Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Valsigian got out of the water and donned his white ceremonial robe. Still trying to catch his breath, he focused on breathing calmly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. One of the best calming exercises he knew. That’s when he noticed the smell. He took in another deep breath through his nose. His eyes were drawn to a tray full of food that he hadn’t noticed earlier. Placed carefully by the door, it was heaped with generous portions of grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and greens. All was well covered in a coat of white peppered gravy. A big tankard of Ale, still foaming over the lip, sat next to the tray. It was a meal fit for a king.

As his eyes took in the feast laid out before him, he continued to struggle with what he had just experienced. This had been, by far, the most vivid vision of the Mystic Mountains yet. Who was that old woman? He had never seen her before in one of his visions. Why did she join the runes representing the Order of Earth and Water to the Order of Wind and Fire? And what did any of that have to do with prophecy? His head spun with the possibilities, as he quickly began to realize he had no answers. Then, he remembered the king’s advice, “Focus on what your future holds and ask Zerathis for guidance… and maybe a little forgiveness. I have first-hand knowledge that on nights like this, He listens.” Valsigian decided to follow the king's advice and ask Zerathis for guidance. Surely, the god would have the answers he needed. He decided that worrying about things he had no control over at the moment was a fool's errand. Besides, there was food and drink that kept demanding his attention. His stomach rumbled again, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten all day.

Valsigian walked over to the tray of food, the sound of his bare feet slapping across the warm stone floor, leaving wet footprints behind him. He reached down and took the tankard of Ale first. Bringing it to his nose, he took a sniff. The strong smell of hops greeted him first, piney and aromatic, followed by the sweet smell of toasted barley. He brought the tankard to his lips and took a mouthful. The bitterness of the hops overwhelmed his taste buds at first, almost like chewing on a hop cone. Next came the toasty-sweet smoothness of the malt, perfectly balancing the bitter that had just invaded his senses as the bubbles combined the flavors perfectly while tickling his tongue. This must be from Thorvald’s private stash. He couldn’t recall tasting anything like this in the local pubs; it was amazing.

He reached down and carefully picked up the tray of food, balancing it along with his Ale to ensure he didn’t spill a drop of the heavenly liquid. Carrying them over to a simple wooden table nested in the far corner of the room, nearest the small window where the strange bird had been hovering earlier. He gently set the contents down on the table, pulling a small stool from under the table, and he noticed the small puddle of water he was standing in. This made him look back to where he had been moments before, and the mess he had made of the exquisitely polished floors. A huge puddle had formed next to the white marble basin he had climbed out of in such a hurry. His eyes followed the smaller puddles of his footsteps to where the tray and beer had been, and then to where he now stood.

Valsigian stiffened as embarrassment swept over him. He quickly scanned the room for towels, and to his astonishment, they were right there by the basin, stacked next to a bone-dry floor mat that had been nicely laid out for him to stand on as he dried himself. Quickly scurrying over to the towels, he grabbed one from the top of the stack and dried himself completely. Taking another two towels from the stack, he laid them on the floor and placed a foot atop each one. In a sort of side-winding motion, he toweled up the water from the floor next to the basin. Then, dragging his feet, towels still under them, along the path he had taken to the food, and then to the table. Satisfied that he had done his best to return the floor to the state in which he had found it, he thought to himself, “One day they’ll write songs of my bravery… and then quietly mention the time I nearly surrendered the citadel when a roast chicken and a mug of ale came knocking!”

Chuckling at himself in a self-deprecating way, he returned to his seat at the small table. As he sat eating the meal provided by the king, he felt strange. He found it odd to be sitting at a table by himself. He had never known isolation like this before. For as long as he could remember, he had always dined in the company of his friends, fellow pages, and squires. The sounds of forks meeting plates, mugs being clanked in toast, and conversations around the table of the day's events or jokes being told. He was used to a boisterous affair when food was involved. Here, by himself, it was quiet, peaceful, and a bit... lonely. Perhaps this was meant to be part of it. His world was about to change; he wasn’t sure how, but deep in his heart, he knew that by this time tomorrow, nothing would ever be the same.

