little attention to it. Tearing pages from his notebook and folding them into fortune-telling origamis gave him better entertainment than the dusty book about the very basics of glyphs that could harness the aether. His nimble, bruised hands worked on the paper with such speed and precision it would have put a master tailor to shame. In addition to his hands, Sarakin bore many similar markings of violence around his body. While lacking in other aspects, he had proved himself over and over again to be a master at getting into trouble. As a verified gifted, however, he had not made any notable progress.

Hours crawled by until Chamberlain Treak came to announce that the studies for the day were over. As it was almost impossible to find teachers for the specific areas of interest Lord Gilbrent wished his children to excel at, he had instead adopted a convenient method of self-learning. Failure to show desired advancement came with dire consequences, which was something Sarakin had become most familiar with. The only child who seemed to be a grand exception was the eldest, Lord Thelron Melgor, far into his training to become a knight. While Sarakin and Celenth were locked up in the library for hours every day, Thelron practiced in the courtyard with a seasoned veteran, Marshal Greel Ambereye, who was also responsible for all the men-at-arms of the manor.

“Before you go, I have a message for both of you,” the chamberlain said, stopping them at the door. “Lord Gilbrent wishes to see you both tomorrow at noon. I highly recommend that you won’t be late.”

“Yes, Chamberlain Treak,” Celenth said obediently, her face growing pale. Sarakin had nothing to say. He knew exactly what these meetings meant.

Sarakin was the one being punished, but it was his sister who seemed more concerned.

“You have the gift,” she said once back in their chambers, connected to one another by a door that was usually left wide open. “We all know this because you can read Awen. If you didn’t, the glyphs would be all but gibberish to you in the same way they appear to the rest of us. Why can’t you write something small? Just enough to convince father that you’re improving.”

“Because I despise that old fool,” Sarakin replied vacantly, fondling the leather cover of a tome he had pulled from under his bed. He seemed far more interested in delving into the book rather than having this conversation with his sister.

Celenth rolled her eyes, letting out a meaningful sigh. “That doesn’t prevent him from beating you senseless,” she said, frustrated by her brother’s silent rebellion that did not yield anything but needless suffering.

“No,” Sarakin confirmed quietly, shrugging. “It certainly does not.” Staring into nothingness for a moment, he dropped the subject as if there was nothing left to it and gave her a blank glance. “I have some more studying to do before dinner, so leave me alone,” he then said, opening the marked page from his beloved brick of a book.

Nobody knew of this book, nobody other than Celenth, and his sister would never tell anyone. She was the one who had snatched it easily before the chamberlain saw anything, for she was allowed to borrow some religious writings for herself to study. She was the favorite child of them two, after all, showing willingness to work for the betterment of the house.

“The grimoire of Drua Cardoval,” Sarakin whispered, caressing the worn paper with his eager fingers. Nobody knew how the grimoire of one of the greatest mystics had ended up in such a remote place. If the word got out of such pieces being sheltered in Valdor, the Dusklight Servants would have been alerted by the local lurkers a long time ago. Even with all the might of House Melgor, they could not resist the undead riders of the Copper Crown from breaking through the gates and doors, burning the manor house, as well as the entire estate, to the ground.

Dinner was brought to them on silver platters, for neither was allowed to leave their chambers after dark. Only Thelron could join the rest of the family in the great hall. Sarakin and Celenth were promised that once they began taking meaningful steps in their studies, they could earn similar benefits.

#

This time the dream was different. There was no flaming manor, no screaming men and women to meet their end in the courtyard, and no mysterious figures carrying swaddles. Finding himself standing in the middle of desolation, a barren desert of gray dust that stretched beyond the horizon in every direction, Sarakin was genuinely surprised. The feeling of loneliness was overwhelming, suddenly pressing on his mind like an invisible avalanche.

Sarakin shivered, gazing around, but the same emptiness greeted him everywhere. The air was not cold or warm; there was no light or dark. A weirdly gray haze surrounded him, displaying the very definition of nothingness.

“Am I dead?” he asked, and another detail struck him. There was no echo. His voice sounded like he was locked inside one of the boulders in the garden of the manor house.

“No, you’re not dead yet,” a calm voice uttered.

