Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The shadow man chuckled at Valsigian’s response. This time he spoke with his true voice, “That is what most call me, although that is not my true name.” his voice sounded the same when spoken aloud, just without the echo when heard in his mind. It was still smooth, but now resonated with authority. Zerathis raised his right hand above his shoulder, fingers open. He then made a quick flick of his wrist and closed his fingers into a fist. On command, the bright white doorway behind him closed silently, like pocket doors sliding towards one another until they were joined in a single vertical line of bright light. The line of light then pulled itself together from each end until it formed a single pinpoint of light in the center of where the door was, before vanishing completely. The room was once again plunged into darkness.

A soft glow began to illuminate the room. The light seemed to be coming from the walls somehow. The stones themselves were glowing with a soft red-orange light, as if they were in a molten state, but without the heat. Valsigian looked around the room in sheer amazement, shocked at what he was witnessing. He looked back towards Zerathis as the being began to walk towards him. The sudden realization that he was open-mouthed, slack-jawed, gawking at his God like a befuddled schoolboy snapped him back to reality. He quickly changed his grip on his father’s sword so that his palms were up and open. He raised the weapon over his head, offering the blade to the deity, bowing deeply as he could in his already kneeling position. “Please Lord, if I have offended you in any way, I offer you my life, if you wish to take it,” his voice trembled with the fear that now began to worm its way into his guts.

“Don’t be foolish, Valsigian,” Zerathis replied as he stopped directly in front of him so that all Valsigian could see were his well-polished black leather boots. “Please stand up so that I may speak with you face to face,” his voice tinged with a slight annoyance.

Valsigian obeyed immediately, standing so fast that his vision tunneled in from the edges as if he were about to black out. Slightly losing his balance in the process, he stumbled back and was about to fall completely on his backside. Suddenly, he found himself suspended halfway through his fall. It was like he was seated in an invisible chair made of… nothing. There was nothing solid about whatever had stopped his fall; it was just… air, gripping him tightly, like a rope had been coiled around him. He whipped his head back around and saw that Zerathis had his right arm outstretched towards him as if reaching for him. In one smooth movement, Zerathis closed his outstretched hand as if grabbing that invisible rope. As he pulled his closed fist back in towards himself, Valsigian could feel himself being pulled forward and upright into a standing position.

Valsigian’s slack-jawed expression returned as he felt the ropes of air release him. “My Lord, I don’t understand,“ he stammered. “I’ve never seen anyone do that with the Blessing.”

Zerathis chuckled again. “I didn’t use the Blessing, as you call it, to stop your fall. Since I can see the next question clearly written on your face, the answer is no, I didn’t use the Aureate either.” Zerathis raised his hands to the hood that was obscuring his face from view, and slid it back from his head. “It’s something much older, and not born of this place. It is also a story for another time.” There was enough light from the glowing stone walls, and Valsigian’s eyes had recovered from the blinding light of the doorway enough to make out the features of the man standing before him.

Zerathis’ eyes were the color of gray stone to match the strange gray clothing he wore under his black cloak. It looked as if the entire outfit was fashioned out of a single piece of cloth, fastened together in the front by a strange row of tiny metal teeth. A full beard of brown laced with strands of gray blanketed his face. Dirty blonde hair, also streaked with gray at the temples, and styled traditionally short with a part over his left ear. He appeared to be a man in his late forties or early fifties. Not what one would expect a being that was hundreds of thousands of years old to look like. But then again, he was a god, so Valsigian assumed he could look however he wanted. It was his smile that drew the most attention. It seemed accepting and reassuring, but also belied knowledge and understanding.

“Yes, Lord Zerathis,” Valsigian continued to stammer. “I wouldn’t dare ques…” “Please, stop calling me Lord, Valsigian,” Zerathis interrupted. “You can call me Zerathis for now, since that is how you understand who I am best. My true name and origins are also a story for another time and place. We have much more important things to discuss in the short time we have left in this chapel.”

“Yes, Lo… I mean Zerathis.” Valsigian shook his head as if he were trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He was still in awe of the being that stood before him, and now he was completely confused by his plain speech and wishes not to be worshiped. “I don’t understand the urgency, though, we have all night. The sun won’t rise for many hours yet,” his face held a quizzical expression. He hoped he wasn’t overstepping his bounds by questioning a god.

Zerathis’ smile faded a bit as he said, “Unfortunately, we don’t have much time at all. What you are about to experience will require a bit of time for you to recover from.”

Valsigian’s expression turned from questioning to uneasy anticipation. He wrapped his arms around himself as if he had felt a sudden chill. “Um… recover from what?”

