The Assembly Read online

  “All right fine, don’t tell me your name, but at least let me try to patch up your wounds.” Her voice was muffled through the door, but she was certain he could understand her.

  The door remained shut fast.

  She sighed with exasperation. “I’m only trying to help,” she complained. At last, though, she surrendered. For now. The young man waited as Aissla walked through the house, crossed over the pile of logs, and then vacated.

  He opened the door and entered, turning to lock it shut behind him in case she opted to sneak in the back. He then closed the front door, locking himself inside. The piles of disturbed wood lay scattered on the floor. Without even a groan of annoyance, he bent to his task of resetting the stacks, one finely cut log after another.

  It took him the rest of the afternoon to restore order to the chaos, and when he was satisfied with his work, he opened the front door and made his way to the Matron’s house.

  Felluria greeted him with a nod as she had come to do as a sign of respect for his own silence. She eyed him carefully, trying to scrutinize him for some sign of his intentions here. But none of her previous inspections had revealed anything to her either.

  “Food and bandages await in your quarters,” she said. “Aissla won’t trouble you again. Mind, she was only trying to be friendly. You should not count that against her.”

  The young man turned and met her gaze for a moment, but he gave no indication of what he was thinking. A moment later he retired to his room, where he slowly ate the meal and then dressed his wounds. Had Aissla been spying on him then, she would have admitted that he seemed experienced at treating his wounds, as if he had done so before.

  Light still filtered into the room, but it had been a busy day and he was very tired. He decided to let his weariness guide him and so he began his routine. Though the Matron’s house was kept immaculately clean, his room had a pile of sand in the corner. He had placed it there his first night, and he replaced it each night since until Felluria realized that he was bringing the sand in himself, and she told her helpers to leave the pile untouched.

  He cupped the particles in his strong hands and spread them across the floor. Into the sand, he drew a large triangle, with the base facing him and the apex pointing away. Over and over again, he traced the shape with his hands, as if doing so would help him to make sense of it. For all its simplicity, the design confused him terribly. He ached when his hands moved over it sometimes. And other times he felt soothed by it. But every night now, he followed this routine until his eyes blurred from exhaustion and his body begged for him to sleep.

  The triangle made no sense to him. But he knew it had meaning. Just, it had failed him. Now it was only a drawing, a pattern. He felt the grit of the sand beneath his fingers, waiting for that moment as his body grew more and more tired. That moment was fast approaching.

  He made a dozen more passes over the sand, tracing the triangle religiously, his eyes heavy-lidded and his breathing becoming labored. His back ached, for he had been sitting this way for hours now. Then it happened, like it had happened every night since… then.

  The sand firmed into bits of broken glass. His hands traveled through the shattered pieces, but instead of being cut by them, the glass bits popped and cracked and crashed into tiny pieces again, as if his fingers were mashing a vase to a fine powder. He passed his hands along the path again until the tinkling of broken glass filled his ears and then eventually faded away to silence.

  And as the silence sated him, his body lost its battle against the weariness and he slumped upon the sand, drifting to sleep at last, lost in darkness.

  Chapter 2

  The Bard’s Prediction

  Randler and Dariak left their friends behind in Marritosh, heading to the western edge of Hathreneir in search of Pyron, who had claimed the healing jade. They had traveled for a few days through the treacherous desert, battling all manner of creature on the way. Dariak made use of his spells, while Randler focused more on his bow. Having two ranged fighters in a team made some fights harder than others, but when the need arose, Randler pulled out his mace or some daggers while Dariak defended him magically.

  “It wasn’t this bad before,” twenty-two-year-old Dariak commented one afternoon.

  “What wasn’t?” asked the bard.

  “The monsters. The mages in the towers kept the beasts at bay so we would only need minor protection. I wonder what happened over the past year for things to have degraded so drastically.”

  Just two years older than the mage, Randler looked at the concern on Dariak’s face and it pained him. “I wish I knew, but I can only guess at it.”

  “Take out your lute and let’s hear it, then.”

  The cinnamon-haired bard chuckled and shook his head. “We’ve been attacked almost hourly every day so far, and you want me to stop and sing? Well, if you insist.” He reached back and withdrew his lute, tuning it with nimble fingers while Dariak set a few defensive spells around them in case they were attacked.

  Days long ago, when this tale unfolds, we hear the fear of the weak.

  They once were strong and their reach was long,

  but now they flash in a streak.

  Fear guides them now like ne’er before, and soon they will all lose heart.

  Once they were strong. Now they all just fall away.

  Their leader has passed. So they do not have a guide.

  Each one is lost. And so they try to hide.

  They don’t belong. Now there’s panic every day.

  Mages united under Delminor, a man whom many esteemed.

  He was wise and brave and kind

  but some just saw him as meek.

  Obeying his king, he worked for war, though the mage only sought peace.

  Once they were strong. But they pushed the mage away.

  Their leader has passed. Because they pushed him aside.