Deeply startled, Sarakin peered about, then he saw a figure approaching from the haze, drawing a dark silhouette against the dim grayness. An older man, he noted, but it was impossible to derive his age, for no silver colored his hair nor wrinkles tainted his skin. Yet, the wisdom in his strangely gleaming eyes was undeniable. Dressed in a robe and cloak, like the true mystics of ancient times, he stopped in front of Sarakin and nodded. A perplexing gesture as if they knew each other. The deep blue of his clothing created a singular color blotch in the entire world around him.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, riling the boy’s confusion further.

“What is this place?” Sarakin inquired. “It looks like the descriptions of Malnara, where souls go to be judged when they die.”

“And would you be ready for judgement, Sarakin Sharkiel?” the man asked, a playful grin upon his lips.

Sarakin responded hastily, “You said I’m not dead yet, and no— the answer would be no,” then he squinted his eyes suspiciously. “You called me Sharkiel, and while I know a very old bloodline by that name, it hardly has anything to do with me. What does it mean? And who, in the name of all creatures that crawl the Everdeep, are you?”

“You don’t know of the hawk and quill,” the man mumbled, ignoring his latter question. “That is most troubling indeed, but perhaps that is why you’re here,” he then said, his face suddenly solemn.

Leering around impatiently, Sarakin was growing frustrated and angry with the riddles that made no sense to him. Clenching his fists tight and breathing deeply, he collected the pieces of his scattering demeanor. It was a technique he had taught himself for the times when his studies with magic got the best of him, addressing a known weakness that could easily turn lethal when dealing with the primal forces of the world.

“You seem to know about me, but I don’t even know your name,” he then said, trying to find a pathway into a conversation that could offer more than bundles of useless words.

The man chuckled, looking around with such fondness that made Sarakin question his sanity once more, but then he spoke in a dreamy, absent-minded voice, “I’m known by many names, and I’m here to present you an offer— a challenge if you will.”

Still lacking any perceivable answers, the boy thought, but nodded after a brief silence.

“I’m listening,” he finally responded, budging for the time being. It was becoming clear that his efforts to retract any useful information were in vain. He could only hold on to the ride and pick up any pieces that fell on the wayside.

“I knew you would come to your senses, young man,” he said with a piercing gaze now solely fixed upon him. Suddenly, there was such fire in his eyes and thunder in his voice that Sarakin felt a tint of fear crawling up his spine. “Stop with your tricks, Sarakin Sharkiel, and become the one who you truly are. Before you die, look for the hawk and quill. Find your past and let it drive you forward. In the rain and darkness, remember what was said and done...”

Feeling dizzy, Sarakin lost his balance and stumbled forward, but the man was no longer there. He fell to the dust, coughing and retching, clinging to the shreds of reality as he began to lose sight. The man’s voice still lingered in his ears.

Throwing his eyes wide open, gasping for air, Sarakin felt the remnants of dust in his lungs. Clearing his throat over and over, the feeling slowly passed. It was still dark, but he knew the sleep was all but gone for the rest of the night. Lying awake, watching the shadows move on the walls as the wind made the trees sway outside, he carefully considered everything he had seen and heard, but most of all— what he had felt.

#

The day began with the same routine it had been repeating for years. A quick wash, followed by a breakfast, then taking the short walk to the library where their studies resumed. Celenth started by praying, then reading, then praying again, insistently reaching for the Immortal Avareth, the Lightbearer, the one deity she so desperately wanted to please. Sarakin continued working on his origamis and other games, appearing unconcerned about his father’s invitation. They were weekly occasions, usually ending badly for him, but the looming pain was not on his mind. Instead, it was the new, peculiar dream that haunted him, and for the first time ever he did not share it with his sister.

The hawk and quill, he kept repeating it like a little prayer of his own.

There was a familiar sound and memory attached to those words, but he could not recognize the source. The answer lingered there on the edge of his consciousness, yet remaining irritatingly elusive.

“Celenth, I want you to bring me a book tonight,” he said quietly, softly even, but the demanding tone was impossible to overlook.

With her concentration broken, she glared at her brother. Angered by the interruption, frustrated with her own shortcomings, she swallowed the sour words that seeped upon her tongue. Her failures were not his brother’s fault. The boy was so talented, so strongly gifted, yet so clueless. There was no doubt in her mind that Sarakin could be the brightest star of the family, outshining Thelron himself, but instead he chose to play tricks only to highlight his childish disdain toward the count’s authority. Such obstinate foolishness, but Celenth could not help admiring his brother’s courage. It was as if every time she blinked, she saw Sarakin from a different angle.

