The Blind Valiant

A SLANDEROUS TONGUE.

 The saccrat was the only hall large enough to contain the entire number of people residing in the Reliquary for meal times.

The walls were of fresh fez plasters, geodesic tiles smudged from regular barefooted apprentices and potentates; mosaic carpets that adorned the great radius of the round room.

 It was the closest to training rooms which served a great advantage after all the hours of lessons they would all gratify their aching hunger easily.

 When Sharur walked into the spacious hall, it was an uproar of discussions and motions which wasn't new to him.

Elyse growled at Florian who seemed to have not apologized for her broken crossbow. Jony sat with her little sister on her laps, the toddler spat out what she had drank from her sister's cup, causing Lilly to laugh.

“Morning,” Sharur greeted as he grazed his upper body into a greeting bow to his uncle and moved to find where to sit amongst his cousins.

The long table that split the room was just a formality or more or less to display the array of food which Mesda made for them.

 Though the Potentates sat at it, they didn't make the apprentices to, there were divans which they used to their liking.

But with Lady Severa prowling through the corridors of the Reliquary, they all knew to abandon such freedom and take to the table.

His mother loved to force them back to civility and etiquette.

 The Marrąkan apprentices- sharing the same benefactor in the Mortimer family, were a widespread of hair colors and clothes to which Sharur had always thought spoke to each of their personalities.

Though most of them had been taken off the streets as orphans- selected for their exceptional Right Palm gifts- Florian was the one of two the Mortimer relatives accepted into their midst because of his sudden closeness to Elyse.

 Sharur spied where Ruscha had gotten into the argument with his sister and her newest receiver of her mercurial affections, the latter none too pleased at her chosen side.

 Defeated in his quarrel, Florian was devouring everything in his path as Genoa gave him a reprimanding look for spraying crumbs over her.

They were a collection of sameness, no one could mistake them for anything but Mortimers; ebony hair, fair to olive toned skin and green eyes. Except for Melek of course.

 But of the lot of them, it was Sharur who looked so much like the legendary ancestors of their family.

Sometimes he would catch the other apprentices and Potentates staring absently and in awe of him ever since he had completed his grimoire at such a young age.

 He was the prodigy. The Mortimers have always been a lineage thick with sorcery; all the way down from Lavinia Mortimer who started their dynasty of powerful sorcerers and ambitious politicians.

 But Sharur was special. At first when his mother had said that, he only thought it to be just the maternal instinct to see the best in her child.

 But Severa Mortimer was not much of a maternal woman. And she never said such things about Genoa or Elyse.

 And he started to believe it when his manæ manifested so early. His tutors had seen when at the age of twelve he could outmatch older, more experienced practitioners with his intuitive understanding of manæ and easily manipulate it in marveling ways.

 It was a very uncomfortable feeling; of being expected to be more, to do more than what was required of him. The worst came from his domineering mother.

 It had been pressure after pressure to be the best; an unspoken rivalry between him, his cousins and Melek for the title of Madrigal that would come after his uncle’s tenure.

 And sometimes he thought that was why he never got along well with his sisters or anyone but Kyrillos.

 His cousin was born without a shred of power and so had no cause to envy Sharur for the more than surplus amount he possessed.

Which is why I do no give a damn about what they’re saying about him. I have to figure out how to help him.

“Fenugreek is always better.” Florian argued with Elyse as he dipped his biscuit into the bowl of delicious sauce regardless of anyone else using the spread.

“I never said it wasn’t but it would do if you wouldn’t ruin it for everyone else.”

His little sister, it seemed had finally kept the boy’s attention for longer than a week since the gala, wrinkled her nose at the crumbs Florian left in the bowl.

Sharur walked up to Ruscha, blue pearls studded down raven dark hair, her fingers twirling a strand absently as she read a pamphlet.

 “I saved you some mutton. Genoa couldn’t keep her fingers to herself today.”

Sharur sighed loudly in relief and joy as he pulled the plate of the steaming food and sat by her side.

“How were the patrols?” He asked looking at her as he ate rather hungrily.

She shrugged, taking a pause from reading to look up at him with brown eyes. “It’s been quiet in the city though a few complaints here and minor riots about the curfew there. But nothing a few words cannot handle.”

 He wondered not for the first time since the raids, why he hadn’t confided in Ruscha about what he suspected his mother and the Madrigal were up to about his cousin. Ruscha was a levelheaded sleuth and would be an invaluable help to him.

Would she think me insane as everyone would? The idea was too farfetched.

Maybe once he got enough clues and evidence then his suspicions would be strong enough to need her.

“Hmm, I hope it isn’t what I’m eating. I can’t have to spend the next eight hours with an upset stomach.” Sharur could only comment as he ate greedily.