  Each one is lost. They were swept up by the tide.

  They don’t belong. For they fear pain every day.

  Delminor’s heir ventured from the land, seeking his father’s path.

  He gathered jades and he hoped one day

  to unite them to end the wars.

  Yet when he left, so did the path, and the other mages fell astride.

  Once they were strong. But they now worked all alone.

  Their leader has passed. For they do not accept his claim.

  Each one is lost. And so their fates will be the same.

  They don’t belong. With only magic skills to hone.

  With their pride so turned inside, they no longer save the land.

  Now they pursue their own desires

  which weakens them all the more.

  Without a leader to guide them forth, soon they will all be gone.

  Once they were strong. Now the beasts take o’er the land.

  Their leader has passed. And they wish none at their side.

  Each one is lost. Until each one of them has died.

  They don’t belong. For no one now guides their hand.

  These are the trials that exist to us, as we seek to end all wars.

  How do we lead the rest of those

  who would rather decay and fall?

  Our journey must complete with success, so you can gain your honor.

  Once they were strong. And they soon will be again.

  Their leader has passed. You will rise up in his place.

  Each one is lost. To be found soon by your grace.

  They don’t belong. You’ll give purpose to these men.

  And in the end, they will come together, bound as one, ending war.

  Randler played a few final notes and then set his lute aside, looking at Dariak for his reaction. He was making a few assumptions in his tale, like the mages turning away from unity and therefore allowing the beasts to overtake the land, but it seemed reasonable to him.

  Dariak seemed to agree. He pulled Randler into a strong embrace and kissed him. “You give me hope,” he said. “Hop
e that I really can focus the mages toward other endeavors, so we can end the fighting once and for all.”

  Randler stared into Dariak’s azure eyes. “I believe in you, my love. Once you have reunited the jades, you will find the way to utilize the power to bring everyone together. It was a chance lost to your father because his duty was to his king. I believe if he had been able to explore the jades properly and not use them in the War of the Colossus, then things would be very different today.”

  Dariak just smiled, not knowing what to say.

  Randler started grinning at the look on the mage’s face. “The only regret I would have if Delminor had succeeded, is that I wouldn’t have met you.”

  “Nonsense,” Dariak replied, running a hand through his jet-black hair. “We would have won over the kingdom and you would have come to craft a tale of our accomplishments. And like that time in the bakery where I met you, I would have been yours immediately.”

  Randler blushed and kissed Dariak. “I sang that melody to you before.”

  Dariak remembered. “Yes. At the Rooster’s Bane in Kaison. You sang of the Forgotten Tribe instead though. But I did remember the tune.”

  “This story isn’t so different, actually. That’s why I chose that music.”

  Dariak considered as they continued walking westward. “In the Forgotten Tribe, you tell of King Kallisor and Lady Hathreneir who fell in love, had dreams of building a new land together, and then tore each other apart because of their differences.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And when the king and queen were no longer united, their two nations turned against each other in war. Fight after fight, for all the years since.”

  Randler nodded and let Dariak continue.

  “My father was a prominent mage and researcher for Hathreneir. Many spells came from his own crafting, and he inspired others to do the same. But his work ended in failure. He could not defend the king and he lost the jades in the process. He was lost to the mages and they started following their own ways.”

  “That’s what I think has been happening, Dariak,” Randler agreed.

  “But the mages I knew growing up were kind to me. I was even admitted to the Mage Council when I was nineteen. It was a good couple of years. How did it all go awry in the one year I spent in Kallisor?”

  “I think the seeds of decay were already there. You had adversaries, didn’t you?” the bard asked. “But people kept their agendas hidden from you, perhaps in case you were as powerful as your father, or worse, more powerful. They feared you, I think. But once you were gone, they no longer needed to put on airs. Things can change rapidly when people are motivated to change them.”

  Dariak grunted. “I never should have left Hathreneir.”

  Randler placed his arm around the mage’s shoulders. “I think that only would have delayed the process, and then it would have hurt you more when it did happen. Dariak, I heard a lot of things in Magehaven. These beliefs weren’t new to most of them. They were just unspoken.”

  “Even Pyron, who had been a mentor of mine, now has turned against me. You must be right, Randler. Though, it’d be easier if it was some sort of spell gone awry: I’d find the counterspell and fix everyone.”

  Randler chuckled. “I thought there was no magic to alter a person’s mind?”

  “True. There isn’t.” Then he hesitated and made a concession. “Except for that skill of Kitalla’s. She can influence people with the energies she draws upon in her dances. I wonder why?”

  “You’d never heard of that before?”

  “No. Have you?”

  The bard thought for a time as they walked, but then he shrugged. “There are tales of people who charm others to do their bidding, but it’s usually some type of charisma, respect, or fear that changes the followers. Who knows if there is real magic behind it, but I think you mages would have heard stronger whispers about it if it were true. Certainly my mother would have mentioned something,” he added wryly.

