The Veiled Prophet

XXIII

The plague had been a terrible one, taking as it had Serenthia’s father and several others, including missionaries from some nameless sect. Rumors brought by travelers who had passed through a larger town called Partha indicated that the inhabitants there had been particularly struck hard, with at least half the population dead and burned. Other regions appeared more fortunate, and from what the village elders gathered, the crisis appeared to be over.

Mendeln approached the trading station just in time to catch Achilios arriving with a batch of hares his expert markmanship had caught for him. The hunter started to smile, but the smile faltered when he saw both the horse his friend rode and the packed mule behind it.

“You said you were going to do it…and you meant it, evidently.”

“Yes. The farm is sold, and all I have is with me.” Mendeln glanced past him to where a tall, burly young man was being castigated by Serenthia. As capable as her brothers were, it still fell to Cyrus’s daughter to keep them in line.

She turned from reprimanding her sibling and saw the two men. As she ran toward them, the raven-haired woman’s countenance took on an expression much akin to that on her new husband’s.

“You’re leaving! Oh, Mendeln, you can’t!”

He steeled himself. “With Uldyssian dead from plague, I have no more desire for the farm…and the memories are too strong for me to stay anywhere in Seram.”

Serenthia shed a tear but nodded. Achilios lowered his catch and put an arm around her shoulder.

“Send us word when you can,” Achilios muttered, well aware that they likely would never hear from him again. The world was vast and, beyond a few days’ travel, contact between Seram and the outside was nearly impossible.

“I will do my best,” Mendeln responded with a nod. He did not bother dismounting, wanting to be away before his nerves broke.

Serenthia came to his side and took his hand, Achilios following her.

“May your lives be simple and happy ones,” Uldyssian’s brother added.

Achilios chuckled. “Here in Seram, the simple part is guaranteed!” Again he hugged his new wife. “And, in my case, so will be the happy!”

She kissed the archer lightly, then the two of them shook hands one last time with Mendeln. The son of Diomedes turned his horse toward the woods.

“Going through the old hunter’s path?” asked Achilios.

“Yes…with Partha so terribly hit, I would prefer to stay clear no matter what they say about the plague no longer a threat.”

“Wise. Fare you well, then!”

“I shall try.”

The couple waved as he started off. Mendeln kept his eye on them for as long as he could…and when that was no more possible, he urged the horse and mule to the best pace of which they were capable.

The hunter’s path was an old trail that faded to thick woods about half a mile from Seram. Achilios assumed that Mendeln would do the logical and veer south when that happened, for east and north were too complicated for his animals to navigate. However, the moment he reached the trail’s end, Mendeln instead reined the horse to a halt and paused to stare at the trees ahead.

After a moment’s reflection, he reached into his travel cloak and pulled out the ivory dagger.

“I am already here.”

Looking over his shoulder, Uldyssian’s brother found Rathma standing atop a fallen tree trunk. The cowled figure still had the graying hair and age lines earned during the battle, but his demeanor was more as Mendeln knew it.

“Thank you for leaving me my memory,” he told the Ancient.

“That was beyond my ability. Trag did that.”

Mendeln nodded. “He is well?”

“It still galls him that he had to shield his presence while the angels and demons discussed Sanctuary’s end, but that is all. He is recovered from initially trying to steer the host away from the world, yes. He also regrets your loss but honors Uldyssian’s choice…as do I.”

Clutching the dagger tight, Mendeln muttered, “I saw it, Rathma. He let me. I saw him give all that he held and all that he was into that beyond Sanctuary! I saw that he was happy in the end, because he knew that he had become part of something—something wonderful. I’m sorry that I cannot explain better, but I understand no more of it than that!”

Rathma stepped down from the trunk. “Do not worry. I know what it is as little as you do. Trag understands far more, but apparently even I am not ready to be told. We shall both learn together, eh?”

And that you shall, came the dragon’s voice. That you shall, Mendeln ul-Diomed.

Mendeln shook his head. “I am tired of myself. I died when the last of my family died. I died when Uldyssian did. Call me anything else, but no longer call me that.”

Rathma looked perturbed. “Mendeln—”

It is his wish…in fact, if he so desires another name, I have one I hope is worthy of him.

Despite himself, Mendeln was intrigued. After all, the dragon had renamed Inarius’s and Lilith’s son from Linarian to Rathma. “What?”

I would call you Kalan. In the tongue of that of which I am, it means teacher, for you have risen far too high to be called by me a mere student…and we have need of you to show others the truth of the Balance.

Mendeln did not know what to say. In many ways, he felt it a path by which to give honor to Uldyssian and also protect his world from the treachery of demons…and angels.

“There must be more who will fight to maintain the Balance,” Rathma said to him. “The Balance is Sanctuary’s best hope. When that day comes that the edyrem return, they must not fall into either camp, for then humanity will merely be an appendage of one side or another, dying for their causes and nothing else. Keep humanity balanced between the two, and it becomes the master of its own destiny.”

As is the intention…

Both men glanced up at the sky.

“What do you mean by that, Trag?” Rathma asked, looking as confused as Mendeln.

But the dragon did not answer. At last, Rathma turned again to Uldyssian’s brother. “There is a bit more to show you. The jungles of Kehjan are rich in the magical forces that will best encourage both your learning and the learning of your students. Trag will bring us there.”

“And then?”

“And then I prepare you for when I am gone. The day of the nephalem is, as they said, long over. One by one, I and my kind will cease to be. There are fewer now than during the battle even.” He waved off any question concerning the others like him. “The future is what is important. You will need to teach as many as will listen. The three among the edyrem whom you began with shall be gathered first, though they will not recall the time before. That is your burden alone.”

We can speak more of this when he is settled and ready, Trag’Oul suddenly said.

Rathma grimaced slightly. “Then, if you are so impatient, eternal one, it would be best if you brought us there as soon as possible.” To the son of Diomedes, the Ancient added, “What you need shall come also. The animals will be back among your friends’ mounts, the change unnoticed by any.”

“Just like so much.”

The cowled figure grunted. “There was nothing that could be done at the time…but the future will be different. We shall see to that.”

But the past could not be forgotten. Mendeln—no, Kalan—was determined to see to that. Already he had plans to mark down on both parchment and stone all that he could recall, if only for the sake of those who followed in his path. The world could not forget the lesson of Uldyssian and the hope that his sacrifice had gained for all.

“Let’s be off,” he suddenly demanded of the dragon. “The sooner I start, the better.”

From Rathma, he earned a rare grin. From Trag’Oul, there was a sense of hope.

Prepare yourself, the dragon warned.

Kalan tightened his grip on the dagger more, but his mind was not on the spell with which Trag’Oul would magically cast him hundreds of miles distant. It was instead on Uldyssian.

You have given us a chance for a future, brother…and come the High Heavens or the Burning Hells, we shall work to make certain that we are its makers and no others.

And as he thought that, as the woods around him faded, Kalan believed he glimpsed a figure built much like a farmer but who was obviously so much more. The figure was not even there for the blink of an eye and was likely only Kalan’s imagination, but even so, it raised the brother’s hopes.

The edyrem would rise again—and with the sacrifice of Uldyssian to guide them, next time as their own masters.