As he drained the last vestiges of the Ale, his meal having been entirely devoured, he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. Standing up from the table, he looked towards the heavy Oak doors leading to the chapel proper. Behind those doors, his vigil would begin. At daybreak, he would step back through those very doors. Not as the boy who struggled to raise his father’s sword, but as the man he had always hoped he would be. The setting sun will shine upon Valsigian the Squire for the last time, and sunrise will illuminate the Knight he was destined to become. This was the culmination of all he had trained for, bled for, and all he had ever dared to dream possible.

He looked to the small window once again, the last rays of sunlight highlighting the green leaves of the trees in an amber light. It was time for his vigil to begin. He retrieved his father’s sword from atop the pile of his clothing he had left on a bench near the white marble basin. Sliding the sword free from its scabbard, the ringing sound of bared steel reverberated throughout the room. This purity of the sound, especially in this place, made Valsigian feel heavy with memory and sorrow. Holding the sword with both hands, point to the ceiling, he pressed the flat of the cold metal blade against his forehead and closed his eyes. Reaching deep inside to find his center, in an attempt to hold his emotions at bay, he stumbled across that place that had called to him during his fight with Harmon.

It was something new, something incredibly powerful, something unknown. He felt scared in that moment, awed by the sheer enormity of the power he felt hidden within the recesses of that place. Before he could withdraw, it called to him again, not with words, but with a sense of acceptance, a willingness to be touched, to be explored. As he steeled his nerves, he reached deeper with his mind, reaching out with his feelings, barely tickling the surface of this new… sensation, this part of him he had never felt before until today. What he found there was an incredible sense of peace. He felt centered and connected to the fiber of his being, his very soul. The power answered his light caress, encouraging, inviting him to delve deeper. Valsigian’s fear doubled; he decided not to press any further, the power seemed to understand, to accept his decision.

While still barely touching the surface of this wellspring of power, Valsigian decided to reach outward, not for the Blessing, but through this new... connection. He was instantly amazed at what he felt; it was like he was connected to the whole building. He could feel the stones in the walls, the granite floors, the heavy oak doors. He could feel the brazier in the chapel proper, the fire dancing across the surface of the oil within. It was as if he could feel the very soul of each thing that he touched with his mind. He could also feel something else, something hiding at the edges of his senses. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the need to speak the words he had been planning on saying before he began his vigil.

“Father, watch over me as I begin my vigil. I wish you could be here to guide me, this one last time.” A tear streaked down his cheek as he continued, “I promise to live up to your expectations. I will honor you’re sacrifice, and follow in your footsteps. I vow to serve the kingdom and its king to the best of my ability. I hope that you will be proud of me.”

As he opened his eyes and lowered his father’s sword, he felt something surround him. He noticed that strange golden glow again, but this time it wasn’t just at the edges of his vision. It enveloped him, seemed to… emanate from him. The glow accompanied a feeling of profound happiness, and yet at the same time… sadness. Valsigian felt something else as well, something… familiar. He almost couldn’t place it at first, then it came to him. His memories of the way he felt when his father returned home from battle came flooding back into him. It was as if his father were here with him, in this moment, as if he were a part of this… glow.

Realization struck him like a hammer blow. Somehow, he had touched the untouchable. The barrier between this life and the next was supposed to be hidden from the living, impossible to find, lethal for those who dared to try. But he knew, down to his very core, that he had touched that barrier, had somehow communed with his father on the other side. Through this new power, he was able to communicate with the dead, reach across the vale with his mind, and live to tell the tale. His mind flashed back to the old stories around the campfires. The tales the grizzled old veterans would tell about the Knights Aureate, and how they could “talk to the dead”. Valsigian remembered his conversation with Titus earlier in the day, “Don’t believe the old soldier's tales you heard growing up of the Knights Aureate.” It couldn’t be, it was impossible. There was no way he had touched the Aureate. It was just a trick of his mind. He was under a lot of stress, and the vision he had in the bath had only made it worse. That was it, he was just seeing things, nothing but a figment of his imagination.