“Let me ask you something, Valsigian,” he said as he stepped forward a placed a hand on top of both Valsigian’s shoulders. The god’s hands felt cold to the touch, almost dead but somehow still alive. Looking deep into Valsigian’s eyes as if studying something, he said, “The words you spoke, after the traditional vows. Where did you hear them?”

Valsigian began to tremble slightly, feeling the cold touch of his god begin to creep through his shoulders and into his core. “I didn’t hear them anywhere, sir.” He looked around the room nervously, as if the answer Zerathis wanted to hear would be written on the walls. Of course, there was nothing to be found. He thought about it for a moment longer before giving the only answer he could, because it was the truth. “The additional vow I swore came from somewhere deep within me. It was like a... memory, but not one of my own. This memory has been with me for as long as I can remember.” He looked back into the eyes of his god, searching for any hint of understanding, but there was none. Valsigian knew he was waiting for more, waiting for the full confession. “I’ve always known I would have to swear those oaths as well. I can’t explain it fully, it just felt… right.”

Zerathis’ penetrating stare finally relaxed, the smile returning to his face. Valsigian felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, something he hadn’t even realized he had been carrying for so long. It left him feeling lighter in his soul. Even though Zerathis had relaxed his stare, he still hadn’t released his grip on Valsigian’s shoulders. The cold was becoming a bit more like ice, radiating from his shoulders, down his arms, and continuing through his core. He began to shiver, lightly at first, a slight discomfort that he could bear if his god willed it.

“Those oaths have not been sworn for over two thousand years,” Zerathis said, his grip tightening slightly. Valsigian could feel the nails of his god’s hands beginning to bite into his frigid skin. He began to shiver more, from the cold, or from the words that he had just been spoken, he did not know. Zerathis continued, “The oaths you swore haven’t been spoken aloud since the Knights Aureate died out. I had thought, perhaps they had been lost to time, until you spoke them again.” Zerathis closed his eyes, and the smile that had been on his face suddenly vanished. Valsigian felt like ice was now traveling through his veins. He could feel the frigid cold in every finger and toe. He began to shiver violently in response. He tried to pull away from his god’s icy grip, but found that it was already too late. His joints were frozen stiff. He tried to speak, but words would not come; his tongue felt frozen solid. “You have opened a doorway to something far more powerful than you realize, young Squire. As a consequence, you must be tested.”

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Zerathis opened his eyes once again. The stone gray was now replaced with an eerie blue-white radiance that seemed to emanate from behind his eyes. The stare was cold, calculating, and inhuman. “If you survive this night, you will be marked.” his voice was now ethereal, distant. “Your king will recognize the mark and will grant you passage to the Mystic Mountains.” Valsigian’s heart froze at that moment, the mention of the forbidden mountains, the visions, the connection to the Aureate he had just begun to delve into, it was all connected. And now, Zerathis, here, standing before him, commanding him to do what he will be sworn to prevent as a Knight of the realm. A final breath escaped his body in a frozen mist, his throat coated in ice. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was, “Find Taryana, she will prepare you for the trials.”

A feeling of warmth, blooming in his chest, was the first thing Valsigian felt. His heartbeat was incredibly slow as his thawing blood began to move through his body. Then came the pain, it was intense, like nothing he had ever felt before. The ice crystals moving through his veins felt like they were tearing him apart from the inside. He could not scream yet, even though he tried. His eyes remained frozen shut, his visual world nothing but blackness. He could hear a crackling sound deep within his ears as his throat began to thaw. He tried to scream again and again, but the pain was relentless, sharp, tearing, agonizing. He finally managed to inhale, only to discover a new, higher level to the pain he didn’t believe was even possible. His lungs felt like they were being superheated, as if he had just inhaled liquid fire.

The pain became so intense, he couldn’t even remember how to scream anymore. He let the fire in his lungs escape with a breath so forceful he felt his ribs crack with the strain. The next rapid inhale didn’t burn, but he could feel every broken rib stabbing him in protest. His heart began to thunder in his chest, as if it were trying to make up for the beats it had missed. He could feel his warming blood coursing through his veins, defrosting his body from his core to his extremities. His eyes finally fluttered open, his vision going from blackness to a solid gray-white, as if he were looking through a block of ice. His breathing became shallow and rapid to avoid the sharp pain caused by taking a full breath. His vision began to clear, first around the edges, then finally thawing his central vision. He saw the ceiling above him and could feel the granite floor under him once again, letting him know that he was flat on his back. He slowly turned his head to look at his arms and legs, his appendages still frozen, but beginning to thaw. His pain began to subside with the more movement he gained.