“Which book you’re wanting this time?” she asked, keeping her voice down as well. While the library was empty, there were guards outside, and the sneaky chamberlain often seemed to materialize out of thin air.

“The Chronicle of Age of Wonders,” Sarakin replied, “I know they have a copy here. I’ve seen it before.”

The name meant nothing to Celenth, so she simply nodded as an agreement, returning to her own text. She did, however, wonder why Sarakin wanted to waste more time on a book that had nothing to do with magic, but knowing she would never receive an explicit answer, she kept her thoughts to herself.

A sudden, loud screech startled them both as the door was pushed open. It was Chamberlain Treak, announcing the arrival of noon, which meant the audience with their father was at hand.

“Come with me, children,” he called with his oddly wheezing voice.

Following the chamberlain, they walked down the stairs to the great hall where Count Gilbrent Melgor and his wife, Countess Sharanne, were already sitting at the grand table together with their eldest son.

“My industrious children,” Gilbrent greeted them in a lofty manner, yet a mocking coldness prevailed. “Come forth, enjoy the serving, have a glass of honey mead and share what you have learned this week.” The overly welcoming words sounded like a spider whispering sweetly to a fly. But unlike the fly, Celenth and Sarakin had no choice on the matter. They had to embrace the devious web and hope for a favorable outcome.

Every family meeting started the same way, then quickly escalated into scolding and physical violence if the news did not satisfy the lord of the manor. It all happened while Countess Sharanne did nothing. Sitting there with her face blank as stone, completely uninterested about the suffering of her children, she enjoyed her wine and watched the play as if it was nothing more than a mediocre performance of a court fool.

Celenth sighed anxiously, sitting in between Gilbrent and Sarakin. She absolutely hated these weekly meetings, for nothing good came of them.

The chamberlain joined them a few minutes later, sending the guards and servants away as he entered, for the sensitivity of their topic did not allow possible lurkers in the hall. Lord Gilbrent nodded at him, then turned his gaze at Celenth.

“Tell me of your achievements, daughter,” he urged, casually nibbling his meal.

The pressing fear made her voice tremble as she said, “I’m trying everything I can to make him listen, father, but his ears remain out of reach to my words.” Knowing it was not what her father wished to hear, she hanged her head in shame.

“So, nothing new since last week?” Gilbrent asked to be sure he understood.

Celenth sighed, keeping her eyes on the plate in front of her, for she dared not to look as she softly admitted, “Yes, father. I feel the presence, but I can’t build a connection.”

She saw Gilbrent’s cheek muscles twitching as a visible sign of discontent, and she felt terrible for sending him down this path before he had said a word to her brother.

“Our northern neighbor, House Harrenfel, is rebuilding their fortifications along the southern border of Stonehew Hills. However, I’m sure it’s all for a friendly gesture and common interests while my talented children accomplish nothing,” he spoke with more and more spite dripping from his lips.

“Well then, my lavishly wasteful son, I hope you bring me better news than your sister,” he said, giving a slight nod at Thelron, who grinned wolfishly. The eldest child was often tasked to carry out the punishments, which he gladly fulfilled.

Sarakin, perfectly calm and sincere, took out his origamis and handed them to Gilbrent, who picked one up and looked at it. He was about to say something disparaging at first, but then his face froze. For a moment, it looked like he was going to play with the familiar toy, usually referred to as the chatterbox, flipping the sides of it open with considerably delayed pace, taking long glances at the images Sarakin had drawn inside.

Hawk and quill, hawk and quill— rotating back and forth.

Images nearly forgotten, images this boy should not have known. Based on the dream, he had scribbled the symbols as a finishing touch to his work of the week. It was just another attempt to ridicule the family that gave him nothing. They wanted him a mystic, great and powerful, but only to serve the family like some mindless fool. Sarakin would rather die than become a puppet that bent to their will like a slave. The reward of living another day simply did not offer enough incentive.

He was prepared for a beating. It was, after all, what took place most of the times. But he was not prepared for this. Gilbrent’s eyes were completely locked onto the toy. His entire figure seemed petrified in time and place as he continued to flip the toy. The images, based on random words heard in a dream, meant nothing to Sarakin, but they surely meant something to his father, a detail that left him highly intrigued.

“Where did you learn of these?” he then asked, giving the boy a glance that promised trouble. Even Sharanne’s usually dull face showed signs of concern in the form of a visible frown.

“From a dream,” Sarakin replied truthfully. “Do they hold some meaning to you, father?” he added innocently, knowing he had somehow struck pure gold.

