The Shadow Tome (prologue & ch. 1)

Prologue             

                It was a dark night in the city, more so than was custom for the fall season, and a cold mist had descended upon its stone battlements and cobbled roads. The wisps of shapeless smoke lingered like haunted ghosts, and the crisp clicking of boots against the road hung in the air as a dark, cloaked figure emerged from an alleyway. The nightwalker, hooded and cloaked in black, entered the main road, and his robes billowed behind him in his wake as he marched through the mist. At his side hung a small, cloth sack, and his strong hand brushed it tenderly. There was a faint sign of movement from within, and a low nearly inaudible sound could be heard.
         Pale light from the moon shone down weakly upon the city and the walkers garb seemed to envelope the meager light. Then an icy wind blew and carried with it dark storm clouds that began to creep over the city, blotting out the moon. The walker trudged on, and his shape vanished in the darkness as he walked briskly by the soldiers upon the wall.
         His mind was set on a dark purpose.
         Soon he came to a large plaza at the center of the city, and an enormous park sprawled out in all directions from the stone roads. It wasn’t before the walker abandoned it for the lush grass of the park, and he made his way toward a stone well that rested among a grove of pine. It was a deathly silence that shrouded the place, all except for the cold breeze that swayed the grass, and the gentle pulsing of the sack at his waist.
         Anxiety began to take hold of him as he neared the small stone structure.
         The well was deep like a black void, but he did not slow. With determination he climbed upon it and vanished beneath the stones, carefully placing his feet on the metal rungs he knew were there. It was lightless in the cistern, but it did not matter, for his resolve lit his way.
         For what seemed like hours he descended before at last resting his feet upon the earthen passage beneath the city. An ancient road, a thousand years old. A road that harbored secrets darker than ever imagined. It called out to him, and the gentle throbbing, that had grown louder and more frequent, reassured him.
         The passage twisted many ways, but each time he knew which road to take. At long last the road ended at a stone archway, seemingly walled in by mortared stone.
         But he knew better.
         Carefully he placed his hands upon the cold stone. A brilliant white glow erupted from the wall, filling the whole passage with light. The walker covered his eyes. When he looked again, the passage was open as if the mortared stone had never been there.
         As he crossed the archway, pulsing began to grow louder and more violent. With each step he took it grew, and whispers began to fill his ears. He peered into the darkness, but there was no one there.
         But of course he already knew that.
         The clicking of his boots against the stone passage echoed throughout, announcing his coming, and soon he arrived at an enormous cavern which was supported by stone pillars and arches. Torches light the giant hall, held by brackets upon the stone columns. Set into the walls were hundreds of arched door ways, leading into secret locked rooms.
         He was close now, and the voices grew louder but still undecipherable. They led his feet, and his heart.
         It took only a moment before he knew where he would go. The voices showed him the way. It took many minutes to walk across the cavern. Finally, he came to smaller doorway near the back of the hall. Inscribed upon the arch was a message:
         Here lies what only the goddess may reveal.
         He laughed.
         Once again he placed his hands upon the heavy oak door beneath the archway. He muttered under his breath as his fingers pressed firmly against the wood. Soon, an eerie black light began to radiate from beneath the skin of his fingers. Then, it began to flow from his finger tips and into the oaken doors. The eerie light reflected upon the night walkers eyes as the whole door began to glow. At first nothing happened, but slowly it began to change. The rich, rosewood color began to fade to a dull grey and the texture degraded to a coarse, brittle surface. Soon, it began to crumble as the black light consumed it. When the black light faded, all that remained was cold ash upon the stone.
         The night walker peered into the dark room with eagerness. The stone chamber was lit by torches and filled with ancient relics and artifacts. Old vases, plates, cups and pots littered the stone floor as well as ancient weapons and old scrolls. He cared nothing for these things. His eyes were set upon the small platform at the center of the room. Upon that small pedestal, there laid a simple, black leather bound book.
         It was madness that threatened to consume him as he brushed his hand across the leather cover. Instantly, the dark voices, full of malice, exploded in his head like a malevolent torrent, drowning him in an evil storm.
         A fire danced in his eyes.
         The book beckoned him to open it and reveal the secrets within. The cloth sack at his side began to shake and pulse violently, and an eerie black light faintly began to glow from it. He was consumed by a maelstrom, a magical force unlike anything the world had ever known. An evil that had laid hidden for a thousand years.