  “Ah, Sharice,” Dariak bobbed his head slowly, remembering the vicious battle he’d had against her in Randler’s basement. It was there he had fully channeled the lightning jade and turned into a bolt of energy, which itself nearly killed him. “I wonder if she will come around some day.”

  “To your line of thinking?” Randler asked. “She may. That is, if you’re able to out-battle her in the future too.”

  “Relieving the restrictions on mages in Kallisor would help as well, I’d wager.”

  “Yes, I think so. Though, she does enjoy her time in the underground. It makes her feel part of something special. Still, though, freedom for your kind should be allowed.”

  “Thanks,” Dariak smiled, placing another kiss on Randler’s cheek.

  Randler grabbed Dariak and stared into his eyes. “Dariak, you know I really mean that, don’t you? I don’t say it lightly.”

  The mage nodded gently. “I remember. Your original quest was to gather the jades and bury them away somewhere so no one could ever find them or use them.”

  The bard nodded. “At first, you convinced me that it was folly because others would eventually find them and I was just putting off something inevitable. But I came to realize who you are and what you stand for, Dariak. It’s what I fell in love with. It’s why I’m here now.”

  “Randler—”

  “But I’m still worried at times,” the bard cut in. “Like in that battle against my mother, and again in Magehaven. Those times where you ‘are’ the jade and become a manifestation of its energy.”

  “I have recovered each time.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want that to become part of who you are. I want you to remain Dariak, not some tool of the jades, carrying out their whims.”

  “It isn’t like that, Randler. The jades are protecting me at those times.”

  The bard shook his head. “It goes too far when you lose yourself, though. I want you to remember to be here. Not to give yourself over like that. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t,” the mage promised.

  “But those two times, I almost did lose you.”

  “There… was a third,” Dariak confessed hesitantly. He hadn’t told Randler about it because it had happened before the bard had joined them in Pindington. “I was escaping Kaison with Kitalla and Gabrion,” he explained. “The healers were gathered together, launching spells at me and attacking with maces. I had no defenses, but the water jade called out to me. I had just claimed it from the museum, so I didn’t know much of its power. But I became a sort of manifestation of water, and the maces passed right through me.

  “I never really thought about that spell much and it never occurred to me again after that. But like the lightning and metal jades, I can’t summon that power on my own. It activates when my life is in dire need. And once the healers were finished attacking, I was so exhausted I collapsed. It didn’t take as much time to recover from that experience as the others, but I didn’t turn into a complete ball of water; I became the consistency of one.”

  Randler listened carefully and gently bit his lip when Dariak was finished. “We’ve known all along that the jades resonate with you, but for whatever reason they are able to affect your body completely. Dariak, I beg of you to be careful.”

  “I know. And I try. Believe me, those stints as lightning and metal were not fun once it was over. And during the process, sure I felt great surges of power, but I had such little control that I wouldn’t want to do those things on purpose.”

  “That’s mostly what I wanted to hear. I’m just worried; that’s all.”

  “I know. And now that we’re talking about it, there is something else that worries me.”

  Randler raised his brow. “Oh?”

  “Pyron. What if the healing jade reacts to him as the other jades have reacted to me? What if he becomes healing energy? I have no idea how to stop him if he can heal any wound instantly. How can we defeat him if he is healing?”

  “I have no idea, but we don’t
really understand how far along his resonance is with the jade, do we? Dariak, you were oblivious when we pulled you from the tower. You might be able to see something we couldn’t. You’ll find a way through, I’m sure of it.”

  Dariak allowed himself to chuckle, though his fears weighed on him and he didn’t actually feel like laughing. “Well, you did predict that I would be leading the mages one day.”

  “That I did, Dariak. That I did.”

  Chapter 3

  In Pursuit

  Kitalla combed her fingers through her long, dark hair wondering vaguely if the sun overhead would add highlights or leave her untouched. She pulled the long strands together and examined them, but they were as dark as always. She shrugged, not particularly caring about it. It just meant that some day when her hair showed signs of gray, she wouldn’t be able to blame it on the sun.

  She looked back over her shoulder toward Marritosh, though she had been traveling a while already and the town was gone from sight. Part of her wanted to remain there and work with the fighters, training and honing their skills. The endless parade of willing combatants was exciting, and knowing they wouldn’t purposely kill her helped make it a little more of a challenge, for she had to restrain herself. She also reveled in her own stamina and the fact that she could better half a dozen young men before needing to rest herself.

  Thoughts of pride in herself always tore her in two and she tried not to dwell on it for long. As a teen, she had failed to protect her family, but ten years later as a woman, she survived countless torments. She allowed her mind to focus on her horrific time in Grenthar’s domain, where the psychotic rogue set up numerous traps and then released her to defeat them. Spikes, flames, and barbs of poison were but a few of the tortures she had avoided. And after each run, a team of healers worked to restore her strength so she could be put to trial again. She wondered where her bullheaded perseverance had come from.