The twitching of his jawline intensified. “No meaning,” he grunted, a little too sharply. Crushing the origami by clenching his fist, Gilbrent emptied his wine glass and sighed quietly. “Dead symbols from the past that hold no value anymore. Is this all you have?”

The question was the same he had heard countless of times before. He knew to expect it, and he knew what it meant for him, but the more Gilbrent disciplined his son the deeper Sarakin’s resentment grew. They were on a long spiral for which Celenth saw only one ending. She could not see the reasons why her brother did this. Worried and scared, for certainly one day father would not tolerate his games anymore.

“I keep waiting and hoping,” Gilbrent uttered, shaking his head as if to point out his own foolishness. “We know you’re one of the gifted, for you manifested your bond with the fifth element when you were just a small child, probably the youngest ever to show such promise, but you’ve grown too stubborn and stupid to shine. Last week you came to me with card tricks. This time you brought toys, and I find myself wondering where does it end? Are you able to accomplish anything truly useful for this family?”

“I only wish to entertain, my father,” Sarakin said, looking straight into Gilbrent’s dangerously gleaming eyes, defiant and dareful.

The lord of the manor filled his glass, almost a warm smile momentarily lighting his otherwise grim demeanor. “I do not host fools, Sarakin. But I have thought of some use for you, and that makes it a good day for all of us!”

An enormous wave of relief surged over Celenth. Perhaps her brother would walk away unharmed for once.

But Sarakin smelled treachery. “What could a fool do for your family, father?” he asked, suddenly feeling like the ice beneath his feet got thinner than ever.

The smile remained as Gilbrent responded, “You will do well helping your sister to find her Immortal Atar, to forge a bond so strong that all our enemies will tremble in their boots.”

A small gesture from Gilbrent gave Thelron a permission to carry out their plan. The blade flashed in the dim daylight before cutting Sarakin’s throat, causing a gush that quickly painted the front of his tunic red, squirting over the silver plate at the pace of his heart.

“No, father!” Celenth cried. “What in Avareth’s name are you doing?”

“You can save him,” Gilbrent explained while Thelron picked his glass from the table to make sure his drink would not get blood in it. “Pray for your deity and heal him! Otherwise your brother will die a useless death, wasting his blood as he has wasted his entire life.”

“I can’t...” she sobbed. “Avareth won’t listen to me...” But even while wailing, Celenth rushed to his brother, trying to suppress the massive bleeding with her hand, but it was as efficient as trying to dam a river with pebbles. Sarakin’s gurgling breath was quickly weakening as his head began to fall toward the table.

“Pray!” Gilbrent insisted ruthlessly. “Pray, child, or he will die!”

In her furiously stirring head, every sound became muffled with her desperate attempt to focus. She searched, begged, demanded and screamed for attention from any Immortal possibly listening, but beyond the turmoil that was her own chaotic mind, everything remained terribly silent.

Avareth! Dear Avareth, hear my call! she pled, watching as life escaped from Sarakin’s pale face. Avareth, Anduniel, Mariel, please, hear your servant calling!

In her distress, she vaguely remembered the books she had been reading in the privacy of her chamber. It gave her one last lifeline to pull. Grabbing the same knife that Thelron had used for his grim deed, she placed her hand on the table and forced the blade through her palm. The pain released a cry from her lips as she silently repeated, Avareth, Anduniel, Mariel, Immortals of All! Please, hear your child calling!

Her own blood joined her brother’s, and suddenly the chaos in her mind eased. A comfortable peace caught her like wind whirls a feather up before touching the muddy ground. An extensive understanding flooded her as she felt a greater power within her body, but it was not Avareth’s light that shone upon her. In her gratitude, she was unable to question it, for her brother required immediate help. The sensation, smooth as silk, dark as night, unforgiving like fog, gnawed at her soul like a starving anthill, but she stood tall, embracing the power that was granted, for she was given no choice.

The gasps of wonder, the clatter of the furniture falling over, the sounds of mortals witnessing a miracle announced her success. Too scared, too tired, Celenth paid no attention to her surroundings, for the darkness that had touched her caused a riptide of emotions that were tearing her apart.

#

The same old dream returned to haunt him once again. The burning manor house, the cries of trapped people behind barred doors dying and two swaddles being carried away by figures he could not recognize— but something had changed. He was not alone anymore. The ageless man was there, wrapped tightly in his cloak of midnight blue, sharing the tragedy as it unveiled before them.