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Valsigian decided to let it go for now. There was nothing he could do about it anyway at this point. He was here for a purpose, and it was time to meet that obligation. He strode forward and pulled the heavy Oak doors open, revealing the hall of the chapel. A space reserved for only the most special of occasions, like the vigil he was about to begin. The smell of incense and oil hung heavy in the air. There were no windows in the hall of the chapel. He supposed it was designed that way to prevent onlookers from disturbing whatever was taking place within. Or, perhaps it was intended to keep the initiate unaware of the time of day so they could focus on what they were here for. Either way, it reminded him more of a dungeon than a chapel. The same highly polished floors reflected the dancing flames of the brazier set against the far wall. He traced the faint smoke emitted from the flames to a vent in the ceiling that allowed it to pass to the outside. The air felt thick, almost as if he could feel it wrapping around him like a woolen blanket, heavy and warm.

The doors made a heavy thud as he closed them behind him. The room was so airtight that he could hear the sound of air being sucked under the door to feed the flames and vent the smoke. He was thankful that there was enough air to breathe as the flames continued to dance across the oil in the brazier and consume most of the oxygen in the room. The flame in the hall of the chapel was never allowed to be extinguished. It was constantly maintained by the monks to ensure that the flame lived on in perpetuity, just as Zerathis did. They believed that if the flame were to be extinguished, then too, so would the kingdom. For this reason, the monks attended to the flames at all times. The rare occasion of a vigil was the only exception, and they ensured there was enough oil in the brazier to last the night.

Valsigian walked forward to the kneeling pad that had been placed on the floor in the middle of the room. As he knelt, he could feel the down feathers that had been stuffed into the pad, some of the small quills poking through the fabric to stab at his knees and shins. A quick swipe with his hand smoothed the fabric and settled the quills. He wondered just how many before him had suffered the same needle-like wounds. Judging by the small spots of blood he noticed dotting the pad, he guessed it had been quite a few. He rested his father’s sword across the top of his thighs, right hand on the cross guard, left hand on the flat of the blade.

As he knelt before the brazier, its flames growing and shrinking in an almost rhythmic dance, he began to feel mesmerized by the perfect pulsations of the flames. He recalled some of the other knights telling tales of their vigils, and how if one stared long enough into the flames, one could glimpse your destiny. Valsigian didn’t necessarily believe the stories he had been told, but he could see, in these circumstances, how one could easily hallucinate what they believed to be their future.

The time had come; his vigil was upon him. There was nothing else to prepare for, nothing else to do. As he stared into the flames, unblinking, he began to pray aloud. “Zerathis, god of the eternal flame, hear my prayer.” His voice was firm, solid as the ground beneath him; he could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like the entire world was resting on his shoulders. “Give me the strength to defend the weak, and to stand strong in the heat of battle.” The flames in the brazier flared, as if in response to his prayer. He felt the heat dance along his arms, penetrating deep into his muscles, as if tempering them like steel in the forges of Starfall.

“Give me purpose, so that I may never stray from my duty to my king, and to the people I am sworn to protect.” He thought of his father again in this moment. His willingness to die for his oaths and for the people he swore to protect. The flames seemed to quiet at this request, almost as if bowing to him in a sign of acceptance. His heart felt the weight of duty and honor settle like a lead weight, permanent and unbreakable.

“Give me the knowledge to understand what I can and can not do. Help me to understand my limitations, and teach me how to forge past them.” His thoughts turned to the Mystic Mountains, to the visions, to prophecy. A flow of energy seemed to pass from the flames to his mind, fortifying his resolve, clarifying his thoughts.

“Give me patience, so that I may listen not only with my ears, but with my heart, and consider my words carefully before speaking.” An image of Titus formed in his mind, his teacher and his compass. The lessons he had learned from the man who had served directly under his father, and had become a father figure to him. He respected no living man more than Titus, and hoped he would be every bit the knight he had trained under for so many years. The flames erupted once again, as if taking his request and burning it into his soul.

