The Siren & the Sacred Lie, Chapter 1 p2

THE SIREN & THE SACRED LIE

CHAPTER 1: THE ARCAVEN AND THE WARLOCK

Part 2 of 2

         The men passed through the great hall to a small sitting room. The light and warmth from the crackling hearth tendered a welcome comfort. From a sparkling glass decanter, the warlock poured honeyed wine for each of them.

         One by one, Hidelwine's company acquainted themselves, naming the village of their birth, their star signs and specialties of magic. The warlock seemed amused when they admitted to toppling the bulwark and sneaking through the shide under Shastine's veil. Shastine was still sulking that his spell did not withstand the march across the field. His bleeding shoulder throbbed with pain, but he made no mention of it. Hidelwine took him for the usual, pithy Shastine he'd known for so many years.

         Finally it was Lavernon's turn to introduce himself and say a few words about Dravon Hill, the village of his childhood. “The autumn bazaar in Dravon Hill is the grandest in all the land,” he boasted.

         The warlock seemed less amused by his affections for home. Abruptly, he asked the question Lavernon had been hoping to avoid. “And what is your chosen school of conjuring, Lavernon?”

         Any place west of the warlock's palace, the question would have sounded absurd. After all, since the Wars of New Birth, to tamper in sorcery was to violate Imperial law. Only the very determined and very secretive few now endeavored in the arcane. “Fool's art” and “Faerie's tales,” people called it... though no one in this room ever did.

         Lavernon's palms were sweaty and shaking when he replied. “Your mm-majesty... as of yet, I have been unsuccessful in channeling spells or any sorts of magic.”

         The misplaced title “your majesty” was a moniker reserved solely for the land's kings and queens. So in admitting his failures, Lavernon had also managed to sound like an idiot. The others cringed. Whether Hidelwine was compelled to ease Lavernon's embarrassment, or to justify his acceptance among the Arcaven men, no one could say. “Lavernon's merit should be assessed by the great measure of his loyalty. He has been a valuable pupil, eager and willing to fulfill every task I've commanded of him.”

         Containing his surprise, Lavernon thanked the archmage for the kind acknowledgment. The warlock then spoke an unnecessary courtesy for the first time all evening. “Very well. Perhaps with further study you will meet your potential, Lavernon.”

         Seemingly from nowhere, a new voice then chimed in the room. “You made no mention of visitors, master Zenith... Were they expected? Or has the empire resumed banishing their criminals to our charming little island?” The words were delivered by a very tall, slender man in midnight blue cloak, leaning against the stone archway which led back to the grand hall. His arms were crossed as though he'd been standing there for some time. The black-bearded gentleman propped himself upright, placed his hands at his side, then stepped forward to introduce himself. “How do you do, travelers? My name is Oashazeer. So nice to see men of the west have come in peace to visit with us.” His words danced with an uncommon elegance. “Has your host offered fruit or bread to accompany your wine? Such a long journey, you must be famished. I'll return soon with water, as well... Excuse me.”

         Silence followed Oashazeer's polite introduction. His poise did not suggest that of a servant or castle hand. Hidelwine's mind began to spin... Of course! “Is he the shield sorcerer who fought with you in the Capital, my...er, master? What was it he called you? We would very much like to hear about you now... if it please you.” Hidelwine was unaccustomed to speaking with such reverence.

         “I wouldn't say it pleases me, but I am a gracious host, Hidelwine. To your first question, the answer is yes. Oashazeer fought at my side on the day you seem to remember so well... The shape and warding magics were always his talent. Shield sorcery, as you called it... Though long ago, I learned that wards and veils inspire a hollow courage. No matter the spell, it takes only a mirror to break them, to reveal the truth that hides... Isn't that true, Shastine?”

         Shastine returned a terse nod. What was that supposed to mean?

         After another sip of wine, the warlock continued. “I suppose you may call me Zenith. That is what they called me among the Sacrament Arcana. My understudies... or disciples, if you like.”

         “Your disciples?” Ethan probed.

         “Well... they were disciples before they turned deserters. You see, years before our company besieged the city, in the high country of Crescent Wood, Oashazeer and I established the Sacrament as a haven for the unfettered pursuit of all the mystic arts... spells, wards, light and dark sorcery, curses, witchcraft, shadowcraft and all the elemental magics. We hid deep in the eastern forests, but even there were not sheltered from the long, choking reach of the Imperium. Without our knowledge, falconers of the Crescent Wood guard discovered our sanctuary and sent word to the Capital a hundred leagues away. Soon after, Legion centurions were dispatched to prosecute us for our devilry, they called it. But when they found us, we were not granted the rightful judgement of a hearing. No, they gave us only a choice-- either relinquish our freedom to serve the empire as slaves, or endure banishment from the Island Kingdoms forever. Except for one other, Oashazeer and I were the only who remained loyal to the Sacrament. The other hundred or so, the cowards-- they stayed behind to accept their new lives of slavery. And so, I deem them deserters.”