“Remember what I told you, Sarakin Sharkiel, it is time for you to go now,” he said quietly as they watched the carriage driving away.

There’s that name again, he thought as the pain flashed through him cold and merciless like an icicle and breathing turned into a struggle.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in a familiar chamber. He gasped for air, and the pain receded. Remembering the feeling of a steel blade sliding across his throat and the warmth of his own blood, he raised his hand to touch it, but a linen scarf was coiled around his neck to protect what should have been a lethal wound.

Sarakin guessed what had happened before he saw Celenth appearing in the doorway.

“Here’s the book you requested, my dear brother,” she said, placing the thick tome on his nightstand. Sarakin saw her enfolded hand, and it only verified his guess. He was alive because his sister had performed a blood sacrifice, and an Immortal Atar had answered her prayer. She was a hallow now.

#

During the next few weeks Sarakin somewhat recovered, but his voice never fully returned. What happened was a tragedy, but it forced his eyes wide open. The time for tricks and games had come to an end.

While resting in his chamber, free from his responsibility to attend the library studies for the time being, Sarakin fully immersed himself into the Grimoire of Drua Cardoval. Unsure whether he could still cast spells with his damaged throat that now produced a heavily rasped, slightly hissing voice that lacked the former strength, he was both eager and terrified to put it to a test.

The other book, the Chronicles of Age of Wonders, offered one important piece of information that verified his suspicions to be true. In a chapter that addressed Gallath Sharkiel’s achievements as the Archmystic of Esselon, Gallath’s family emblem was illustrated in great detail on one of the faded pages— a hawk in flight, carrying a feathered quill in its talons.

As soon as Sarakin was well enough to get out of bed, he faced the fear he had helplessly nurtured in his mind. For his great relief and joy, the magic answered his call as it had done for years. Even his ruined voice could not break that bond. What had been kept as a secret would be now unleashed. It was time, as the ageless man had said, to become who he truly was.

Using a spell of illusion, Sarakin assumed the appearance of Chamberlain Treak. It was one of the advanced achievements only a few had been able to accomplish at such young age. Properly disguised, he appeared before Lord Gilbrent, who was spending his late evening going through some estate ledgers in a dimly lit lounge near the great hall.

“My lord,” he said, masterfully channeling the spell to mimic Chamberlain Treak’s squeaky voice. “Do we have concerns over young Sarakin’s apparent discovery?”

“The hawk and quill?” Gilbrent sneered, lifting his face from the papers for a short while. “A nearly forgotten insignia of a dead house. I destroyed that house completely, Master Treak. I personally drove my sword through both Arden and Lorinel. I watched as death claimed their wretched souls. But even if he somehow knows, it doesn’t matter. It is by my mercy that they are now alive and on the brink of adulthood, and at least Celenth is going to pay me back her upkeep tenfold by helping me to secure our lands. If Sarakin becomes too much of a problem, well— I gave him life, and I can just as easily take it away.”

Chamberlain Treak bowed, saying, “I trust in your word, my lord. Good night and may the morning find you in good health.”

“Whether in good health or not, it will find me, chamberlain,” Gilbrent said absent-mindedly, returning to the papers with somewhat mild interest.

After leaving Count Gilbrent to his work, Sarakin fetched some regional records from the forbidden part of the library— a place where him and Celenth had been instructed not to fumble. In those records, he verified the fate of House Sharkiel that once resided on the eastern shore of Lake Windmere, a land that was now firmly part of the Melgor estate. House Sharkiel, at the moment of its fall, was ruled by Count Arden and Lorinel Sharkiel. Seeing the names in the official records caused shivers running down his spine. The ageless man had called him Sarakin Sharkiel, a name that officially no longer existed, yet it now meant everything to him.

Disbelief and growing rage formed a dangerously unhealthy blend that broke his focus and prematurely dissolved the spell. The pain of backlash struck him like a hammer, sending him on the floor, holding his severely aching head.

“I’ve been such a fool,” he scolded himself, rubbing his temples to ease the sudden pain, so strong that it momentarily turned the dim candlelight into thousand suns.

#

Considering whether he should tell about his findings to Celenth or not, Sarakin finally decided against the idea. It would only cause talking and arguing that essentially led nowhere. Sitting by himself in the library, carving what seemed to be random, meaningless patterns on two large gemstones that were deemed worthless by the local goldsmith due to their impurities. These gems were usually cut into smaller pieces and used as decoration in chandeliers and multitude of glass items, but Sarakin found their flawed beauty compelling. He wanted to use them for something greater than ostentatious decor.