         The blackness gripped him, and as it did he grasped tightly the edges of the book and in a lustful fury flung open its pages. Instantly the madness erupted inside of him like thunder, and a black voice boomed inside his head and shook his being like a mighty earthquake. The throbbing vessel at his side shook like it had never done before, and black clouds began to swirl about the platform, caressing the body of the walker. The black magic teased him and beckoned him to join with it.
         He wanted it all.
         With a shaking hand he drew the sack from his belt and held the throbbing vessel before him, and with the other hand he loosened the draw strings. The cloth sack fell to the floor, and a black, beating heart now sat clutched in his grasp. The black energies began to infest within him and feed his madness.
         At last, his human soul was gone. A lustful desire drove him now, and he knew what he must do. Instantly he drew a long slender blade from his belt and pressed it against the beating heart held tightly in his hand. The dark magic wrapped around the blade and the once bright steel turned as the black as midnight and it was that blackness that twinkled in his eyes. Gripped by madness and malevolent lust, the night walker let out a wicked and painful howl that filled the chamber and seemed to freeze the very air within it. In a frenzy he tore open the front of his robes, revealing his bare chest, and plunged the blade into his flesh. Again and again he thrust the weapon into his chest and the black clouds swirled around his figure like a hurricane.
         Then, he did not die. He laughed. An icy cackle as cold as the arctic winds and as wicked as the god of death himself. The voices fueled his lust and, dropping the blade on the floor, plunged his hand into his open, bleeding chest and wrapped his fingers around his own heart. He screamed in rage as he tore it from his body and held it into the air. The shattered organ let out to last, slow pulses, before bursting into flames that seared the walkers fingers of his left hand. His burned hand did not trouble him as he strained the ashes through his fingers. The glow of the black heart reflected in his eyes.
         At last it was time. Grasping the black heart firmly in his right hand, he placed it within the open wound. Instantly he could feel the dark relic begin to assimilate his body, and the open wound was sealed.
         A voice spoke then, like booming thunder, and the nightwalker embraced its words.
         “My resurrection, has begun.”

Chapter One:
The Warrior of the Sword

         A small flame leaped from the solitary candle. It danced in the night, illuminating the darkness, a black, joyless shade that enveloped the drafty stone walls of the barracks. The scuffling of rats could be heard in the darkened corner, a squeak every so often, and then a cry of a cat, in pursuit of its quarry. The rat flew in haste back to his hidden lair within the wall, and the cat circled around in the darkness, his sinister yellow eyes fixed upon the stone, waiting for the poor animal to abandon his guard, and come out once again so the chase could begin anew.
         Thunder rolled across the late night sky, and the sound of rain began to break upon the stone.
         Matthew was there, sitting upon the wooden stool, by his bed. His eyes gazed through the flame that lit the solitude of his dank barracks quarters.
         He was twenty five years of age now, his body in prime condition, for he was the elite of the men at arms. He was a rather tall man, standing several inches higher than the average Auroran fighter. He was handsome and wore a look of distinguishment that commanded the respect of others. His brown hair was long and ended at the shoulders, and a small golden ring hung from both ears. He wore no beared, choosing instead to remain clean shaven as a sign of a pure spirit, and in his brown eyes burned a great passion, one that had been there ever since that fateful night in the woods.
         The wound he had received all those years ago from the man cloaked in black had left a scar across the back right of his face, having never fully healed, he would carry it the rest of his life. He should have died that night, and he had thought he did. When he was taken to the town clerics, they said that for all physical reasons he should be dead, or brain dead at the least. It was determined that Aurorai had spared him for some greater reason, though he still wondered why she did not come to his aid before the battle with the man who walked in the shadows. His ear had been restored, however, a long scar still traced the place where it had been severed.
         Life had been good to him since that night in the forest. He had advanced quickly through the military ranks since his installment in the men at arms seven years prior. He had gained a reputation for being a fearless and pure spirited fighter, never once rising into anger unless it was a holy malice against that which was evil.
         Matthew had excelled in many ways, and now it was time for him to take his place among the elite military forces of the Auroran kingdom. Tonight was the eve of the ceremony that would make him part of the prestigious, Sacred Knighthood, the holy warriors called by Aurorai herself to protect the people of the faith. It was an event that the whole kingdom would come to see. Thousands would pour into the streets to see their new defender before the masses
         Matthew had worked his entire life to achieve this dream. He had always wanted to serve Aurorai as best he could, and this was how he knew he could do it. He was unnerved a little at the enormousness of the next days events, however, it was his dream, and while he was frightened by it, he still could not wait for the morning to begin.