         “That is why you came here?” Lavernon asked, dimly. 

         Hidelwine rolled his eyes then pounced before the warlock could respond. “Who was the other, master Zenith? The other disciple who remained loyal to the Sacrament?" The third tower of your castle. 

         Suddenly, the men noticed Oashazeer again waiting under the arch of the door. In his hands rested a tray-full of shimmering emerald grapes, a plump loaf of bread and a silver pitcher of water. In his eyes, the expression was an empty glass. When they looked back at the warlock, they found the same emptiness washed over his face. A hush fell again...

         At last, the warlock shuffled in his chair and raised his voice. “Her name was Ailisse, witch matron of the Sacrament...” Hastily, he then shifted the discussion. “...but we have strayed from our course, travelers. Oashazeer, please sit with us. Let us hear the counsel of our curious guests.” The warlock's brow curled to accommodate his frown.

         “Curious indeed,” muttered Oashazeer.

         What did they mean? Are we a curiosity to them? Or have I pried too curiously? When Hidelwine saw the discomfort on their faces, he knew it was the latter. He had touched on a bitter, sensitive subject. In that moment, it felt like even the fire withheld its warmth. Oashazeer placed the serving tray on a short, stone table and took the last chair next to Lavernon. The archmage shrunk into his seat, as though he could apologize with his posture. What should I say? It was his mother's voice that reminded him, Know when to let things be, Hidelwine. Sometimes quiet grace can accomplish what words might not. Grace had never come naturally to Hidelwine. Even so, he aimed at his mother's advice. He sat up straight and grinned awkwardly, like someone had painted a smile on the mouth of a troll.

         Moving on, the archmage slowly reached into his cloak to lay out a thick, leather bag. Inside were dozens of parchments quilled in all manners of handwriting. The havoc of rain and wind had spoiled provisions and even claimed his spell-channeling staff, but somehow, he'd managed to protect these delicate papers. Hidelwine spread them over the table for Oashazeer and the warlock. This was it. His time to shine. “The prisoner, master Zenith... the one indebted to you. These parchments contain all the information I have gathered in twenty years. All the truths, whispers, and hearsay. All the rumors, lies, and deceptions.” Hidelwine then leaned in to unveil what he'd learned. “Master, they have removed the prisoner from the palace dungeons. He has been hidden him away to a secret stronghold, a site known only to four men-- the emperor and three trusted consuls. They are sworn guardians of a sacred oath, and with a mind to obstruct this accursed man from all who might seek him. Alone, however, their secret knowledge is useless. You see, each oath keeper possesses a key. One which they conceal from all others... from their wives, brothers, and sons. Elders, sentinels, and kings... even from each other. The chamber which holds the prisoner can only be unlocked when each key is entered. All four must be turned as one.”

         The archmage had rehearsed that explanation a dozen times. Now, finally, he awaited his master's blessings. The warlock and Oashazeer exchanged glances, then continued to pour over Hidelwine's papers. Still, no praise had yet sung from their lips. “You understand, master Zenith..? I intend to hunt them all down. I will claim each of their keys, unseal the chamber and return to you with the cursed one under my protection."

         Having been repeatedly interrupted outside the palace, things had certainly changed inside. Hidelwine was growing leery of the silence that followed his turns to speak. It seemed this warlock was a scrupulous man, if nothing else. Lavernon thought there no better time to lunge for the serving tray and butter a slice of bread. The act drew a disapproving glare from Hidelwine, but Lavernon did not see it.

         The quiet moment finally ended with a challenge from Oashazeer. “How could you possibly obtain the emperor's key, Hidelwine?”

         The archmage grinned proudly. He'd been expecting that one. "I have an emissary in the palace. He is a squire entrusted to the emperor, but his loyalty lies with the Arcaven. He has been a dear friend my whole life, and steeped in the emperor's graces almost as long.”