“Where were you, I came looking for you this morning? For our usual sparring before dawn. But you weren’t in your room.” Ruscha pinned a look at him.

 Please let her not have seen the books!

From the periphery of his eyes, Sharur caught Melek’s attention at the question of his whereabouts, which he was beginning to think had become his young uncle’s obsession since news of what had happened at Montparnasse had been divulged to family members.

But Sharur couldn’t come up with an instant and appropriate lie so he deflected.

“Where’s Louscha, shouldn’t you be by her side?” he vaguely remembered his uncle eliciting Ruscha’s services in guarding the princess just in case of another attack.

“She went to help Old Vie down.” He knew she wasn’t so easily deceived but Ruscha answered either way.

 Sharur took the goblet of wine to down the forkfuls of food he had shoveling down before he commented. “Funny how she’s so used to her when they’d never met until a week ago.”

And on cue, Sharur glanced up to find Louscha guiding an aged wizened woman in flowing gown with a multicolored scarf imprisoning a head of grey white hair, into the hall.

The woman, Old Vie was Lord Manfri’s, Lady Severa’s and Melek’s aged grandmother.

 His great grandmother. Old Vie they called her mostly out of habit because it was rumored that her real name had been stolen by a vengeful Fell, decades ago.

 How anyone could steal a name from the minds of hundreds of people, had seemed impossible to him. But his mother had always used Old Vie as a cautionary tale to him and his sisters.

 But after all mayhem Sharur had seen the Left Palm could wreck at the gala and Montparnasse, he now looked at the demented old woman with new sympathetic eyes.

Old Vie had been captured by the Kinship for several years before her rescue by her grandchildren twenty years ago.

 She had never been of enough lucid mind to give account of what she had seen or endured in captivity.

 And a thought flitted into his sporadic and arguably genius mind of his.

I need to talk to Old Vie. She might know a few things about the Kinship with all those years she spent with them, though she doesn't remember.

Everyone in the saccrat was hushed into graveyard silence as the aged woman staggered towards the seat Louscha guided her into.

 The princess seemed to be the only one whom Old Vie was pliable to otherwise she’d have already gone into hysteric fits of despair and violent anger.

Perhaps because Louscha isn’t someone who could tip her fragile composure into insanity.

“Where are Icaria and Raymar? They never miss breakfast.” The old woman croaked as she turned her rheumy eyes around the hall.

“They haven’t been around in a while, Mama.” Melek said softly with a patience that he wasn't famous for.

“They always loved hiding to give their mother a scare.” Old Vie continued on as Potentate Alou poured a cup of medicinal tea and pushed it to her.

Louscha walked over and slid into the empty space on Lord Manfri’s left hand and muttered. “That went well.”

Sharur looked away just before Louscha could stray a look his way. He still suspected she had seen the books hidden in his coat.

“It’s sad. She still thinks her children are still alive.” Louscha replied, filled with genuine sympathy.

“The cruelty of the Kinship is imprinted on the soul. It would never be washed away.” Melek said tightly.

They’ve always hated the Fells, had been taught to see them as demons and monsters. But after what he had seen in Old Bazaar and the books from the archives, Sharur couldn’t help the conflict stealing its way into his heart.

The Madrigal sat with his hand holding Louscha’s, Sharur fought not to meet either of their eyes. Which he kept feeling pinned on him.

 Don’t be paranoid. Suddenly all he wanted to do was leave.

“Do you think all of them were cruel and deranged? I mean some of them had to be kind and good, right?” Ruscha c****d up her head from her pamphlet, Melek scoffed distastefully and Elyse laughed like he had made a joke.

“Have you gone back to experimenting with Old Vie’s draughts again, Sharur? You’re saying ridiculous things again.”

He glowered at his little sister’s tone. “What’s really ridiculous is that there are no records dating before the Deluge. That everyone just assumes that every single one of the Infernal race were evil. That what, millions of people just ran about killing and destroying for no reason other than they wanted to?”

Ruscha spoke intelligently as if reading from a book. “They weren’t bloodthirsty at first. Atiku said that their sorcery was just too volatile... too chaotic that it began to affect their state of mind. It isn’t the same for us; we have our grimoires to keep us grounded.”

“And when their Lemegeton was destroyed they had nothing to anchor them, their own power broke them.” Genoa added, putting a cherry into her bow shaped mouth.

“Yes but some of them had to have had some measures of control... of good. Evvoia’s golden ages were under their influence and leadership after all.”

“What’s this, is the groűan trying to say that the Echelon are the villains of the past?” Melek leered forward with a smirk, taunting him with a nickname that had followed Sharur since Genoa started using it.