         There was a knock at the door. He stood from his place of reflection and strode over to the wooden door, his boots clapping against the stone as he went. He eased the door open, listening to the creaking of the hinges as it swung forth revealing the two men that called for him.
         “Well now, there he is, our man of the hour!” exclaimed an exuberant Becken Celindore as he entered the drafty room. He was followed in by their fellow friend and comrade,  Mortimer Kaelin, a captain in the city garrison. The captain was significantly older than the two young men, but tough as nails with a passionate heart for Aurorai. He boasted long, scraggly black hair that hung down to his chest. His face was battle worn, but full of life with a quick smirk always upon his face. He wore a plain black tunic and pants, with a bladed battle mace and a leather pouch hanging from his belt.
         Matthew responded to the greeting. “Oh no, its you!” he exclaimed in a joking tone, a mischievous grin reaching his lips.
         The two men locked there gloved hands together at the chest and tilted slightly toward the other as a sign of greeting. Matthew and the captain exchanged the same greeting.
         Becken had followed Matthew to Cyrinth Myriad shortly after the latter’s departure to the great city. He had not advanced as far as Matthew had in their years at the city, mostly being attributed to Becken’s increasing talents at stirring up mischief. At the age of twenty four he was still a boy at heart, wrestling and heartily provoking the other men of the barracks. His favorite past time, however, was pursuing the many maidens of the city, often wooing them with his quick charm and comic character.
         His face had remained young and handsome, even through the ugly battles that had plagued him those past eight years. His hair had grown out blonde and curly, swaying this way and that depending on the wind, often times blowing into his deep, blue eyes. He wore a brown, cloth vest over his bare upper body revealing strong, sinewy muscle, clothed in light hair across the skin, and two scabbards were cris-crossed on his back, sheathing a pair of short swords. At his belt was a wooden tankard and number of throwing knives.
         “What on earth are the two of you doing here, and at this hour?” The two men chuckled.
         “Oh lighten up ya stiff,” replied Becken, the grin still on his face. “Just thought we ‘de come and wish you good luck, its your big day tomorrow, ya know”.
         Matthew was slightly agitated, but welcomed their cheerfulness and company. “Yes it is, and the first thing im gonna do is have you locked up for disturbing my peace!”
         Becken frowned for a moment before a mischievous smile crossed his face. “Matty,  that sounds horrible,” he joked. “ There aren’t any ladies in the dungeon”. The three men roared with laughter that filled the small room.
         Mortimer spoke up. “Now, onto the important things. He strode out the door for a moment, before returning with an ale skin and a pouch of Dellwood Fern leaves. Matthew smiled.
         “Always prepared, aren’t you Morty,” he said with a grin. Mortimer grimaced. He hated the name Morty, which gave Matthew more incentive to use it.
         “I’ll have you know that these leaves came all the way from the Galahadran fern fields. They’re the best smoking leaves in the kingdom. And this ale, ya, its Laerian made, straight from the breweries in Vwyndl. You will find no better drink anywhere”.
         Matthew grinned, drawing his wooden pipe from the small pouch at his belt.
         They all settled themselves down at the small table, bringing in two more stools from outside the room. The three men placed their wooden tankards on the table as Becken filled them with the ale skin. Mortimer drew a pinch of the dry fern leaves from the pouch, placing it carefully in the hold of his clay pipe. He passed the pouch onto the others who each did the same. Mortimer reached into the leather pouch at his belt and retrieved a small, black stick. He struck the lighting stick against the stone and a small flame ignited from its tip, dancing in the damp air. Smoke began to drift through the room as he brought the flame to the waiting leaves of the pipe. He exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. He then blew out the flame and returned the tiny stick to the leather pouch at his belt. The other two did the same, and soon the room filled with the pungent aroma of the Dellwood Fern.
         Matthew’s pipe hung from his mouth as he stretched his arms into the air, giving a yawn.
         Mortimer looked over at Matthew. “So, have you thought what to do from here?”
         “ I don’t know really, I mean, being a part of the Sacred Brotherhood has always been my goal, but some how I feel as if im missing some part of the picture. Bah, maybe it’s just me. Never happy with anything, always wanting more than what I wanted before. Ever since that night ...
