The Dream Walker

Chapter Five Tainted-1

Chapter Five

TaintedTalaria was not even a myth, it was a forgotten legend spanning back to the early cycles of the world. It was home to a race known as the Moirai, beings which invoked feelings of love and serenity in all they encountered. The energies that resulted from these powerful feelings fuelled and strengthened their magic. It was the manner in which they stored this power that saw their image remained embedded through time as bringers of peace and love.

Moirai, like Daimons, did not channel magic through themselves to manipulate the forces, instead they stored and utilised it. Daimons stored their magic internally and worked to suppress it. The Moirai, however, gathered the energies through the unique bone appendages upon their back, converting it into a visible form where it took the appearance of white plumes, which in turn created brilliant wings. The energies harnessed saw all Moirai possessed wings of white, although the shades often varied from brilliantly pure to dirty-greys. It was thought, the purer the white the stronger the magic.

Talaria itself had been long lost to those of Gaea's star. Fearing for the safety of their race the Moirai had raised their lands into the heavens, and when their magic began to fade they tethered it to the world below by several imperceivable anchors. As time moved forward the powers sustaining these anchors began to falter, but a solution was placed within their grasp. By capturing and fracturing the essence of one of the seven Great Spirits they were once more able to harness the energies they craved from the land below, thus ensuring their own longevity. In addition, they utilised the Spirit Elemental's powers to bind the land and protect them from sight and detection. Once this had been achieved, they slowly ensured all who could connect with the power of this Great Spirit met with misfortune before being able to pass the skills along to another Elementalist. It had taken several cycles to ensure the Spirit's cries for aid would remain unheard, but they had achieved it.

The main landmass was comprised of a large, crystalline tower, its structure more impressive than any of the thousand foot high sentry islands which stood guard around it, tethered by ice and crystal walkways. This central edifice was known as The Tower of the Prophets. It was an immense structure surrounded by several smaller duplicates in which the more prestigious noble houses resided. Those of power, such as the Seraphim, lived within the outer-spires of the great tower, but the central spire—which had once towered into the clouds when their home had been upon Gaea—was rumoured to be a paradise reserved solely for prophets and sages. Only those with access knew the warped truth.

The interiors were a honeycomb of chambers and corridors that burrowed through the solid structures to present magnificent and grand spaces. Each corridor stood a uniform twenty metres across. The only variation in design was the carvings upon the smooth surfaces which identified the passage by art and symbols. The several corridors which led inward towards the chamber of the Seraphim were engraved with daunting figures, and powerful wardings and protections.

The normally still corridors hummed with life as Moirai gathered in crowds outside the sealed walls of the chamber. Their panicked tones each holding the same concern, questioning if the whispers regarding the latest prophecy were true. Never before had rumours reached their ears at such urgency, but never before had the fate of their race hung on the truth of these words.

Moments prior to this gathering one of the Virtues had careened from The Tower of the Prophets, his pallor almost matching the pure white shade of his luscious wings. Something of this magnitude had not occurred for time immemorial. Somewhere, a powerful diviner had been born, one whose words could destroy the predictions of any who had come before them. This one person possessed a power unseen for generations, and their first real prediction had been of Talaria's downfall.

The Seraphim council listened with horror. Through time they had acted as secret butchers, steering the course of the world's future to the one they deemed suitable. They had hunted people, purged bloodlines, razed towns, all in the name of creating the best possible world. This person, whoever it was, could destroy all they had achieved.

“Talaria will fall,” the Virtue gasped, repeating the prophecy once more. “What should we do, what can we do? It is a bound prophecy. There's no hope of a divergence, no means to prevent it.” The voice was panicked, bordering on hysterical.

“Who made this prediction?” The oldest of the Seraphim stood and lifted one of the many blood-crystal tears from the Virtue's hand. He studied the prophecy contained within. “This is a second-hand repetition. Who gave the original?” he demanded, placing the droplet on the round table for all to see. The Virtue scattered the remaining along with it. Each prophet had declared the same thing in unison.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you, we don't know.”

The Moirai had gone to great lengths to ensure the prophets, both earthbound and Moirai, were under their control. Prophecy often came with the curse of the Maniae and they had constructed an elaborate ruse to draw all those gifted to one location, herding them like cattle with the promise of protection from the torment. When the gathering was complete, they had taken them all, bringing them into Talaria, while monitoring those with limited sight such as Seers and Soothsayers allowing them to remain on Gaea's Star.

It was true the Daimon kingdom of Kólasi had rejoined the mortal plane, but the Moirai had no cause to be concerned about their prophets, for a different force guided them. They heard whispers from the earth mother, who granted some insight into events her future-self could see, however, as they had once touched upon all realms their gifts had developed to see into the futures of all the multi-verse. The power witnessed here was not one the Daimons could harness.