“Give me thoughtfulness, allow me to give in to the temptations of my heart so that I may learn to love and protect.” He immediately thought of Tove, how perfect she was in his eyes, how no other woman could ever come between them. He was hers, and she was his. His heart sang with this revelation, just as the flames seemed to dance in their agreement.

“Give me cunning, so that I may outwit those that would see me fall.” His mind turned to Ayan and the Empress within. To the forces that Obsidia was amassing to conquer the free world. To enslave the free people of Dricarro. His rage fueled the flames to the point where they licked the roof of the hall of the chapel, singing the underside of the clay roof tiles.

“Most of all, give me compassion, for those who seek my protection, for those who suffer under a tyrannical ruler. Let me be the righteousness they so deserve. Let me be a beacon in the night that they may run to for protection. His grip tightened on his father’s sword, left hand grasping the honed edge of the blade. Valsigian’s blood began to flow down the haft of the blade, soaking into his ceremonial robes as he continued, “I vow to never turn away from anyone in need of any aid that I may offer.” The flames danced in the brazier as if excited and eager to accept his promise.

The flames in the brazier died down to their usual size, as if sated by the vows he had sworn this night. But he was not done; his conscience would not allow him to stop here. He had promised himself he would lay his soul bare. If Zerathis disagreed with his intentions, then he would have to make it known here and now. The vows he was about to swear were not part of the usual oaths sworn by the knights before him. As far as Valsigian knew, swearing these oaths was likely to bring attention that he may not want. He considered his next words very carefully. The air in the room became thicker, hot in his lungs as if imploring him not to speak the words forming in his mind.

Valsigian drew a deep breath into his lungs, slowly, fully. His voice was deeper, more impassioned. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, right hand gripping the cross guard so hard his knuckles turned white. “For my enemies, grant me absolute destruction. Let my blade destroy all that would bring death to those I am sworn to protect.” He could feel the flames grow, as if in warning, telling him to be very careful of what he swore next. “Grant me fear and wrath, let my enemies know that I will stop at nothing short of their demise. Let my name strike fear in their hearts, and my blade sing the song of death for all who would stand against my king.” The flames felt like they were about to envelope him, trying to burn his oath upon his skin, as if marking him for what he had sworn. “For all who stand against me, I pray for a swift death, and an eternity in Hell to suffer for their wickedness.”

The flames exploded around him, and he could see the intensity of the light even through his eyelids, which were squeezed shut tightly. The heat of the flames was intense; he could feel the sweat boiling off his exposed skin. Suddenly, the room went dark, and the intensity of the heat vanished, leaving his skin feeling sunburned. Valsigian opened his eyes… and saw nothing but blackness. The eternal flame had been extinguished. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or closed; there was no difference as far as he could tell. He turned his head to look behind him, trying to find any light to guide his way, but there was nothing.

A pinprick of light began to form in the direction of the brazier. It grew slowly at first, resembling a star in the night sky. As it grew, the light became more intense. Valsigian had to shield his eyes as the light began to fill the room. This was a pure white light; there was nothing that he could compare it to, even the light of the sun paled in comparison. The light began to form a doorway of sorts, looking through his fingers in an attempt to shield his eyes from the brightness, he noticed a figure approaching. It was in the shape of a man, well built and of average height. As the figure entered the room, he couldn’t make out any features as the intensity of the light hid his face in shadow. The man’s voice echoed in his head, the accent unrecognizable, and his tone was smooth and calming. “Greetings, Valsigian Hunterson,” the shadow man said. “I have been watching you for quite some time now. Do you know who I am?”

Valsigian froze; he had no idea what was happening. His thoughts raced to his vows, should he have sworn the oaths that his conscience demanded? Was this being here to destroy him for speaking what was in his heart? He had to answer; he feared his continued silence would be taken as an admission of guilt. He spoke the only name he could associate with a being of such power, “You are Zerathis, god of the eternal flame, my lord.”