         Becken cut him off. “We agreed not to speak of it!” he snapped.
         And that was true. Since the night Matthew had saved him in the woods, Becken had not said a word regarding the terrors they had faced. He had seemingly grown up normally, as if the ordeal had never occured. Matthew wondered what Becken hid from him and why he would not discuss.
         “Sorry Beck,” Matthew replied. “ I wasn’t supposed to live that night, and I did, but for all rational reasoning I should of died. I can’t help but thinking maybe its more than just being with the Brotherhood that I am to do.”
         Becken spoke up, agitation in his voice. “Matt, you know what I think, cause I’ve told you a hundred times. You’re pouring over this way to hard. If there is to be more, then She will reveal it to you in time, but for now, being a part of the Brotherhood is where you should be.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke as he brought the tankard to his lips.
         There was silence for a moment before Matthew spoke up again.
         “So Beck, did you finally decide to compete in the tournament tomorrow following the ceremony.” Becken’s agitation from the moment before left him and a grin crossed his face.
         “Now Matty, why on earth do you think I ‘de do a thing like that. The grin grew wider and Matthew gave a sigh of surrender.
         “So when do you begin? ”
         “Right away, a start in the first round of the light weights. Short swords.”
         Mortimer joined in with a chuckle. “Short swords! Way to challenge yourself Beck. Everyone knows you’re the finest in the kingdom with small arms.”
         Becken nodded in agreement. “Ah yes, well it is true enough, and just think of all the pretty lasses that will have all come out of their hiding places to come and see me. Yes, they will shout my name from the stands and throw flowers and handkerchiefs down to my feat, pleading for me to be their champion.”
         The other two men rolled there eyes as Becken continued on.
         “Oh yes, oh yes, and when I knock that clumsy Roderick Maestershire on to the flat of his back, they will all cheer for me, their hero.”
         “Well Beck, don’t get to caught up on yourself,” Mortimer chimed in. “Word is that Girth Drueger has entered. He’s twice your size, but just as fast.”
         “Um, excuse me Morty, but was it not you just a moment ago who plainly stated I was the, what was it you said? Oh right, finest in the kingdom I believe it was.”
         “Ha! That I did, and I stand by it to. You will beat Drueger, but not if you keep your head in the clouds. He’ll bust you up real good if your too busy waving at wenches.”
         “My dear captain,” he said. “I’ll have you know I quite fancy a miss Leneia Sommerton, and I believe she is quite taken with me as well.”
         Mortimer scoffed. “In a week’s time she will be but a distant memory floating around in that hollow head of yours.”
         “Maybe so, but I have a feeling about this one, I really do. She might be the one.”
         Matthew and Mortimer burst out in laughter, spitting their ale out on the floor. Becken’s face betrayed his disapproval.
         “What? You don’t think that maybe some day I might not want to settle down with someone?”
         The two men snickered for a moment longer before Matthew spoke.
         “Honestly?” And he burst laughing again. It was Mortimer who chimed in. “No,” he added and they laughed some more at the others expense. Becken glared at them with disapproval and sucked on his pipe in silence.
         They chuckled for a little while longer before they became silent again, and returned to their tankards, refilling them with the ale skin every so often.
         Matthew Inhaled from his pipe, exhaling a thick cloud of aromatic smoke. “So Mort, what is the word on these new appointments made by the king. I see new faces in many high positions in the military, and even the Elder Council”.
         Mortimer drank deeply from his tankard. Ale dripped from his beard as he withdrew the vessel from his mouth, placing it on the table. His eyes darkened. “This is true, and I don’t like it. Many of these men are shady characters at best”.
         The mood of the room had suddenly grown humorless. Mortimer leaned over the table towards the other two men, his became airy and merely a whisper.
         “Now listen closely my friends. Something has happened, some evil is spreading. I know you feel it as well”.           The two young men held his gaze intently, taking in every word. Questions raced through their minds. Matthew remembered the anxiety he had been feeling. Perhaps it was more than just the ceremony he was unnerved about.
         Mortimer exhaled and then placed the pipe on the table, the smoldering leaves snuck thin lines of smoke in the air.
         “I do not know what is happening, but these new commanders are not to be trusted, and the king himself put them there.” His gaze turned and stared directly into Matthews eyes.