         Then once again the conversation was silenced, as a sudden, other-worldly melody rang in from the wall slits and lancets. It amplified steadily as always, a faint beauty that soared to louder crescendos than it ever reached in the west. To no one's surprise, it was the nightly ballad of the midnight siren, the tireless herald known to all in the realm. Every night, when the hourglass passed in favor of morning, the siren mused angelically in song. Sometimes four bars, five, six, or two or three long verses and refrains, the song was never quite the same. But it was as eternal as the ocean's tide. Throughout the realm, the midnight siren was a topic for much contention and fodder, though every opinion was one of mere speculation. Ever since men first landed on the shores of Bassylia, scribes made great efforts to chronicle the haunting melodies. And yet, after thousands of years, two frustrations remained. No one had ever witnessed the songbird, nor had anyone wholly interpreted her language. In fact, many argued whether the voice was even a woman's. But there was no debating the artistry of each hymn, nor the mystery of their presence.

         As the tune faded into the night, the warlock stayed his attention to Hidelwine's dusty parchments. The archmage was beginning to wonder if he should have kept them in his bag. Finally, after yet another long silence, the warlock lifted his head. “Gawkliev!” he yelled.

         Gawkliev? The magi were stumped. Was it a word of magic? Ogarthorne and Ethan looked to each other, thumbing through the old grimoires in their minds for the “Gawkliev” spell they must have forgotten. Lavernon's imagination, though, was ever more fearful. Is Gawkliev the castle's dungeon master? Or the name of an extravagant beheading device? Hidelwine and Shastine were still anticipating a notion of gratitude from their hosts. Perhaps “Gawkliev!” is an exclamation akin to “Eureka!”, they considered. As it would happen, Lavernon's guess was the nearest to fact.

         “What would you command of me, master Zenith?” The voice was groveled and beastly. As he passed through the shadow of the doorway, Gawkliev revealed himself as one of the half breed men. Lavernon almost fell out of his chair. 

         “Prepare bunks for our guests, Gawkliev. The time is late, and they are weary from travel. Men, please help yourself to any last refreshments. Gawkliev will then you show you to your night's quarters."

         "Master Zenith--"

         "Oashazeer and I wish to speak now. Alone... In the morning, the seven of us will reconvene over breakfast. Sleep well. You will need the rest for your long voyage home.”

         Hidewine was all a fluster. His teeth clenched and nearly bit his tongue bloody. It took every fiber of his being to smother his yearning for answers. Wait for tomorrow, he urged himself. Just one more day.

         Eagerly, Gawkliev led the men away from the cozy hearth fire. As they scaled the spiral stairway, the beastly figure served as a distraction for Hidelwine, helping him to set aside the evening for now. The shide man was bursting with questions. “Where did you come from? How did you get here? What lies beyond the shide?” he gushed, hardly waiting for a reply. “And what is that strange smell on you?”

         “Three days of sweat and rain,” the magi agreed.

         The beast man fired question after question, but he was pleasant enough... in an innocent, naive sort of way. Compared to the arrow-flying greeting of his kin, the men welcomed his interrogation. Gawkliev had played servant to the warlock and Oashazeer all his life, and he demonstrated a civility which had been missed in the shide. Though he looked the same, he was nothing like those savages. Ethan and Ogarthorne gladly indulged Gawkliev's many questions, while Shastine was just as content to duck them. If only he could have been as fortunate in ducking that arrow, he griped. He was listless and his shoulder ached of a dull, persistent pain. Of course, Lavernon was still frightened by the beastly Gauwkliev.

         “Here we are, men. Allow me a moment to ready your beds.”

         The bunk chamber was dark and suffered an unnatural chill. The feeling was grim and eerie, but the men were too tired to pay it much thought. Once their beds were made, they caved at the seduction of wool-covered hay straws and plush, feathered silks. The day had been long and exhausting, so much that even Lavernon was able to escape his anxiety. Hidelwine, though, could not yet escape his.

         Before he passed into sleep, he clung to the night's conversation, one-sided as it was. It then occurred to him, How did Oashazeer know me as Hidelwine? No one spoke my name in his presence, and yet, Hidelwine is what he called me. The archmage was drowsy, but he recalled that in both instances, Oashazeer had crept under the doorway like a fox. Who could say how long he had been lurking in the shadow. At last, Hidelwine shut his eyes and relented to the night.

********************

         Morning came too soon for most of the journeymen, but Hidelwine was up and reading before Gawkliev came calling. He found the dusty old book on a wooden table by the window, where he sat scouring the pages by candlelight. Outside, it was another gloomy day.

         The book chronicled the life of a young man from Crescent Wood, a boy known as "The Orphan of Gwynneth." The first paragraphs described the boy's father, a hunter with a marksman's skill for loosing arrows faster than anyone. Why did they call him an orphan if the boy lived with his father? Hidelwine couldn't make any sense of it, and story time ended before the pages yielded an answer.

         “Breakfast is served, men! My masters now bid you to join them.”