Celenth was not present this time. Certainly she was being rewarded for her progress somehow. Whatever it was, Sarakin did not want to waste focus on her right now. Time passed fast enough as it was.

Using his brimidian-tipped quill, a traditional tool that the mystics of old had wielded while carving their spells, Sarakin worked through the morning hours in silence, until the loudly creaking hinges notified him of someone entering the room.

“My lord, Sarakin,” Chamberlain Treak greeted him formally. “I’ve come on behalf of your father.”

Sarakin laid his work on the table and looked up. “Yes, Chamberlain Treak,” he croaked, struggling to speak with his damaged throat after staying quiet the entire morning. “What does the man, who feels himself too important to step into this dusty library, has to say?”

Treak ignored the insult, as well as the rather remarkable work Sarakin had been carving on the gemstones, for he had no understanding of such things. It was not in his duties to address the matters of noble family members. Instead, he simply delivered the message. “My lord, Count Gilbrent has decided that your time as a student has come to an end. You are to relinquish your quill and books to me by tomorrow morning and report to Master Milthar at the manor stables. You are to become his new apprentice.”

“I see,” Sarakin said softly. “Where will I find you come tomorrow?” he then asked, openly mocking the chamberlain’s formal way to speak.

“I’ll be in my chamber, my lord,” Treak responded, ignoring the young man’s subtle retort.

Sarakin grinned coldly. “Next to the library? Perfect. I’ll be there. You better run to see if there’s any crumbs to catch from my father’s table now.”

“Yes, my lord,” Treak said rigidly and prepared to leave.

“Chamberlain Treak,” Sarakin called as an afterthought, freezing him in place, waiting what he had to say out of responsibility more than anything else. “There comes a day when all debts must be paid.”

Without responding, Treak nodded and left, clearly not understanding what was said.

Vengeance, my friend, Sarakin muttered to himself, returning to his work. Sweeter than the berry wine father likes so much.

#

“Where is that boy they promised?” Stablemaster Milthar grunted, shoveling fresh hay for the horses. One of his aides had broken a leg recently, leaving the stables short-handed. Lord Chamberlain’s word promising a new apprentice could not have arrived at a better time, although now it seemed as if it had been nothing but useless drivel.

But just when he was ready to send chamberlain’s soul to the Underworld, he saw a familiar figure approaching, giving him momentary delight.

“My lord,” he greeted. “I could use that boy here today. I’m a bit short of hands here and the dung needs to be cleaned away.”

The chamberlain sneered at him, “The boy is sick, I’m afraid. He won’t be attending for a few days still. Fetch my horse, I have urgent business in Crisval, Master Milthar.”

“How am I supposed to get all the work done around here?” he groaned, but his complaint did not prevent him from swiftly fulfilling the order.

Sarakin could not resist ruining the stablemaster’s day a little further. “You’re doing a good job, Master Milthar. I will make sure that Lord Gilbrent heeds your well-grounded complaint,” he blurted while throwing his bag over the saddle, then hastefully speeding toward the village of Crisval, silently rejoicing seeing the stablemaster’s paling impression. Nobody around the estate wanted their problems presented to the count, for the outcome rarely played in their favor.

Cursing his own stupidity, Milthar returned to work, wishing the chamberlain would forget his promise amid the hustle of the day.

In the meantime, Chamberlain Treak was cursing in his office, trying to figure out why the door refused to open. Oblivious to the hidden glyphs carved around the frame, protected by magical concealment, he kept rattling the lock, occasionally banging and kicking the door as his frustration reached new heights. Isolated near the library that was rarely visited, no one could hear the racket he caused.

Crisval was located approximately two miles away from Melgor Manor. As one of the busiest places around Lake Windmere and a part of the greater shire, it was an excellent source of income for Count Melgor, but it also held the key to his demise. In the center of the village stood a small regional office of the crown, and the commander stationed there answered to King Praed, not the local nobles. Primarily there to oversee, and enforce if required, the interests of the king, the office acted as the highest authority for the entire Lake Windmere area. Their main task, however, was to find and confiscate any forbidden materials related to Awen, the language of magic, for no one wanted the Dark Cardinals to arrive with death in their wake. The kingdom of Valdor was still somewhat independent, but it was a known fact that King Praed was very much in the pocket of Emperor Darchian, the dreaded ruler of Angarath.