         “I heard a rumor in the streets yesterday. A farmer from Dellwood Vale said he saw a group of men, cloaked in black, near the village. He said…”Mortimer stuttered, swallowing to clear his throat. “He said they moved through the darkness like a shade on air.”
         Matthew skin went cold, fear shown in his eyes betraying him. Becken shared that fear as well, for he to had been there that night in the woods, among the shadow walkers. The room went still, rank with fear. Matthew filled with terror as the memory of that night resurfaced in his mind. He remembered running through the trees, desperate to get away. He recalled the cold sweat that mingled with his blood. He could feel the mans blade as it pierced his flesh. And then he was home, wrapped in warm blankets and sitting near the fire. They were safe, for his father had brought them home.
         Becken spoke out. “Do you believe that those men have something to do with this plot?”
         Mortimer gave a grunt of approval.
         “But surely the king would not willingly place such men there, with knowledge of their origins.”           The captain turned to him. “This is all to true my friend, which brings us to the real question at hand.” He gave them a dark serious look as if preparing them for his next words. “I must speak the truth as I perceive it, as much as I may dislike it.”
         He paused for a moment before speaking again.
         “I do not think we can trust the king.”
         The two men stared in disbelief at the captain of the garrison, trying to comprehend his words. Becken drank deeply from his tankard. A wisp of smoke lingered across the length of the small wooden table as Matthew exhaled more of the thick cloud into the dank air. After moments of silence, it was Matthew who spoke.
         “How can you be sure though, I mean, we all know him as a man of faith, of principle. I cannot see him turning his back on Her.”
         “Nor can I my friend, but we must look to the facts and not what we would like to believe. The most influential advisors have been replaced, quietly, as if not to raise suspicion. The captain of the sentry has been removed, along with many key military leaders. It appears as if a coupe is about to take place, but what I can’t figure out is that it’s the king himself who is organizing it. You two watch your back. There is more to this than can be seen.”
         The silence was deafening. Matthew contemplated all of this in his mind, displaying the key facts before himself. “What could it be,” he mused to himself.
         He smelled the aroma of the fern leaf, trying to clear his mind, to reveal the secret that lie beneath it all. Then there it was, clear as crystal. He saw the shadow walkers, their intent to kill, their desire to destroy life. “No, away from me!” He screamed in his head. But they would not leave him. They came, a swarm in his consciousness. They would smite the life from him and cast him into the depths, away from those he cared for. He saw the glint of their blades, the faceless void of their cowl. He could sense their hate, their malice. He traced the scar through his ear. He felt the pain. Mortimer and Becken stared in shock as Matthew cried out in agony, the sound filling the small room. He grasped the side of his head tightly with his hands, where the scar lay hidden beneath his hair. The pain consumed him, threatening to over take him. It coursed through his body, his mind about to burst.
         Suddenly he was torn from the nightmare by a strong outside force, and he thrown to the stone floor, free of the shadow walkers. The stool fell to the ground, clambering upon the stone. Matthew opened his eyes to see Mortimer and Becken standing over him, worry etched on their faces. Becken was gently rubbing his knuckles.
         They had seen it many times before, ever since the encounter in the forest, all those years ago. But this was different and they knew it. Matthew sat up in a haze, his face, a mask of confusion. He rubbed a red mark on his cheek.
         “What happened”.
         “You had another episode,” stated Becken. “You had us sick with worry, I’ve never seen them that bad before. I had to knock you on your back to get you out of it”.
         Matthew slowly came to his feet. “It has never felt like that before. It was as if I was there again, in the forest. I could feel the blade, the fear. What does this mean?”
         For several months now the episodes had been getting worse. The clerics had been unable to offer any explanation for the increased severity of them. Matthew had spent much time in prayer and meditation, but the goddess remained silent, adding to the mystery of his ordeals with the past.
         Mortimer finally spoke. “Well, I think that’s quite enough for tonight then. Some sleep would do you some good.”
         Matthew managed a weak nod. “Agreed”.
         Becken and Mortimer helped him over to his bed. He kicked off his boots and stripped off his tunic, opting instead to wear his white, night shirt. He laid down, his mind still spinning from the ordeal.
         After he had gotten settled, the other two men strode back over to the table. They packed their pipes away and hooked their tankards back onto their belts. Mortimer set the pouch of fern leaves on the table.
         “Matt, you keep this. A present, more or less. The goddess knows you need it more than I”.