         Nervous as he was excited, Hidelwine slammed the book shut. He wasn't nervous beyond a good chuckle, though. The disparity was too amusing. Such a pleasant invitation delivered by that gruff and beastly voice. No matter his deference, it was a grisly tone from which Gawkliev could never part.

         Despite waking to the summons of a monster man, the promise of a warm breakfast roused the others favorably from their slumber. The men lugged their heavy legs down the stairway, still groggy from their short rest. Their noses led them into the grand hall, where the scent of pan-fried meat filled the room. Though morning had come, the hall remained dark as the night before.. and ever as beautiful. Oashazeer was there by himself, seated at the lengthy, stone-chiseled table and sipping from a shining silver mug. In front of him were two plates, garnished only by bits and crumbs and a grape-less vine. Where is the warlock? the men wondered. Before uttering as much as “hello,” Hidelwine blurted out, “Where is master Zenith?.. What have you decided?”

         Oashazeer laughed. “Well, good morning to you too, Hidelwine... He'll be here soon. For now, enjoy your breakfast and regather your strength.” 

         Gawkliev then trotted over hauling a tray loaded with fruits, sliced bread and honey, porridge and strips of hot-panned... well, it was meat of some sort, and the men certainly weren't going to ask.          

         Hidelwine then remembered his manners. “Very gracious of you, Oashazeer. We are grateful for your hospitality.” 

         Gawkliev presented the bountiful platter and stood beside the table awaiting any chance to serve. Savoring every bite, the Arcaven men ate like vultures. They suspected this breakfast might be their last good meal for a few days. Undoubtedly, it would be the last hot one. In the meantime, Oashazeer unraveled a few of Hidelwine's parchments and mulled them over, as if reading them for the first time. To the archmage, this was an encouraging sign. Cautiously, humbly, he offered sources and anecdotes at each passing page. Oashazeer responded cordially though offered little more than polite quips. That was when they heard Gawkliev shuffle into a reverent, attentive posture. Master Zenith had arrived.

         “Good morning, men... Hidelwine..." The warlock fashioned a dark, violet cloak. On his head, a shining crystal circlet. The circlet shimmered of an azure blue and flaunted three pointed spikes, centered above his brow. Like the towers of his castle, the middle spike rose taller than the others. The warlock's eyes suggested he had not slept. “I know you have waited all night for my decision, and that you shall have. But first, I would ask a few questions of you, Hidelwine.”

         “Of course, master.”

         “Please... Help me understand. Your company set sail from Higherwere, leaving there 500 conjurers of the arcane. Magi, you call them-- your proud men and women of the Arcaven. I might call them dabblers and putterers, and I'll remind you that the crown would name them outlaws and heretics. You left them to sail east across the violent northern oceans. You tussled your way into the Godstorm, sliced through the Channel of the Banished, hiked leagues in the mud, rain and wind, burned down my bulwark, chased through the shide of the satyrine men; and somehow, by the grace of the gods, you managed to survive this carnival of insanity for nothing but a few scribbled papers and a vain hope that I, the man who laid siege upon the city of your birth, would welcome you with the open arms of a father? All this, so you could simply tell me what you think you know, and to make a promise to return once you have freed the most notorious and painstakingly hidden prisoner in all the known world?”

         “Er... well...” The archmage's excitement had been sucked out like the air from his lungs. The tone in which his efforts had been cataloged made him feel small. Still, his inclination was to say yes. He hadn't put a single word together before the warlock started again.

         “Have you any idea what a fool you are? Tell me, when the towering cliff walls of centuries old stone descended upon your ship, to which god did you pray, Hidelwine?" 

         Reluctantly, the archmage indulged him. “The first god, master... Tychon.”

         “Well I'll say this. From all you've explained, praying to Tychon is the only thing you've ever done that does not evoke the chimerical delusion of a mad man. Tychon still holds great power in this world. I suggest you remember that. If you had called upon the favor of Gwynneth, I assure you, your adventure may not have been so impossibly fortunate... And that is my promise to you.” 

         The archmage resigned frankly, “master Zenith, may I presume you wish not to join with the Arcaven? In our aims to free the innocent, to usurp the nobility and usher in a new era of admission and acceptance?”

         “Such ambition.... But I'm not finished with you, Hidelwine.” The warlock then tuned down the vitriol. “For a moment, let's assume all these wild fantasies of yours came to pass. Having risked so much, why would you not use this leverage to claim the throne for yourself? Or if you truly wished to engage me, why not chance the perilous journey here but once, when the prisoner had already been secured?”