When Sarakin rode into the village, upholding the illusion of Chamberlain Treak, he had a fine selection of tomes in his saddle-bags, including the famous Grimoire of Drua Cardoval, which he had carefully copied word for word. Originally, he had wanted the copy, so that he could return the actual grimoire back to the library, but given the new circumstances, he decided to tastefully add an emblem of House Melgor to the first page and hand it over to the authorities, keeping the original to himself.

Commander Belton Falgast leered back and forth between the books and the chamberlain, who he recognized as the highly renowned authority figure of House Melgor. His clammy forehead broke into small pearls of sweat as his level of distress shot to new heights, for the amount of illegal books this man had just laid on the table was more than he had ever seen in his life.

“I bring these to you, for I can no longer bear this terrible secret,” Sarakin said with a deep sigh, putting up a relieved impression.

Tampering the covers with his nervously twitching hands as if fearing that the books might suddenly come alive and devour him, the commander seemed rightfully shocked. “I— I will have to inform the officers in Sannath. A find of this magnitude will likely reach the ears of the king himself,” he finally said. “I thank you, Chamberlain Treak, for your utmost honesty and loyalty. We don’t want them Dusklings appearing on our shores, so I will promise you that the wrath of the king shall be delivered with haste.”

“Thank you, Commander Belton, I’m glad having this burden lifted from my shoulders,” Sarakin replied. “May House Melgor burn in the purifying flames of King Praed!”

Belton nodded solemnly, then, as an afterthought, he spoke. “As a small favor for doing this, I suggest that you leave the manor within the next two weeks. I will dispatch a courier today, delivering the news and this evidence to Sannath. The barracks there house nearly five hundred men, and I’m sure they’re coming this way as soon as they receive my message. Commander Averion Berand is known to be a man of swift action.”

Sarakin placed a hand upon his chest as an ages old salutation among the loyal servants of the crown, nodding firmly. “Thank you again, commander. I will sleep better knowing that this matter is handled with the required urgency.”

#

Still fatigued from upholding his disguise for a very long time, Sarakin was sitting on his bed when Celenth returned from the chapel. He knew it would come to this, and because he could not be sure how his sister would take the news of everything that had happened, Sarakin was prepared to soften the blow.

Handing the beautifully polished wooden staff with a dimly shimmering, amber-colored gem mounted on top to his sister, he urged, “Take this and sit down.”

Celenth’s eyes lit up as she accepted the gift, admiring his brother’s exquisite handwork. The glyphs carved on the gemstone resembled a complicated spider’s web, trickling down from the top in intricate patterns.

“I call it the Light of Sharkiel,” Sarakin said quietly. “I will teach you how to use the spell carved on the gem, but before I do that, I want you to listen very carefully.”

Revealing everything he had learned of House Melgor and how he had discovered the secret of their real parents, he moved on to explain what he had decided and done about it and what would happen next. Sarakin left nothing out. There simply was no more room for secrecy. Celenth had to be aware and understand what it meant when the bells would sound the alarm of an approaching army.

The impression on Celenth’s face turned from focused to surprised to terrified. She was visibly trembling while listening to how Sarakin had used his magic and singlehandedly sentenced the entire house to death.

When he was finished, Celenth stared at her brother with tears in her eyes and whispered, “How could you?”

Sarakin showed no emotion as he said, “All debts must be repaid, my dear sister. That time has finally come for Gilbrent Melgor and his house of lies. I have reserved a room from the Two Moons Inn, located right outside of Crisval, where merchants like to stop on their way between Sannath and Falchrin. There we can plan what to do next. When the time comes, I will prepare the horses since I’m assigned to serve at the stables anyway. You see, that was to be my future in this house, to crawl in filth while the true rats nibbled their desserts in their halls of silver and gold.”

Celenth could not speak— so torn she was, wanting to slap her brother in anger, and yet the love and pity in her wished to embrace him. She could not accept what he had done, and yet she understood the reasons. Unable to address her own feelings in the moment, she stood and silently retreated to her room.

Sarakin remained on his bed, touching the smooth surface of the other staff he had finished simultaneously. He was a mystic now, as much as Celenth was a hallow, but he wanted more— so much more. Ignoring the first signs of addiction that had ruined so many lives before him, Sarakin sighed contently, admiring his own work. This one had dark blue opal as a gem with very different kind of patterns running on the sides, but otherwise it was identical to Celenth’s staff.