“Leave him alone, Phantom. He’s just making lunch conversations.” His older sister remarked, with arctic condescension as she ate.

No I’m not. “Don’t fight my battles for me.” Sharur snapped at her, to the surprise of the rest of them who exchanged looks. “And after what you suggested be done to innocent people, Melek, you shouldn’t want to be calling me names.”

Ruscha frowned at the harshness in his voice and reached to take his hand on the table but Sharur shook her off.

“How dare you speak to me, in that manner?” Melek growled, silver eyes blazing with agitated challenge.

Sharur, used to being antagonized and patronized by the supposed Mortimer heir, this time met Melek’s gaze evenly.

  “The only thing you’re better at is lording over everyone just because of who you will be. But since the succession is now open to the rest of us, we can only pray that you’re nowhere close to inheriting shit.”

 There were audible gasps stifling the hall that had grown silent with their challenge of each other. The apprentices couldn’t believe that he had said that to Melek; the Mortimer least in control of his temper.

And it was clear that his young exorbitant uncle would’ve attacked Sharur but for the interference of Genoa who grabbed Melek by the arm, pulling him back to his seat.

“The Madrigal is watching. If you cast anything...”

“Oh forget that. I’ve been waiting for this clash for a while now. Come on Melek, put the insufferable ‘special one’ in his place.” Florian instigated with excitement glinting in his eyes, someone chuckled at his side.

They all waited for Melek’s reaction to Sharur’s words. The latter knowing he could easily overcome whatever spell Melek would throw at him. His uncle was all brute strength; fallible and easily drained.

Not that he cared to duel, as far as the princely braggart of his uncle now had a piece of his mind.

“You’re not helping, Florian.” Elyse snapped at the fair haired boy.

“You will leave.” Melek enunciated through gritted teeth and glowering pale eyes.

“Of course, I’ve lost my appetite anyway.” Sharur rasped back and got to his feet, brushing food crumbs off his clothes.

 How could they all sit there and be such foolish ignoramuses? Act like Kyrillos isn’t in constant danger.

 Something is really going wrong here.

He didn’t stop in his angered march till he was back in his quarters. Slamming the door so hard the frames quaked slightly on its rusty hinges.

                                                ~ ♤ ~

 Kyrillos woke up to the whispering voices buzzing at his ear... no his mind. A discordant cacophony of indecipherable words because they were meshed together in the tumult of his mind.

 He seemed to have been hearing them for some time now and only now rousing from sleep.

 He rose upright from the ground, blinking to the smoky hearth of what remained of their camp fire.

 Anduin was sleeping on the other side, the blanket pulled down from his body and his shirt rumpled from some tossing around. Something red winked at Kyrillos, drawing his gaze onto his crimson luster.

It was the Fell’s medallion which he had never taken off and now which Kyrillos sensed a tremendous wave of manæ pouring from.

 He got up from where he laid and crossed to where Anduin slumbered.

 The medallion was not exactly one; but a chain holding a ruby half the size of a peach with a shine like fire through blood. On a close look, Kyrillos saw that the ruby was an eye.

 A eye that seemed to have been crystallized but the whirring motion of its amber red pupil at its centre proved it was enchanted alive. But that wasn’t what drew Kyrillos’ rapt attention to it.

 The Fell was unconscious; feverish and restless from his wounds and wouldn’t know if he touched it.

 But as soon as Kyrillos hand closed around the gamboge orb, his head was assailed by a force of visions of a young dark skinned man and a fluttering sound of wings echoed behind him.

“You might find it hard to believe,” the voice was unmistakably Kyrillos’. But he could not remember saying them in such a way.

  The face of this man was hooded in shadows and blood; blood dripping down closed eyelids. But deep with him, a familiarity awoke and told Kyrillos that this was him.

“But this is not your real face. I need to make this quick because they’re coming for me... for us. I only have that much time to do this.”

 The man’s palm opened to reveal the bloodied eyeball he was holding. Even with the blood and detached veins, there was a luminosity to the eye which shimmered like a speck of a red sun.

“My... our sphinx eye... it is the only thing left of our real body. We were captured and given a new body... a Noirish body, carved by a diabolical curse they called the Miasma. And if you’re seeing this conveyance spell then it means I failed to escape and the Echelon has succeeded in turning us into an anchor like the rest of our Kindred.”

 “They would not kill us like they did some of our brethren. So they have given you a new name, a new identity and a new set of memories... anything you think you know about your life, it is nothing but fabricated lies made real by the Miasma.”

 There was a pained frenzy to the man’s words but also rage and anger.