         “Thank you Mort, your very kind.” The two men managed a smile.
         “Well, off to sleep than lad. We’ll see you in the morning.” Mortimer and Becken strode out of the room, closing the creaking door behind them.

*      *      *      *      *      *          
             
                The great hall of Cyrinth Myriad was alive with guests. Across the kingdom they had come to pay their respects, for a new hero would be named this day.
         The hall was donned in great banners and tapestries, many of which depicted great battles of old, ancient victories given to the glory of Aurorai. Brilliant blues, yellows, whites, and reds were draped across the banisters, buttresses and arches. The hall was filled with sound as musicians, jugglers, magicians and jesters roamed through the crowd, entertaining them with feats of comedy, music, skills, and card tricks.
         They had all come to see the young man who would be their defender, a knight of Aurorai. A member of the Sacred Brotherhood, the finest and most devoted warriors of faith in the north. They all waited for the ceremony to begin. The throne of the king remained empty and the entertainers tried in vain to occupy them with silly games and tricks.
         Suddenly the large wooden doors at the opposite side of the chamber burst forth and trumpeters entered the room, the crowd parting as they came. They marched in two rows toward the throne, their trumpets blaring the royal song of entry as they went. They approached the royal seat then parted, stopping behind the throne and lining in a row, facing the crowd.
         The trumpets silenced for a moment, and the crowd waited in anticipation. The instruments cut the air moments later as the king entered through the great wooden doors. He was flanked by the royal guard. With dozens to each side, he walked between the flanks, his head held high as he approached the seat of power. The king reached the throne, then turned and faced them. The guard halted as they formed an aisle from the door to the throne, and a boundary between the king and the crowd. They stood at attention, glistening in iron mail armor with long pikes upright and to their sides, and a sword at their belts.
         The crowd stared in awe as the procession took place. Many young boys had come to see these things, and  marveled at the soldiers in their armor, and at the king, how majestic he looked, how confident. They drew stories and pictures in their minds of riding a brilliant white steed, donned in mail and wielding a sword against their enemies. They dreamed of saving young maidens from the clutches of cruel dragons and ogres. Their eyes were alive with excitement.
         The procession continued as more men entered the chamber. Men of age with frazzled white hair, slightly balded near the top, strode with grace towards the head of the procession. They had donned beautiful shimmering robes of white satin, trimmed in golden embroidery. They carried their heads low towards the floor, their hands held inside the opposite sleeves.
         They were the Seventh Order of the Holy Sword. Each had been selected by Aurorai herself, to wield her power when it would praise her and give life to her people. They were healers, but also great warriors. The number of battles that had been won from the hand of a cleric of the seventh order was not to be counted by the hands of men.
         The clerics came to stand by the king, six to each side, for there would be only twelve clerics at any one time. They, like all the others stood and faced the great wooden doors at the opposite end of the chamber.
         The trumpets continued their song as the last of the great throng came forth. The great warriors of the sword, the Knights of Aurorai. They marched forward in unison. Their plated mail glistened, reflecting the torch light from the chamber walls. The great knights of Cyrinth Myriad came to a stop before the clerics and came to a kneel before them, again facing the doors.
         Then came the last of the procession.
         Matthew entered the chamber, dressed in the glistening white silk robe of the holy knight. It was trimmed in red, which was the sign of the warrior of the sword. On his head was a circlet of golden dellwood leaves, the leaf of purity. A belt of silver was at his waist. He strode down the aisle lined with the kings guard and anxiety filled his mind.
         Matthew approached the throng of monks, warriors, and royal escorts. The members of the Sacred Brotherhood held their swords out in salute as he stood before them. The king took his seat on the throne and the crowd followed him, taking their seats on the wooden benches that had been placed in the hall for the event.
         Romand Sohm, high cleric of the seventh order, came forth from the contingent of holy men.
         The high cleric was not the eldest of the order, however, he had been the one chosen by Aurorai herself, and thus wielded the strongest of her powers. He had commanded vast armies into battle and victory since his naming nearly twenty years ago. He was second to the king in respect and authority, obtaining the admiration of the people and soldiers of the northern kingdoms.
         His hair had begun to grey in these last few years. Once a dark coal black, there was now streaks of grey lancing through it, showing his age. It hung shortly down the sides of his face, slightly covering his eyes. His dark beared was trimmed close to the skin and grown into a tuft at the end of his chin.