“The Dark of Sharkiel,” Sarakin snarled to himself. “A child’s hassle, but it’s the beginning of something greater.”

Soon he would have to talk with Celenth again. He could not go on with an unchecked card so close, but that was a task for another day.

#

A pillar of thick smoke climbed up from behind the trees, a sign that House Melgor was no more. In their cozy, little room, Sarakin listened to the heated chatter coming from outside as the other guests and staff watched and discussed the fate of the burning manor. His sister was sleeping, exhausted after the stressful day. As soon as the manor guards had announced the arrival of the royal military, Sarakin and Celenth had rushed out to the horses, saddled and ready at a lonely gate on the western side of the estate.

Their relationship had grown cold after Sarakin’s grand ploy, but he was confident that she would eventually come around. It would take time for her to make heads and tails out of it all, to understand how much he had done just to keep her safe and sound throughout the years. All the pain Sarakin had suffered was pain that Celenth never felt.

Unlike Sarakin assumed, Celenth was struggling with sleep. She listened to the same sounds outside, but while her brother’s deeds disturbed her, the touch of darkness she had felt during the prayer overshadowed everything else. Feeling vulnerable and timid, she was not sure what the future as a hallow would mean for her.

After all that had happened, her brother’s decision made sense, but it was too overwhelming, too difficult to accept just yet. First, she would have to untangle the knots of her own mind. Not a single prayer could escape her lips before she knew exactly with what she had aligned herself. As for now, she had no clue how to achieve this.

Haunted by her thoughts, growing darker and darker, Celenth heard the distant sounds of slaughter. And even though the weariness eventually overcame her fears, her dreams remained grim and restless.

Tired as well, Sarakin could not resist sleep for long. Unsure of what to expect since his recurring dream was now without meaning, he fell deeper, until he found himself back in the colorless desert.

He instantly felt the familiar presence.

“You have finally learned of yourself,” the ageless man in his deep blue garments said, appearing out of nowhere with a slight grin twisting his lips. “What does a mystic search from this place?”

“Knowledge of Immortal Sardius,” Sarakin answered plainly, also smiling, for he had solved not one mystery but two. “‘I keep searching for the wisdom of Sardius on the wings of midnight blue, holding the quill of knowledge in my talons, until my master’s riddles reveal the truth.’Those are the words of Gallath Sharkiel. He knew you, old man,” he added, reveling in his victory.

The old man chuckled quietly. “You’ve learned of yourself, but I see there’s still much to do. Keep coming back, young Sharkiel, for I do find your childish chatter rather amusing.”

Sarakin flushed in anger, the intoxicating rush of success quickly slipping away by the power of a single insult, but he held his lips tight. Hungering for the knowledge that an Immortal possessed, he hated the way Sardius kept weaving puzzles after puzzles like...

“Like I often do to others....” he whispered, his voice fading out.

Suddenly, the last part of Gallath’s little rhyme made sense. Everything Sardius said, no matter how ridiculous it sounded at the moment, carried a seed of truth that required deeper insight to decipher.

“Will you teach me?” Sarakin then asked, brushing his embarrassment aside.

Smacking his lips, Sardius sat down on a rock and began to fill his pipe, which somehow just appeared in his hands. “Where are you going from here?” he then asked, and suddenly his playful grin was gone, but his hands never ceased working.

Biting his lip to swallow the upset for another dodged question, Sarakin replied, “I will head south to see what is left of House Sharkiel. I’m hoping to find books— grimoires.”

“And then what?” Sardius presented his question, catching Sarakin off guard.

“I—” he hesitated. “I don’t know yet, but I’m sure there’s a lot of knowledge to be claimed and preserved— to be learned,” he then said, but failing to impress the ageless man.

“You don’t have a clue,” Sardius said, that irritating grin returning. “Follow the traces of your own blood, search for the unseen, wander beyond the obvious and you may find what you’re looking for.” Puffing a large cloud of smoke from his pipe, the shrouded figure then made his quiet departure.

A whirl of smoke lingered in the air where the Immortal had been sitting, tenaciously rebelling against the impending oblivion. A wistful smirk twisted Sarakin’s lips as he gazed at the gray horizon.

“More riddles,” he muttered to himself. “It doesn’t matter. I will find the keys to unlock these secrets— all the secrets. And when I’m finished, the aether will hear my command with the obedience of a slave.”