“You have to believe me; you’re not a Mortimer neither are you Noirish! The most important thing right is that you find him... find Marchosias. He’s the only one whom you can trust! Find Marchosias... our other half...”

 Kyrillos was suddenly thrown over, as Anduin awoke and grabbed the hand he had over the necklace and pinned him beneath him to the ground.

 He was out of breath, blinking wildly as what remained of the vision seemed to linger in the back of his eyelids.

Find Marchosias…

“What in the name of the Lemegeton are you doing?” Anduin all but growled down at him.

 Kyrillos gasped loudly, “I... I...” he swallowed only now realizing the position he was in with a shirtless and feverish Anduin on top of him. “Let me go.”

 Anduin c****d his head to the side and released him, pushing to his hunches and raking back his hair.

 The glimmering orb swinging at his neck and Kyrillos couldn't take his eyes off it as the eerie light died out.

 Kyrillos pointed at it, blinking hard as imprints of the vision still lingered. “T-That necklace, where did you get it?”

 The Fell looked down at it and back up at Kyrillos’ face with an uncertain frown on his brows. “Why do you want to know?”

Kyrillos sneered at him, not particularly in the mood for verbal battles. “It’s a sphinx eye, isn’t  it... I just saw a vision about... never mind just tell me where you got it.”

 “It’s been in my family for three generations now. It’s the relic I use to channel manæ.”

Because the Lemegeton was gone, Fells could only channel their dark sorceries through relics from the Diluvian era instead of from their bodies or nature like the Noirish did.

 Anduin touched the orb delicately, “I inherited it off my sister’s corpse; it’s the only thing I have left of my family.” And he looked at Kyrillos’ still disoriented face.

 “You said it showed you a vision? What was it?”

Kyrillos rose to his feet, rubbing his eyes with his palms and singing heavily from the thousand and one confusing questions running through his head.

 Why is this happening? I don’t know who I am… everything was a lie.

Severa said I’ve been under a spell placed and held by generations of Mortimers... a Miasma, a curse that can warp memories.

 And now this? Given false memories and identity? For how long?

“Kyrillos,” Anduin called to him as he stepped closer. Is that even my name?

“I think we’ve saved each other enough from near death situations to begin to trust each other.”

 ‘You can’t trust anyone...’ especially not a Fell who until a day ago had you gagged and bound on his horse. Who might have killed you one time already.

He faced Kyrillos, “If the eye showed you something then it’s crucial you tell me.”

 “Why don’t you use your power and invoke the vision yourself? You’re the one who knows more about these things.”

 “No kind of spell can do that. I can only draw manæ from it, it has never shown me any vision... I don’t think it has done that for any of its previous owners.”

 Kyrillos shook his head. This is too much. He started to turn away, to return to where his sleeping bag was but was pulled to a stop.

 “Kyrillos, I can help you understand...”

“No you can’t. For all I know, this is your fault!” he roared at him, pushing him aside.

 Anduin stumbled and gaped at him. “What? I didn’t plan on getting my leg half vaporized to disuse, if that’s what you’re saying.”

 Kyrillos glowered at him. “You killed me. Whatever that dagger was made of did something to me. My family turns out to not be my family, they’re hunting me like a criminal when I have done nothing. And best of all I don’t even trust my memories because they may have been planted- my whole life is an illusion. All this started when you killed me!”

 “But you’re alive... no one could’ve survived that.” Anduin snapped back at him, dark red brows furrowing downward.

“I did.”

“How?” Again with this insane question!?

“Haven’t we been through this same argument, I don’t f*****g know! Up until you killed me I’ve never wielded manæ.” Kyrillos shouted into his face but it rang off into the night. “I don’t know anything and I’m going out of my mind because of it!”

 He reached the tree and started punching its trunk hard, regardless of the aching pain on his knuckles or the blood that cracked from his split skin.

 “Stop that!” Anduin grabbed his hands forcefully, pulling him flush against his protesting body and holding him tight in an effort to calm him down.

And when at last he did, Anduin released him and remarked considerably with concern.

 “We’ll get you answers. There’s a Fell colony after the Goya port; if you’re having trouble with your memories then I know someone who might help with the problem.”

 “I didn’t think rebels helped their hostages like this.”

Anduin scoffed with that roguish grin, “They don’t. But what’s the point in bargaining with a senile violent hostage. I need you at your best self for better price range.”

 Kyrillos rolled his eyes and shoved him away, he hadn’t been expecting it so Anduin fell on back but he was laughing. “I thought you said I was no longer a hostage. Now I’m still up for sale?”

 “The price is rising by the day. There are other people I could sell you off to. I’m sure a few kings and some warlords would love to have some fodder for their enemies.”