         “Master Zenith, it is a simple truth. It is your inspiration that led me here... but I can do no more on my own. And imagine-- had you never met me, and I staggered to your castle as nothing more than a weary stranger clinging to life in the company of the one indebted to you, what would stop you from disposing of me sooner than I could speak? No, master. I had to come here first, to show you I am a man of will and resolve, a man of quality who can soar to great heights... a man who can be trusted. And how could I better earn your faith than by offering you the same prize you were willing to assail the capital for?.. I do not wish to claim the emperor's throne, only to serve by its side. When we have won that throne for you, master Zenith. I am a proud man, but I know your magic is unmatched in this world. I wish only to encourage you in harnessing that power, for the good of us all. So we may use it to free ourselves from the oppression of the Chandem dynasty. Allow me to avenge my mother and father. Allow me to live my life as I please, without fear of serving the same cruel fate they did... Allow us all to live in such peace. I can not do this without you, master Zenith. I need the threat and power inherent to your name... and I need your protection, master Oashazeer... and I need the vigor of you and your kinsmen, master Gawkliev... I believe a man's destiny is won, and it will require an army of swords and haze sorcery to win ours. Now, while the legion withers... Now is the time to strike.” 

         As was his way, the warlock absorbed Hidelwine's admission without uttering a word. But in his heart, the decision had already been made. He nodded to Oashazeer, then returned his somber eyes to the archmage. “Hidelwine Gaul, son of Hauvester... since you washed up on this island, your audacity and demented optimism have bewildered me. You are a brazen man. And dangerous beyond your willingness to see it... But I lied awake all night-- tossing and stirring, staring deeply into my past. There at last, I discovered your inspiration. For 20 years have I fallen to apathy and decay, but no longer do I wish to squander my days, forlorn of the purpose I once possessed. If you are to return the cursed prisoner to me, we shall take back all that was stolen, sever the Chandem bloodline, and stake our claim to every one of the Island Kingdoms. You have my blessing and my word. Your will shall be bound to mine.”

         Hidelwine's smile beamed wide as the oceans. The joy compelled him to embrace his master, but he reined in the emotion. “Thank you, master Zenith. We will not fail you.” Hidelwine grasped his master's hand between both of his, looked him in the eye and insisted, “I will not fail you.” Oashazeer and Hidelwine then shook hands, and likewise, the rest of the Arcaven men expressed their loyalty and gratitude. Merrily, the seven ate up all that Gawkliev had prepared.

         When breakfast was over, the magi followed the warlock and Oashazeer outside to a hidden wharf behind the castle. Gawkliev walked behind them whistling and toting an over-sized haversack full of travel provisions. “There she is,” he grunted. “She is a beauty, isn't she?”

         Below, they saw the sloop boat, perhaps twenty paces long and moored to a small, splintered pier. On the far end of the wharf there was a cave-- a hidden waterway that flowed beneath the rocky cliff walls, and beyond, to the great northern ocean. 

         The magi had expected their return voyage to be less difficult than the first. After all, they would be navigating downwind. But the warlock's secret passage under the cliffs would make the goings much easier. Now there would be no march across the shide, no climb up the throat of the island trail, and no long and muddy trek to the harbor where the Arcaven was beached. Instead, they would be off within the hour.

         Gawkliev loaded the provisions and began untying the anchor ropes. Hidelwine knew his unprecedented visit was nearing its end. I have to ask him. "May I be so bold as to beg one answer from you, master Zenith?"

         "I know what you would ask," the warlock replied, stiffly. "Why this prisoner? What makes him so special? So divisive."

         Hidelwine nodded, his decision to ask justified.

         "His name is lord Dwennon... At least it was. I've heard the rumors of his condition-- what he sacrificed. Rest assured, he is still very important to me. In fact, he embodies a power so sacred and divine that the Imperium would abolish his very existence from their history... But you needn't fear him as they do." He knew this was exactly what Hidelwine wanted to hear. "Free him from his cell and ask if he remembers his promise-- the debt he still owes me... When you return, all will be revealed and your faith shall be indemnified."

         "Aye, master... I have given you my word."

         The boat appeared sturdy and its finish shined, even under the clouded sun. “You'll need to paddle out,” Oashazeer explained. “Once you pass through the tunnel, extend the mast's arm before you raise the mainsail. Of course, you'll wheel west for Higherwere..."

         “Understood. You have been a gracious host, master Oashazeer.”

         “We named her The God Wind. 'Tis bad luck to set sail before giving name to your vessel.”

         Master Zenith then added, “Yes and for bad luck, well... there's no magic for that.”

Continue to Chapter 2:

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