* * *

Daniel watched as Seiken cradled Zo's limp body in his arms. He followed the path of the drying blood, bringing his attention to the small movements of her mouth. Daniel strained to hear the words, leaning closer until her voice found strength.

“Phobetor,” she coughed before pain enveloped her, sending her body into sharp spasms. She gulped for air, thrashing and writhing until powerful words streamed from her. “Phobetor, The Dream Walker, will claim the Maidens and seek the power of those who would oppose him.” Zo took a choking gasp of air. Her arms briefly flailed as she tried to free herself from an imaginary grip. Grounding herself, she looked to Seiken in dismay, but her eyes were empty. “She shouldn't have spoken his name aloud.” The voice which left her was her own, yet with undertones of another. As her control was returned she filled with panic as her consciousness slipped away.

“What did she mean?” Daniel questioned, quickly scribing her words, his focus flitting between his task and his friends.

“I don't know, but it is best we speak of this to no one. Repeat nothing of what she has entrusted to you. I will seek Rowmeow's council on the matter.” Seiken glanced towards the candles upon the table, willing the flame from existence as he lowered Zo to the floor before rising. “Thank you for your assistance. We should have no cause to call on you again for this matter,” he stated rather formally but, despite this front, Daniel heard the agony etched into the prince's voice.

“Will the visions become easier?” Daniel questioned, fearing he already knew the answer. There was a noticeable difference each time she had spoken. At the fire in Kalia she had shown no signs of distress; this time had seemed torturous.

“No. At this time she is granted the luxury of lapsing into unconsciousness, but such is not a state befitting a prophet. They must retain a connection to the plane where predictions are granted, and to do that, to give full verse, they must suffer.” He lifted her into his arms, summoning an orb of light to guide his path as he exited the study.

“Is there nothing we can do, no means to inhibit this?” Daniel asked, following closely on Seiken's heels.

“You're the Wita, you tell me,” Seiken challenged harshly, failing to bite back his emotions.

“Both times she has been near a flame…so we limit her exposure to the stimulus.” Seiken nodded, confirming he had already considered this. “But…”

“But there's no means to prevent it. Our people, before the trait was extinguished, sought many methods to alleviate the burden. Our resources are endless, and we found no solution, save one.” There was a long and solemn silence as they walked the deserted halls. Seiken wondered if the hour had really grown so late, or if rumours of his wife's ability had already spread and his subjects simply retreated from his sight.

“She spoke of the Maidens, do you know of them?” His question earned him a scowl.

“I thought I was clear when I instructed you to repeat nothing of what was spoken,” he growled. “But no, to answer your question, I know nothing of them. I had believed them unborn until you spoke of Xantara.” Seiken knew much of the old ways. He possessed a kindred relationship with beings from other planes. He knew the Spirits would, on rare occasions, take a Maiden as their own, an essence reborn time again as their warrior and servant. However, he also knew none had been born for a time beyond measure. To learn of one being claimed had been surprising, when their very existence appeared to have been extinguished.

* * *

Seiken parted ways with Daniel near Rowmeow's private quarters and bid him farewell. After stepping inside he scanned the surroundings quickly. The room was in almost complete darkness, with a small candle lighting an area near a large assortment of pillows and blankets. He willed the flame from existence, mentally casting his small glowing orb of light towards the centre of the room. He couldn't risk returning to their own dwellings. This was the quietest area he could find, and Rowmeow would be elsewhere attending to matters of importance.

Slowly he placed his wife down upon the assortment of soft, and multi-textured materials, startling when a small figure dashed from the folds with sounds of frustration.

“What in the name of—Seiken?” the black and white cat hissed, calming slightly to see who had disturbed him in such a careless manner.

“Sorry, Row. I thought you'd be elsewhere.”

“So this is what you get up to when my back is turned?” The cat climbed upon the mound, sniffing the sleeping figure before rubbing his head against her cool arm. “I take it the time with the Wita served its purpose.”

“I'm sorry, Row, I couldn't take her back to our room like this, not with Alana…”

“I understand. How are you faring?” Seiken covered his wife, stroking her face tenderly before moving to sit at the table, cradling his head in his hands.

“I feel useless. I almost dread to ask, but how many did the others give before they…” He pushed his hands through his hair with a sigh.

“No less than five, no more than ten.” Rowmeow jumped upon the table's surface to brush himself against Seiken's arm comfortingly. “What insight have you gained? For things to happen as they have we must believe there is a cause, a purpose.”

“She spoke a name she shouldn't have. She was terrified, so much so I dare not speak it aloud in fear it may invoke some terrible evil.”

“Wise indeed. I will ask her when she wakes. Better to have her speak it again than it pass through another's lips.” Names had power, none more so than those belonging to great beings, and to use true names without caution could prove disastrous. That Zoella feared she should not have spoken it told Rowmeow two very important things, first, that speaking the name gave it power, and second, that when she awoke her mere presence could sow danger.