Flexing his fingers and clawing his toes to make sure they were working once again, he finally dared to sit up. Rolling to his left side, drawing his legs up under himself, he pushed himself back into a kneeling position on the floor. He felt an odd sensation on his right shoulder as he used both of his arms to help push himself to a standing position. He looked to see what felt so different. What he saw there shocked him to his core. He immediately reached over with his left hand to confirm by touch what he was seeing. His fingers confirmed what his eyes beheld. The right sleeve of his ceremonial robe had been cut away. A strange pattern now marked the entirety of his right shoulder. It wasn’t just a marking, though; this was more of an engraving, carved into his flesh while it was frozen, then filled with a braided, metal-like substance that he didn’t recognize.

Surprisingly, there was no pain when he touched the pattern; he could feel his fingers tracing the outline of the swirls and crests that highlighted the ridges and valleys of his muscles, as if making artwork of the natural anatomical structures beneath. Touching the strange black metal felt no different than touching his skin; it was as if his nerve endings had been incorporated into the braided metal and functioned as they always had. Moving his shoulder in circles, he was amazed at how the metal flexed and stretched along with his skin. As he studied the pattern, he noticed something. Hidden among the lines and swirls, he began to see a symbol. It wasn’t plain to see at first, but the more he stared at it, the more he discerned an image.

That strange power called to him again in that moment. He could feel it welling up from his core. The Aureate, if that was what it was, felt as if it was pleading for him to touch it again. It whispered to him, not in words, but in emotion. Offering itself, begging for him to open himself to its power once again. It felt as if it were trying to offer an answer that only it could provide. Valsigian relented; he embraced the power lightly, still not trusting, not surrendering, just the faintest touch.

The moment he touched that infinite well of power, his shoulder erupted in golden light. The braided black metal danced with the power he held within him, reveling in its connection to the Aureate. The pattern then reorganized itself into the symbol he could barely make out before. Now it stood in stark relief against his skin, emblazoned with golden light. A sword, pointed down, its blade split down the fuller from the tip to halfway down the blade. Just above the hilt, the blade had two wicked-looking pointed curves, resembling a fishhook, carved out of both sides of the blade. The hilt itself ended in sharp points that angled back and away from the blade. The pommel was a pointed spike that looked every bit as lethal as the blade itself. The grip of the sword seemed to be wrapped in the same braided metal that comprised the pattern on his shoulder.

A second image began to appear, this one in the shape of a circle that encompassed the sword. The light that emanated from it was red-gold in hue and was filled with a blackness that seemed to swallow the light, which made the image of the sword stand out even more. Something tickled at the back of his mind once the image had fully coalesced. Not a memory, at least, not one of his own. There was recognition in that memory, and something else, something… coveted, but never obtained.

Valsigian released his contact with the Aureate, and in so doing, the image dulled and was replaced by the previous black pattern on his shoulder. Astonished by what he had just witnessed, he drew a deep, shaking breath. He was instantly reminded of his fractured ribs and just how much pain they could inflict. Wrapping both arms around his chest to comfort his ribs, he thought, “What on Dricarro has happened to me?” Then he remembered what Zerathis had told him, “If you survive this night, you will be marked. Your king will recognize the mark and will grant you passage to the Mystic Mountains.”

His heart began to hammer in his chest once again. How would he explain this to Thorvald? How could he swear his vows, knowing that he will have to break them? He felt as if his soul was being torn apart. All of his plans, his dreams, the future he had just begun to believe could be possible with Tove. All of it, now lay in ruins because he just had to speak those damn oaths! “Why am I such a fool? Why couldn’t I just stick to the plan?”

His whole life, he had been brought up to believe that his word was his vow. A promise that could not be broken, lest your honor as a man, and as a Knight, would be proven worthless. To swear a vow to prevent anyone from entering the Mystic Mountains, just to turn around and break that vow himself, even with permission from the King, felt entirely wrong. He knew in that moment that he would not be able to swear that vow. That he could not, in good faith, promise his King that he would prevent others, on penalty of death, from doing something he was now destined to do himself.

Valsigian felt lost, alone in the misery of his own making. There was no one he could turn to, nobody who could help him make this impossible decision. He knew in his heart that he had to choose, had to make a decision. He also knew that only one path that had been laid before him was the right one. He stared at the now flameless, eternal flame. The brazier that once held its magnificent glow, cold and empty. A thought occurred to him then, “If the eternal flame is supposed to be here to guide my way, then I will ask the eternal flame to decide for me.”

He bent down to retrieve his father’s sword, then stepped to the oil-filled brazier. He rested the sword across his lap after crouching down in front of where the eternal flame should be. Resting both hands on the edge of the holy relic, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in prayer. He fed his fear, confusion, and anger into his request. He asked the only question he could in that moment, “What path do I choose?” He knew the answer the moment the eternal flame flared back to life in the brazier before him. He knew in that moment, his life was about to change forever.