         He was dressed like his brothers in faith, however, placed around his neck on a golden chain was the Holy Stone. It was a perfect white and radiated in the room, glowing with the power of the goddess. It was encased in two golden wires that crossed around the stone. It was a symbol of the power that had been bestowed to the high cleric. Upon his right hand was the ring of the royal seal, bearing the crest of the kings of Cyrinth Myriad. Upon his left was the ring of the holy seal, the mark of the goddess. It was made of extraordinary silver, gold, and crystal. It sparkled from his hand, proclaiming the light in the darkness.
         Romand gave his friend a wink as he approached him. Matthew gave a small smile as he dropped to a knee, lowering his eyes towards the floor and opening his arms.
         He spoke. “Praise be to the holy mother who is righteous and good. May she bring peace to the planes, and may victory be hers, so that all who live might live in the light.”
         Matthew rose to his feet then, before the high cleric. The two men bowed before each other. “Life, honor, and faith to the high cleric, first of the disciples, a warrior of faith. May the will of the goddess be your guide and your life.”
         Romand responded in turn. “Life, honor, and faith to Her servant, a disciple of the goddess, a warrior of the sword. May the will of the goddess be your guide and your life.”
         A small procession of servants came now, silently out of two small doors from the sides of the chamber. They came to rest at the flanks of the high cleric, two to each side. The first on his left carried a great, leather bound book with golden clasps.
         The holy texts, the words given to men by Aurorai herself. Contained within them were the rules of faith, of rituals, and of prophecies. The text was the guide of her followers.
         The first to his right bore a mighty sword, the blade of the Sacred Brotherhood. The text to the left, and the sword to the right symbolized the union, but also the separation between faith, and the sword.
         The other two servants bore ceremonial wine and bread.
         The high cleric took the book first from the servant on his left. He opened the text, turning the pages with care. He held the book in front of him as he spoke its words.
         “Devoted servant to our beloved goddess, do you, in all truthfulness, pledge your undying loyalty to Her. In life and in death, do you swear to defend her name, to protect her people, and to only seek to bring peace to the planes and to see her will done, no matter what the cost to your self.”
         “I, Matthew Xavious, do swear to pledge my undying loyalty to Her. In life and in death,  I swear to defend her name, to protect her people, and to only seek to bring peace to the planes and to see her will done, no matter what the cost to myself.”
         “Devoted servant, do you swear to protect the king that she has chosen to rule her people in the land of Leodoria, as long as he serves her in earnest.”
         “I swear to protect the king, as long as he honors Her name.”
         “Devoted servant, do you swear to protect the warriors of faith with your life, to draw your sword against those who would bring harm to them, and thus dishonor our goddess.”
         “I swear to protect the warriors of faith, as long as they honor Her name.”
         “Devoted servant, do you swear to protect your brothers of the sword and to draw your sword against those who would bring them harm, and thus dishonor the goddess.”
         “I swear to protect my brothers of the sword, as long as they honor Her name.”
         “Devoted servant, do you swear to make war against the enemies of Aurorai, to banish evil where ever it may dwell, and thus bringing peace and prosperity to the lands.”
         “I swear to make war against the enemies of Aurorai.”
         “Devoted servant, state your name to all these witnesses present who have heard your declaration of faith.”
         “Matthew Xavious.”
         “Then my brother, have you spoken the truth? Do you swear that the words you have spoken before the followers of the goddess here today, are true, that no lie has come forth from your lips.”
         I, Matthew Xavious, have spoken the truth of all these things. I have sworn to serve the goddess till death. If I have not spoken the truth, and deceit has been spoken here, may I be stricken by her wrath, and may her followers despise me and spit upon me.”
         After these words, Romand Sohm proclaimed to the crowd, “This man has declared his faith and loyalty in a public declaration. Let it be known where his allegiance lies!”
         The servants bearing the bread and the wine came forth now, offering the food to Matthew.
         “My son, you have declared your faith to all those here, and to the goddess herself. Now take and eat the wine and the bread to symbolize that your oath now lies within you.”
         Matthew took the bread and the goblet of wine from the silver trays that the servants presented to him. He put the bread to his mouth, quickly devouring the sacrament in several large bites. He then put the cup to his lips and drank the liquid until the goblet stood empty. Matthew placed the empty cup back upon the tray.
         “My son, all is now done. May all the people know that you are son of Aurorai, a warrior of the light!”